As he saw Nevers lift his hand for a moment to the space between his
eyes, Lagardere groaned to himself, "My damned fencing-lesson," and
mentally promised to make his enemies pay for their readiness to learn.
He had not long to wait for an opportunity.
The discomfited bravos were rapidly gathering together for a fresh
attack. This time their leading spirit was no longer Staupitz,
disagreeably conscious of the difficulties of the enterprise, but the
hunchback Æsop, who seemed to burn with a passion for slaughter.
Lagardere likened him in his mind to some ungainly, obscene bird of prey,
as he loomed out of the mirk waving his gaunt arms and shrieking in his
rage and hate. "Kill them! kill them!" he screamed, as he rushed across
the intervening space, and the bravos, heartened by his frenzy of fight,
streamed after him, flinging themselves desperately against the piled-up
hay, only to meet again the irresistible weapons of the friends, and
again to recoil before them. Nevers held his own on one side; Lagardere
held his own on the other. Nevers delivered his thrust at Æsop, and for
the second time that day the hunchback felt the prick of steel between
his eyes and saved himself by springing backward, his blood's fire
suddenly turned to ice. Lagardere's sword was like a living fire. "Look
out, Staupitz! Take that, Pepe!" he cried, and wounded both men. Then,
while the German and the Spaniard fell back swearing, he turned joyously
to Nevers, for his quick ear caught the sound of galloping on the distant
highway.
"Good cheer, brother! I hear horses. My men are coming. Lagardere!
Lagardere!"