Celino spurred his horse over to where the old man swayed in the saddle clutching his stomach. "Sorry to hurt you, but we are not leaving you," he said. He pulled the groaning wounded man across to his own horse and swung one of his legs over so that he was riding astride.
Daoud saw blood, black in the faint light of the crescent moon, running out of the old man's mouth, staining his white beard.
"Can you ride a horse?" Celino barked at the son.
"Yes," the boy sobbed.
"Get up on this one." Celino indicated the horse from which he had just dragged the old man. "Take your packs off the donkey and put them on this horse if you want them. Quickly, quickly. Leave the donkey."
Daoud fingered the crossbow as the boy hastily transferred himself and his goods to the horse.
Still Celino risks our lives with his care for these strangers. Damned infidel. I am the leader of this party.
"Here they come!" cried Sophia. Waving swords and long-handled halberds—God knew where they had gotten them—and sticks and pitchforks, the crowd from the inn tumbled through the gate. Some of them were on horses.
"Ride!" shouted Daoud in the voice he used to command his Mameluke troop.
He kicked his spurs into his horse's side and sent it galloping down the road.