Love-at-Arms | Page 9

way by which they come," Fanfulla
remonstrated. "The rest is sheer cliff."
"Why, then, my sweet seducer, we'll go to meet them," rejoined
Ferrabraccio gaily. "They are on foot, and we'll sweep over them like a
mountain torrent. Come, sirs, hasten! They draw nigh."
"We have but six horses, and we are seven," another objected.
"I have no horse," said Francesco, "I'll follow you afoot."
"What?" cried Ferrabraccio, who seemed now to have assumed
command of the enterprise. "Let our St. Michael bring up the rear! No,
no. You, Da Lodi, you are too old for this work."
"Too old?" blazed the old man, drawing himself up to the full height of
what was still a very imposing figure, and his eyes seeming to take fire

at this reflection upon his knightly worth. "Were the season other,
Ferrabraccio, I could crave leave to show you how much of youth there
is still left in me. But----" He paused. His angry eyes had alighted upon
the Count, who stood waiting by the door, and the whole expression of
his countenance changed. "You are right, Ferrabraccio, I grow old
indeed--a dotard. Take you my horse, and begone."
"But you?" quoth the Count solicitously.
"I shall remain. If you do your duty well by those hirelings they will
not trouble me. It will not occur to them that one was left behind. They
will think only of following you after you have cut through them. Go,
go, sirs, or all is lost."
They obeyed him now with a rush that seemed almost to partake of
panic. In a frenzied haste Fanfulla and another tore the tetherings loose,
and a moment later they were all mounted and ready for that fearful
ride. The night was dark, yet not too dark. The sky was cloudless and
thickly starred, whilst a minguant moon helped to illumine the way by
which they were to go. But on that broken and uncertain mountain path
the shadows lay thickly enough to make their venture desperate.
Ferrabraccio claiming a better knowledge than his comrades of the way,
placed himself at their head, with the Count beside him. Behind them,
two by two, came the four others. They stood on a small ledge in the
shadow of the great cliff that loomed on their left. Thence the
mountain-side might be scanned--as well as in such a light it was to be
discerned. The tramp of feet had now grown louder and nearer, and
with it came the clank of armour. In front of them lay the path which
sloped, for a hundred yards or more, to the first corner. Below them, on
the right, the path again appeared at the point where it jutted out for
some half-dozen yards in its zigzag course, and there Fanfulla caught
the gleam of steel, reflecting the feeble moonlight. He drew
Ferrabraccio's attention to it, and that stout warrior at once gave the
word to start. But Francesco interposed.
"If we do so," he objected," we shall come upon them past the corner,
and at that corner we shall be forced to slacken speed to avoid being

carried over the edge of the cliff. Besides, in such a strait our horses
may fail us, and refuse the ground. In any event, we shall not descend
upon them with the same force as we shall carry if we wait until they
come into a straight line with us. The shadows here will screen us from
them meanwhile."
"You are right, Lord Count. We will wait," was the ready answer. And
what time they waited he grumbled lustily.
"To be caught in such a trap as this! Body of Satan! It was a madness to
have met in a hut with but one approach."
"We might perhaps have retreated down the cliff behind," said
Francesco.
"We might indeed--had we been sparrows or mountain cats. But being
men, the way we go is the only way--and a mighty bad way it is. I
should like to be buried at Sant' Angelo, Lord Count," he continued
whimsically. "It will be conveniently near; for once I go over the
mountain-side, I'll swear naught will stop me until I reach the valley--a
parcel of broken bones."
Steady, my friends," murmured the voice of Aquila. "They come."
And round that fateful corner they were now swinging into view--a
company in steel heads and bodies with partisan on shoulder. A
moment they halted now, so that the waiting party almost deemed itself
observed. But it soon became clear that the halt was to the end that the
stragglers might come up. Masuccio was a man who took no chances;
every knave of his fifty would he have before he ventured the assault.
"Now," murmured the Count, tightening his hat upon his brow, so that
it