n 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 might the better mask his features. Then rising in his stirrups,
and raising his sword on high, he let his voice be heard again. But no
longer in a whisper. Like a trumpet-call it rang, echoed and re-echoed
up the mountain-side.

"For