d, mixed with angry cries of "Bestioni!
Creatures from hell!"

For an instant Simon felt laughter bubbling up to his lips, but cold
horror swept all amusement away as he sensed what was about to happen.

De Verceuil turned to the nearest crossbowmen, who had not suppressed
their own smiles.

"Shoot!" he shouted. "Shoot whoever did that!"

The smiles remained fixed on the faces of the Venetians as three of them
aimed their already-loaded crossbows at the crowd. They did not
hesitate. This was not their city; these were not their people. They
were fighting men who did as they were ordered.

People screamed and shrank back against the shuttered doors and windows.

Three loud snaps of the bowstrings came at the same moment as Simon's
cry of "No!"

He shouted without thinking, and was surprised to hear his own voice.
His cry echoed in a sudden and terrible quiet.

Screams of agony immediately followed. People darted away from the place
where the crossbowmen had aimed, leaving that part of the street empty.

Empty save for three people. Two of them screamed. One was silent--a
young man who half sat, half lay against the stone wall of a house.
Blood was pouring out of his mouth and more blood was running from a
hole in his chest. Simon saw that the blood was coming in a steady
stream, not in rhythmic spurts, which meant the fellow's heart had
stopped. A glance at the white face told Simon the dead youth could be
no more than sixteen.

Beside the boy, a woman knelt and wept. She was plump and middle-aged,
perhaps his mother. Her white linen tunic was bloodied.

"He did nothing!" she cried. "Oh, Jesus! Mary! He did nothing!" There
was a plea in her voice, as if she might bring the boy back to life if
only she could persuade people of his innocence.

The other cries came from a man who stood about a yard from the dead
boy. The bolt had gone through his left shoulder just above the armpit
and pinned him to the oaken post of a doorway. He wanted to fall, but he
had to stand or suffer unbearable pain.

"Help me!" he begged, casting pain-blinded eyes right and left. "Help
me!"

Simon jumped down from his horse, throwing the reins to Thierry, and ran
to the man. He put his left hand on the chest and pulled at the flaring
end of the quarrel with his right. He could not move it. The bolt was
buried too deeply in the wood. The man's forehead fell against Simon's
shoulder, and he was silent. Simon hoped he had fainted.