The Making of a Saint

by W. Somerset Maugham

'I wish they would,' said Matteo. 'It would give me such satisfaction to put my sword into half a score of their fat bellies!'

'There is no moon.'

'Very well; at two!'

The night was cloudy, and if there had been a moon, it would have been covered. A thin, cold rain was falling, and it was pitch dark. When I got to the river gate, four or five of them were already there. We felt too cold and miserable to speak; we sat on our horses, waiting. As new arrivals came, we peered into their faces, and then, on recognising them, bent back and sat on silently. We were all there but Checco. We waited for a time. At last Bartolomeo Moratini whispered to Matteo,—

'Where did you leave Checco?'

'In the house. He told me to go on, saying he would follow shortly. Two horses were saddled besides mine.'

'Whom was the second for?'

'I don't know!'

We waited on. The rain fell thin and cold. It struck half-past two. Immediately afterwards, we heard the sound of hoofs, and through the mist saw a black form coming towards us.

'Is it you, Checco?' we whispered, for the guard of the gate might have heard us. We were standing in a little plot of waste ground, ten yards from the walls.