The Savoyards saw their advantage, rallied, and pressed them.
Speedily the Italians regained the ground they had lost, and with the tall form of their champion fighting in the van, began to sweep the towns-folk back into the Rue de la Cite.
But arrived at the meeting of the ways, Basterga's followers paused, hesitating to expose their flank by entering this second street.

The Genevese saw this, rallied in their turn, and for a moment seemed to be holding their own.

But three or four of their doughtiest fighters lay stark in the kennel, they had no longer a leader, they were poorly armed and hastily collected; and devoted as they were, it needed little to renew the panic and start them in utter rout.

Basterga saw this, and when his men still hung back, neglecting the golden opportunity, he rushed forward, almost alone, until he stood conspicuous between the two bands--the one hesitating to come on, the other hesitating to fly.
"Savoy!" he thundered, "Ville gagnee! The city is ours! Cowards, come on!" And waving his halberd above his head, he beckoned to his followers to advance.
Had they done so, had they charged on the instant, they had changed all for him, and perhaps all for Geneva.

But they hung a moment, and the next, as in shame they drew themselves together for the charge, their champion stooped forward with a shrill scream.