Lagardere gave a jolly laugh. "Now for a glorious scrimmage!" he said,
and made his sword sing in the air.
As he spoke the words, shade after shade began to descend the steps from
the bridge and to advance cautiously into the moat. Lagardere counted
them as they came: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine,
ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen,
eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Even in the darkness he thought he could
recognize certain figures: the twisted form of the hunchback, the burly
body of Cocardasse, the gaunt figure of the Norman, the barrel bulk of
Staupitz. This barrel bulk came to the front of the shadows huddled
together at the base of the hill, and spoke with the thick, Teutonic
voice that Lagardere had heard so short a time before. "There they are,"
Staupitz said, and Lagardere could see a gleam in the night as the German
pointed to where the two newly bound comrades stood together.
An instant answer came with the defiant cry of Nevers, "I am here!" which
was immediately echoed by Lagardere. "I am here!" he shouted; and then
added for himself: "Lagardere! Lagardere!"
Among the bravos a momentary note of comedy intruded upon the intended
tragedy, as is often the way when humanity foregathers on sinister
business. Cocardasse plucked Passepoil by the sleeve and drew him a
little away from their fellow-ruffians. "We cannot fight against the
Little Parisian," he whispered into the Norman's ear. "We will look on,
comrade." Passepoil nodded approval, but spoke no word. For the rest of
that red adventure into the placid blackness of the night those two stood
apart in the shadow, with their arms folded and their swords in their
sheaths, sombrely watching the seven men that were their friends
assailing the one man they loved. Such honor as they had forbade them to
change sides and fight for the Little Parisian. They had been paid to
range with the assailants of Nevers. But no payment could possibly
prevail on them to attack Lagardere. So, according to their consciences,
they split the difference and held aloof. Their abstention was not
noticed by their fellows in the excitement of the time.
Numerous as they were, the bravos and their new recruits seemed unwilling
to advance against two such famous swordsmen. Lagardere taunted their
apathy:
"Come, you crows, the eagles wait for you." He felt that the words had a
fine theatrical ring, and he enjoyed them as he flung them forth.
Nevers cried his cry, "I am here!" and Lagardere repeated it, "I am
here!" He was longing to come to blows with the bandits, and to show them
what two men could do against their multitude. His sword quivered like a
snake in its eagerness to feel blades against its blade.
The barrel bulk of Staupitz spoke again addressing his little army. "Do
you fear two men?" he asked. "Forward!"
On the word the eighteen men charged, the original seven leading; the
eleven recruits, less whole-hearted in the business, came less alertly in
the rear. The charge of the assassins was abruptly arrested by
Lagardere's bulwark, and over that bulwark the swords of the two
defenders flashed and leaped, and before every thrust a man went down. It
seemed an age of battle, it seemed an instant of battle. Then the baffled
assassins recoiled, leaving two of the smugglers for dead, while Saldagno
and Faenza were both badly wounded, and cursing hideously in Portuguese
and Italian.
Behind the intrenchments, Lagardere chuckled as he heard. He turned to
Nevers. "Are you wounded?" he asked, anxiously.