Behind them, young Foresto
drew in his breath with a hiss, laid his hand on his dagger, and
turned the colour of clay. Old Baldo raised the bow, put all his
remaining strength into the draw, and uttered a cracking shout of
bliss. The mannikin no longer danced; but toward him, from the
hillside, some men in steel were running. Baldo, sinking back into
Cercamorte's arms, at last allowed himself to be laid down.
Through the door filtered the rising tumult of the enemy.
Lapo Cercamorte's blood-smeared visage turned business-like. Before
grasping his sword, he bent to rub his palms on the grit of the
pavement. While he was stooping, young Foresto unsheathed his dagger,
made a catlike step, and stabbed at his master's neck. But quicker
than Foresto was Madonna Gemma, who, with a deer's leap, imprisoned
his arms from behind. Cercamorte discovered them thus, struggling
fiercely in silence.
"Stand aside," he said to her, and, when he had struck Foresto down,
"Thank you for that, Madonna. With such spirit to help me, I might
have had worthy sons. Well, here they come, and this door is a
flimsy thing. Get yourself into the casement niche, away from the
swing of my blade."
A red trickle was running down his legs; he was standing in a red
pool.
Pages:
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540