But Francesco's quilted brigandine had stood the test of steel, and the
point of that assassin's dagger glanced harmlessly aside, doing no worse
hurt than a rent in the silk surface of the garment. A second later the
fellow found himself caught as in a bond of steel. The dagger was
wrenched from his grasp, and the point of it laid against his breast even
as the Count forced him down upon his knees.
In a flash was the thing done, yet to the wretched man who saw himself
upon the threshold of Eternity, and who--like a true son of the Church--
had a wholesome fear of hell, it seemed an hour whilst, with livid cheeks
and eyes starting from his head, he waited for that poniard to sink into
his heart, as it was aimed. But not in his heart did the blow fall.
With a sudden snort of angry amusement, the Count pitched the dagger from
him and brought down his clenched fist with a crushing force into the
ruffian's face. The fellow sank unconscious beneath that mighty blow,
and Francesco, regaining the whip that lay almost at his feet, rose up to
confront what others there might be.
From the tank, standing breast-deep in that stinking water, his head and
face grotesquely masked in a vile green slime of putrid vegetation,
Ercole Fortemani bellowed with horrid blasphemy that he would have his
aggressor's blood, but stirred never a foot to take it. Not that he was
by nature wholly a coward; but inspired by a wholesome fear of the man
who could perform such a miracle of strength, he remained out of
Francesco's reach, well in the middle of that square basin, and lustily
roared orders to his men to tear the fellow to pieces.
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