Cercamorte could not deny him this last whim.  He found and strung a bow, and chose a Ghibelline war-arrow.  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.

It began again, the splitting of panels, the cracking of hinges.  The door was giving; now only the pike-shafts held it.  Then came a pause.  From far down the staircase a murmur of amazement swept upward; a babble of talk ensued.  Silence fell.  Cercamorte let out a harsh laugh.

“What new device is this?  Does it need so much chicanery to finish one man?”

Time passed, and there was no sound except a long clattering from the courtyard.  Of a sudden a new voice called through the broken door: 

“Open, Cercamorte.  I am one man alone.”

“Come in without ceremony.  Here am I, waiting to embrace you.”

“I am Ercole Azzanera, the Marquis Azzo’s cousin, and your true friend.  I swear on my honour that I stand here alone with sheathed sword.”

Lapo kicked the pike-shafts away, and, as the door fell inward, jumped back on guard.  At the threshold, unhelmeted, stood the knight whose long surcoat was covered with the white eagles of Este.  He spoke as follows: 

“Cercamorte, this array came up against you because it was published that you had killed and flayed Raffaele Muti, and, out of jealous malignancy, were wearing his skin as a vest.  But just now a marvellous thing has happened, for at the foot of the hill Raffaele Muti has been found, freshly slain by a wandered arrow.  Save for that wound his skin is without flaw.  Moreover, he lived and breathed but a moment ago.  So the whole tale was false, and this war against you outrageous.  All the gentlemen who came here have gone away in great amazement and shame, leaving me to ask pardon for what they have done.  Forgive them, Cercamorte, in the name of Christ, for they believed themselves to be performing a proper deed.”