Lastly the name of the Count of Aquila rang
wildly in his ears, provoking a storm of "Evviva! Live Francesco del
Falco!" and one persistent voice, sounding loudly above the others,
styled him already "il Duca Francesco." At that the blood mounted to
Gian Maria's brain, and a wave of anger beat back the fear from his
heart. He rose in his stirrups, his eyes ablaze with the jealous wrath
that possessed him.
"Ser Martino!" he roared hoarsely to his captain. "Couch lances and go
through them at the gallop!"
The burly Swiss hesitated, brave man though he was. Alvaro de' Alvari
and Gismondo Santi looked at each other in alarm, and the intrepid old
statesman, in whose heart no pang of fear had been awakened by the
rabble's threatening bay, changed colour as he heard that order given.
"Highness," he implored the Duke, "You cannot mean this."
"Not mean it?" flashed back Gian Maria, his eye travelling from Santi to
the hesitating captain. "Fool!" he blazed at the latter. "Brute beast,
for what do you wait? Did you not hear me?"
Without a second's delay the captain now raised his sword, and his deep,
guttural voice barked an order to his men which brought their lances
below the horizontal. The mob, too, had heard that fierce command, and
awakening to their peril, those nearest the cavalcade would have fallen
back but that the others, pressing tightly from behind, held them in the
death-tide that now swept by with clattering arms and hoarse cries.
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