He glanced quickly from one to the other. Marcia, in the salon, was slamming the shutters down. Mrs. Melville and Mrs. Copley were standing in the doorway with white faces, too amazed to move. Copley, in the middle of the hall, with his right arm hanging limp, was dripping blood on the marble pavement while he loudly called for a pistol; and Melville was standing on a chair hastily tearing from the wall a collection of fourteenth-century Florentine arms.
‘Pietro’s got your pistol,’ Sybert said. ‘But I’ve got five shots in mine, and we’ll do for the sixth man with one of those bludgeons. I ought to have shot that tattooed fellow when I had the chance—he’s the leader—but I’ll make up for it yet.’
A storm of blows on the door behind him brought out another laugh. ‘That door is as solid as the side of the house. They can hammer on it all night without getting in.’
The assailants had evidently arrived at the same conclusion, for the blows ceased while they consulted. A crash of glass in the salon followed, and Sybert sprang in there, calling to Melville to guard the hall window. The shutters held against the first impact of the men’s bodies, and they drew off for a minute and then redoubled the blows. They were evidently using the butt of the rifle as a battering-ram, and the stoutest of hinges could not long withstand such usage. With a groan one side of the shutter gave way and swung inward on a single hinge.
‘Put out the lights,’ Sybert called over his shoulder to Marcia, and he fired a shot through the aperture. The assailants fell back with groans and curses, but the next moment, raising the cry, ‘Avanti! Avanti!’ they came on with a rush, the Camorrist leading with the stolen revolver in his hand. Sybert took deliberate aim and fired. The man slowly sank to his knees and fell forward on his face. His comrades dragged him back.
Marcia, in the darkness behind, shut her eyes and clenched her hands. It was the first time she had ever seen a person die, and the sight was sickening. The men withdrew from the window and those waiting inside heard them consulting in low, angry guttural tones. The next moment there was a crash of glass at the hall window which opened into the loggia, and again the rifle as a battering-ram.
‘Ah!’ said Sybert under his breath, and he thrust the revolver into Marcia’s hand. ‘Quick, take that to Melville and bring me one of those spiked truncheons. We’ll make ’em think we’ve got a regular arsenal in here.’
Marcia obeyed without a word, and the next moment shots and cries rang out in the hall. She had scarcely placed the unwieldy weapon in Sybert’s hands when another man thrust himself into the salon opening. They had evidently determined to divide their forces and attack the two breaches at once. Both Marcia and Sybert recognized the man instantly. It was Tarquinio, the son of Domenico, the baker of Castel Vivalanti.
‘Tarquinio! You fool! Go back,’ Sybert cried.
‘Ah-h—Signor Siberti!’ the young fellow cried as he lunged forward with a stiletto. ‘You have betrayed us!’