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.
"Forward! St.Michael and the Virgin!" That mighty shout, followed as it was by a thunder of hooves, gave pause to the advancing mercenaries.