The swordblades rose and fell so swiftly that they seemed to be arcs of light; the deafening clangour was pierced by the howls of the dying.  The dais turned red—­men slipped on it; Cercamorte’s sword caught them; they did not rise.  He seemed indeed to wield more swords than one, so terrible was his fighting.  At his back stood Baldo, his helmet caved in, his mail shirt in ribbons, his abdomen slashed open.  Both at once they saw that all their men were down.  Hewing to right and left they broke through, gained the tower staircase, and locked the door behind them.

* * * * *

On the dark stairway they leaned against the wall, their helmets off, gasping for breath, while the enemy hammered the door.

“How is it with you?” puffed Lapo, putting his arm round Baldo’s neck.

“They have wrecked my belly for me.  I am finished.”

Lapo Cercamorte hung his head and sobbed, “My old Baldo, my comrade, it is my folly that has killed you.”

“No, no.  It was only that I had survived too many tussles; then all at once our Lord recalled my case to his mind.  But we have had some high times together, eh?”

Lapo, weeping aloud from remorse, patted Baldo’s shoulder and kissed his withered cheek.  Lamplight flooded the staircase; it was Foresto softly descending.  The rays illuminated Madonna Gemma, who all the while had been standing close beside them.

“Lady,” said Baldo, feebly, “can you spare me a bit of your veil?  Before the door falls I must climb these steps, and that would be easier if I could first bind in my entrails.”

They led him upstairs, Lapo on one side, Madonna Gemma on the other, and Foresto lighting the way.  They came to the topmost chamber in the high tower—­the last room of all.

Here Cercamorte kept his treasures—­his scraps of looted finery, the weapons taken from fallen knights, the garrison’s surplus of arms.  When he had locked the door and with Foresto’s slow help braced some pike-shafts against it, he tried to make Baldo lie down.

The old man vowed profanely that he would die on his feet.  Shambling to the casement niche, he gaped forth at the dawn.  Below him a frosty world was emerging from the mist.  He saw the ring of the ramparts, and in the courtyard the barrack ruins smouldering.  Beyond, the hillside also smoked, with shredding vapours; and at the foot of the hill he observed a strange sight—­the small figure of a man in tunic and hood, feylike amid the mist, that danced and made gestures of joy.  Baldo, clinging to the casement-sill on bending legs, summoned Cercamorte to look at the dancing figure.

“What is it, Lapo?  A devil?”

“One of our guests, no doubt,” said Cercamorte, dashing the tears from his eyes.  “Hark! the door at the foot of the staircase has fallen.  Now we come to our parting, old friend.”

“Give me a bow and an arrow,” cried Baldo, with a rattle in his throat.  “Whoever that zany is, he shall not dance at our funeral.  Just one more shot, my Lapo.  You shall see that I still have it in me.”