CHAPTER II. ON A MOUNTAIN PATH
“Armed men, my lords!” had been Fanfulla's cry. “We are betrayed!”
They looked at one another with stern eyes, and with that grimness that takes the place which fear would hold in meaner souls.
Then Aquila rose slowly to his feet, and with him rose the others, looking to their weapons. He softly breathed a name—“Masuccio Torri.”
“Aye,” cried Lodi bitterly, “would that we had heeded your warning! Masuccio it will be, and at his heels his fifty mercenaries.”
“Not less, I'll swear, by the sound of them,” said Ferrabraccio. “And we but six, without our harness.”
“Seven,” the Count laconically amended, resuming his hat and loosening his sword in its scabbard.
“Not so, my lord,” exclaimed Lodi, laying a hand upon the Count's arm. “You must not stay with us. You are our only hope—the only hope of Babbiano. If we are indeed betrayed—though by what infernal means I know not—and they have knowledge that six traitors met here to-night to conspire against the throne of Gian Maria, at least, I'll swear, it is not known that you were to have met us. His Highness may conjecture, but he cannot know for sure, and if you but escape, all may yet he well—saving with us, who matter not. Go, my lord! Remember your promise to seek at your cousin's hand the gonfalon, and may God and His blessed Saints prosper your Excellency.”
The old man caught the young man's hand, and bending his head until his face was hidden in his long white hair, he imprinted a kiss of fealty upon it. But Aquila was not so easily to be dismissed.
“Where are your horses?” he demanded.