The Making of a Saint

by W. Somerset Maugham

I saw from the shadow of the houses black forms spring out on Checco. An arm was raised, and a glittering instrument flashed in the darkness. He staggered forward.

'Matteo,' he cried. 'Help! Help!'

We rushed forward, drawing our swords. There was a scuffle, three of us against four of them, a flash of swords, a cry from one of the men as he reeled and fell with a wound from Matteo's sword. Then another rush, a little band of men suddenly appeared round the corner, and Ercole Piacentini's voice, crying,—

'What is it? What is it?'

And Matteo's answer,—

'Help us, Ercole! I have killed one. Checco is stabbed.'

'Ah!' a cry from Ercole, and with his men he rushed into the fray.

A few more cries, still the flash of swords, the fall of heavy bodies on the stones.

'They are done for!' said Matteo.

The shouts, the clang of metal woke up the neighbours; lights were seen at the windows, and night-capped women appeared shrieking; doors were thrown open, and men came out in their shirts, sword in hand.