The robbers were galloping along in no regular order with intervals of from ten to twenty yards between each one of them.
More than a thousand yards in front of his comrades galloped Fatia Negra.

His splendid English thoroughbred, as if it would outstrip the blast which whirled the dust aloft, flew along with him and seemed to share the blind fury of his master who waved his flashing sword above his horse's head and bellowed at his opponents from afar like a wild beast.
"We'll seize the fellow before his companions come up," said the lieutenant to his men.

"Cut him down from his horse and capture him alive." "Hurrah!" roared the lonely horseman, now only a yard off.
"Hurrah!"-- the next moment he was in the midst of them.
And now began a contest which, had it been recorded in the chronicles of the Crusades, would have been regarded as an act of heroism that only awaited immortality from a poet great enough to sing it.

Fatia Negra, alone and surrounded, fought single-handed in the midst of the hostile band.

His light sword flashing in his hand like lightning, never stayed to parry but attacked incessantly.