The door was closed and locked from within.
Francesco dealt it a terrific blow. Its shattered framework heaved inward and toppled against the wall.
In the doorway stood Raniero and looked out at his opponent. He did not recognize Francesco. His face was sullen; the glitter of his little eyes mimicked the ring gleams of his hauberk. He put out the tip of a tongue and moistened his lips.
Francesco's face was as the face of a man who has but one purpose left in life and, that accomplished, cares not what happens. Raising his vizor, he said:
"I wait for you!"
Raniero broke into a boisterous laugh.
"The bastard! The monk! Go home, Francesco, and don your lady's attire! What would you with a sword?"
Francesco's mouth was a hard line. He breathed through hungry nostrils, as he went step by step toward Raniero.
Then with a swift shifting of his sword from right to left he smote him on each cheek, then, lowering his vizor, he put up his guard.
With an oath Raniero's sword flashed, feinted, turned with a cunning twist, and swept low for Francesco's thigh.