"But the only way is the 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."