He made no sound beyond the faintest gurgle—­the first vowel of a suddenly choked word of wonder and surprise.  He rocked a second in his saddle, then crashed over, and lay with arms flung wide, like a huge black crucifix, upon the white ground.  At the same moment a piercing scream broke from Madonna Paola.

I tremble still to think what might have been her fate had not those ruffians who had laid hands on her fallen into the sorry error of holding their single adversary too lightly.  They heard the thud of the gallant Stefano’s fall, and they never doubted that mine was the body that had gone down.  They heard the rapid hoof-beats of my approach, yet, they never turned their heads to ascertain whether they might not be mistaken in their firm conviction that it was Messer Stefano who was joining them.

I kissed my blade for luck, and drove it straight and full into the back of the fellow on Madonna Paola’s right.  He cried out, essayed to turn in his saddle that he might deal with this unlooked-for assailant, then, overcome, he lurched forward on to the withers of his horse and thence rolled over, and was dragged away at the gallop, his foot caught in a stirrup, by the suddenly startled brute he rode.

So far things had gone with an amazing and delightful ease.  If only the last of them had had the amiability to be intimidated by my prowess and to have taken to his heels, I might have issued from that contest with the unscathed glory of a very Mars.  But from his throat there came, in answer to his comrade’s cry, a roar of rage.  He fell back from Madonna, and wheeled his horse to come at me, drawing his sword as he advanced.

“Ride on, Madonna,” I shouted.  “I will rejoin you presently.”

The fellow laughed, a mighty ugly and discomposing laugh, which may or may not have shaken her faith in my promise to rejoin her.  It certainly went near to shaking mine.  However, she displayed a presence of mind full worthy of the haughtiness and ingratitude of which she had showed herself capable.  She urged her mule forward, and, so, left him a clear road to attack me.  I made a mistake then that went mighty near to costing me my life.  I paused to twist my cloak about my left arm intending to use it as a buckler.  Had I but risked the arm itself, all unprotected, in that task, it may well be that it had served me better.  As it was, my preparations were far from complete when already he was upon me, with the result that the waving slack of my cloak was in my way to hamper and retard the movements of my arm.

His sword leapt at me, a murderous blue-white flash of moonlit steel.  I put up my half-swaddled arm to divert the thrust, holding my dagger ready in my right, and gripping my mule with all the strength of my two knees.  I caught the blade, it is true, and turned aside the stroke intended for my heart.  But the slack of the cloak clung to the neck of my mule, so that I could not carry my arm far enough