CHAPTER XIII
IN THE POWER OF THE DOGE
Hugh fought his way forward in the confusion until he encountered a blade which pressed him back with supple cunning. It curled serpent-wise about his sword, hissing venomously as it menaced head and throat and loins. Almost he fancied he could see its flashing circles, and he divined that his opponent must be one of the Saracen Emirs, skilled in the Eastern tricks of fencing with the curved-bladed scimiter. The sweat beaded his forehead, his breath came short, for his heavy weapon was ill-adapted for such work.
Then, when the darkness danced before his eyes and a dizziness came over him, he felt a squat figure that brushed between his outspread legs and the terrible sword fell away.
"So, lord," rasped Beppo's voice. "One Paynim dog the less."
All around him Hugh heard the gasping breaths of struggling men, prayers, curses, threats, the whirr of flailing blades. It was impossible to distinguish friend from foe.
"Mocenigo!" he cried. "Mocenigo! Stand forth and meet me!"
A mocking laugh was his answer.
"It may not be, good youth, it may not be!"
"Coward!" taunted Hugh.
Again the mocking laughter.