The moon had waned and the night was starless when the chimes of San Nicolò told three of the morning in low melodious tones like a voice from dreamland, breaking no slumber.
Suddenly the sharp wild clangor of the great alarum-bell of Famagosta crashed through the silence.
The citizens sprang from their sleep with cries of terror and rushed to the windows; but, alas, they had not dreamed that dreaded danger signal which kept up its fateful toll. Already men, fully armed, were hurrying through the streets that led to the Piazza; whence came echoes of voices talking in quick, awe-struck tones—the flash of torches—a horseman dashing down from the castle to the walls at the port—sounds of excited action ringing back from the ramparts—the quick gallop of a cavalier rushing to join his command.
What might it mean!
Commander Saplana moved calmly out among his mounted suite, fully equipped, from the Castle into the Piazza; yet there had not been many moments in which to make ready since the first notes of that wild alarum had sounded!
Those among the citizens entitled to bear arms were quickly accoutred and dashed out to mingle with the throng.
"What is it?" men questioned of each other—but no one knew.
Had the Genoese returned to storm by night this post of vantage so long their own—and still so coveted?
Were the Turks upon them?
Was it some intrigue of Ferdinand of Naples?