"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.