Two mercenaries were bearing down upon him--the same two that had been the last to fall back before him.
He braced himself to meet them, thinking that his last hour was indeed come, when Fanfulla degli Arcipreti, who had followed him closely through the press, now descended upon his assailants from behind, and rode them down.

Beside the Count he reined up, and stretched down his hand.
"Mount behind me, Excellency," he urged him.
"There is not time," answered Francesco, who discerned a half-dozen figures hurrying towards them.

"I will cling to your stirrup-leather, thus.

Now spur!" And without waiting for Fanfulla to obey him, he caught the horse a blow with the flat of his sword across the hams, which sent it bounding forward.

Thus they continued now that perilous descent, Fanfulla riding, and the Count half-running, half-swinging from his stirrup.