But before the fellow could reply, one of those hinds had sprung upon the stooping Count, and struck him with a dagger between the shoulder-blades.
A woman's alarmed cry rang out, for Valentina was watching the affray from the steps of the hall, with Gonzaga at her elbow.
But Francesco's quilted brigandine had stood the test of steel, and the point of that assassin's dagger glanced harmlessly aside, doing no worse hurt than a rent in the silk surface of the garment.

A second later the fellow found himself caught as in a bond of steel.

The dagger was wrenched from his grasp, and the point of it laid against his breast even as the Count forced him down upon his knees.
In a flash was the thing done, yet to the wretched man who saw himself upon the threshold of Eternity, and who--like a true son of the Church--had a wholesome fear of hell, it seemed an hour whilst, with livid cheeks and eyes starting from his head, he waited for that poniard to sink into his heart, as it was aimed.

But not in his heart did the blow fall.

With a sudden snort of angry amusement, the Count pitched the dagger from him and brought down his clenched fist with a crushing force into the ruffian's face.