“Range yourselves, my brave men, on either side of the tomb, in the darkness. Ye number fifty in all; our enemies appear to count ten times our force. Behold!—they continue to pour into the cavern. But hist!—The watchword is—‘Ha! for the Winged Leopard.’”
The men-at-arms of his Grace of Florence were now within one hundred yards of the mound.
“Well, by St. Paul,” exclaimed the Duke, “this is certainly a very dreary looking place. Really one could imagine this cavern to be a very fit habitation for witches, devils, or any other unnecessary things. Where be these caitiff knaves, of which my Lord the Count Aldarin told us of? Advance, my brave men; find these villains. They have stolen the Ladye Annabel away—despatch them, and then we will have time to share the banquet of our lordly host!”
The broad banner of the Duke, of glaring red, having a lion rampant emblazoned on its folds, was now unfurled, and the company advanced in the same careless order, in which they had proceeded over the floor of the cavern.
“By the tomb of my ancestors, will I flesh my maiden sword. By the corse of my father, will I fight for my right.”
The knight of the azure armor grasped his sword more firmly. In another moment the torches of the Duke’s followers would flash upon the armor of his ambushed men, in another moment he would stand disclosed before the eyes of the Duke. With a flashing eye he measured the clear level space that lay between the mound and the advancing men-at-arms.
A whisper to his men—a firmer grasp of his sword, and a firmer grasp of the banner staff, and the knight in three good leaps, sprang down the twenty steps of stone, shouting as he sprang—“Ha! for the Winged Leopard! Ha! for Albarone!”
At his back, with swords drawn, and springing with all the litheness of youth, came the four ancient Esquires, and behind them, leaping from the opposite side of the mound, with swords likewise drawn, and with the war-cry pealing to the cavern’s roof, came the two bodies of men-at-arms, numbering twenty-five in each company.
Another leap and another spring, and the azure knight stands within striking distance of the astonished Duke. Quick as thought he planted his banner in the cavern floor, and grasping his sword with both hands, he whirled it once round his head, and throwing all his strength in the blow, he brought it down full upon the golden crest of the tyrant, who was driven to the very earth by the vigor of the stroke.
In an instant the foot of the azure knight was upon the breast of the prostrate prince, and while the men-at-arms, on right and left, and the esquires at his back, were carrying on the strife right merrily, he prepared for another stroke. He shortened his grasp of the sword, and gazing sternly through the bars of his helmet, down into his fallen enemy’s uncovered face, with all the strength of his stalwart arm, he essayed to send his weapon into his very throat.