The horse was upon him. Swift as thought, Francisco leaped and clutched the bridle in a hand of steel.
But the mad impetus defeated him. He was dragged forward like a reed; only his own great strength for the moment saved him. And now his wild shouts were added to the rider's. He struck upward with his dagger; he tore blindly.
"Do you not know me, Visconti?" he called. "Do you not know me?"
But his dagger was dashed from him. The horse's foam blinded him as it sprang desperately on. He heard Visconti's demon scream, and as the earth whirled round with him, caught one fleeting glimpse of the white, distorted, hated face—then, he was prone upon the ground, and Visconti, spurring on his way, looked back upon him with triumphant yells.
"Fly, fly!" he screamed, "they are after us, but we escape them. Fly!"
The dawn was showing when Francisco, spent with the passion of failure rather than from any hurt, came slowly back and picked his dagger from the road. Not far from it he saw a parchment roll tossed from Visconti's doublet in that frantic forward lunge—Visconti who had safely disappeared within the walls of Milan!
Francisco picked up the roll.
It was inscribed with poetry and patched with blood.