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.