"Forward! St. Michael and the Virgin!"

That mighty shout, followed as it was by a thunder of hooves, gave pause
to the advancing mercenaries. Masuccio's voice was heard, calling to
them to stand firm; bidding them kneel and ward the charge with their
pikes; assuring them with curses that they had but to deal with half-
dozen men. But the mountain echoes were delusive, and that thunder of
descending hooves seemed to them not of a half-dozen but of a regiment.
Despite Masuccio's imprecations the foremost turned, and in that moment
the riders were upon them, through them and over them, like the mighty
torrent of which Ferrabraccio had spoken.

A dozen Swiss went down beneath that onslaught, and another dozen that
had been swept aside and over the precipice were half-way to the valley
before that cavalcade met any check. Masuccio's remaining men strove
lustily to stem this human cataract, now that they realised how small was
the number of their assailants. They got their partisans to work, and
for a few moments the battle raged hot upon that narrow way. The air was
charged with the grind and ring of steel, the stamping of men and horses
and the shrieks and curses of the maimed.

The Lord of Aquila, ever foremost, fought desperately on. Not only with
his sword fought he, but with his horse as well. Rearing the beast on
its hind legs, he would swing it round and let it descend where least it
was expected, laying about him with his sword at the same time. In vain
they sought to bring down his charger with their pikes; so swift and
furious was his action, that before their design could be accomplished,
he was upon those that meditated it, scattering them out of reach to save
their skins.