SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING CHAPTERS.—That many times repeated asseveration of Captain Salomon Brazenhead's, that he had formed one of the suite of Duke Lionel, when that prince went out to Lombardy to marry Visconti's daughter, and that, in consequence, the poet Chaucer—"little Smugface," as he was pleased to call him—was his fellow-traveller and bosom friend, bore at the first blush the stamp of truth. It was always supported by vigorous reminiscence; the older he grew, the more positive he was of it. All this as it may be, what is beyond cavil is that we find him at Pavia in the year 1402, a fine figure of a man, scarred, crimson, shining in the face, his hair cropped in the Burgundian mode, moustachios to the ears, holding this kind of discourse to a lank and cavernous warrior, three times his own apparent age, who had proposed, we gather, before a tavern full of drinkers, to eat him raw. The irons came swinging out, there was a ding-dong passage of arms of one hundred and thirty seconds, and Captain Brazenhead had run his foe through and established his reputation in Pavia. Admirers crowded about him, to pledge and be pledged in cups, and he learned that the dead man in life had been Lisciasangue, assassin to the Duke of Milan, one of "a Mystery of Three Murderers." His Grace's condition was indeed deplorable, robbed of one-third of his assassins. "I see the aged monarch," mused Captain Brazenhead, overheard by a sympathetic throng, "maimed, as you might say, of his right hand. I see his prisons full to brim point, his lieutenants at work night and day to keep abreast of the flood." He could not restore the Duke his Lisciasangue, but so far as might be he would repair his fault and open a career for himself. "To Milan!" he said, "and there lies long Italy in the cup of my hand." By sheer impudence he obtained admission to the Duke's presence, confessed the killing of his assassin, and startled the craven Tyrant into appointing him to be Third Murderer in succession to Lisciasangue. But strangely merciful did he prove, for reasons of claims of old acquaintance, real or plausibly invented, and the like, to his first few intending victims, though anxious "to do his work when his blood was properly warmed by battle." Yet his very clemency had the effect of attaching to his service those derelict soldiers of fortune whom he spared. With two such fellows he has just engaged in fair fight rather than take them unawares.
CHAPTER VII.
DOUBLE BATTLE.
IT was rare, very rare, a game for the heroes in the trenches about Ilium, when Diomede fought waist-deep in dead men, and yellow-haired Menelaus ranged disconsolate the walls, crying upon the false thief Paris to show himself. From the hush of preparation to Captain Brazenhead's cry of onset was but a moment of long breath; and then immediately the ring was alive with whirling blades, and steel clanged on steel like church bells of an Easter morning. Brazenhead raged like a plunging horse. He seemed everywhere at once—wallowing in his work, snorting, shaking his head. Like a strong swimmer newly in the water, rejoicing to feel the tide, so did he breast the waves of battle. Ever on the look-out for advantage, the Egyptian writhed in and out, or darted like an eel, now this side, now that; and the Bilboan, bending at the knees, ran in where he could and cut left-handed at the heavy Italian. That livid giant was sore beset, and by his breathing betrayed himself. So long as he kept his wind he did well—as when he laid open Captain Brazenhead's forearm with a smashing blow, and cut down the Bilboan as if he had been a hemlock. But alas for him! even as he roared his triumph Brazenhead set upon him, and mowing at the tendons of his knees, missed his aim indeed, but split open one of his calves horizontally and laid him his length. When one of that party—the Egyptian, I believe—cried a halt, Squarcialupo could not rise above one knee, and then his wounded calf could be seen, notched like a leg of mutton. All the champions were hurt; the Egyptian had lost his ragged ear, and might have been seen shaking the blood out of his head before the fighting stopped. Two fingers the less was the brave Biscayan. Captain Brazenhead might well swing his forearm; but Squarcialupo was down and could fight no more. The conqueror—all duty to his Prince cast to the wind—felt magnanimous, little disposed to insist upon his right.
"Bleed on your sacks, bleed on your sacks, you rogues!" he cried upon his victims, "or how shall I carry you through Milan for dead?" Grinning at his ruse, they obeyed him. The captain sat upon the ground and surveyed them.
"Squarcialupo, my old son," he said, "let us take up your business. You broke from your oar, they tell me, and I'll not blame you for it. I would have done the same. But what kind of a fool am I to think you, to be lagged again?"
"Captain," said the Italian hoarsely, looking with intense interest at the fountain in his leg, "it was done by craft. I am something of a drinker, you must know. Now, as I lay in the sun, sleeping off my draught, the Duke's archers came upon me and knew me again; and I awoke to find myself in this hole."
"Knew thee again, sayst thou?" Brazenhead picked him up. "Explain me that saying, I'll trouble thee."
"I am a Pisan, noble Captain," said Squarcialupo, "and followed the fleet, making war upon the Genoese; and when I was rifling a corpse—as it might be you or me—it turned out to be no corpse at all, but a quicker man than I was. So they chained me to a bench in the galleys, and there I sweated for six years less one. Therefore, sir"
"Therefore! Therefore! No therefore at all, thou paltry fellow," the Captain roared, sternly frowning. "What have thy beastly habits to do with my question? 'Twas Genoa chained thee to a bench—and Genoa was wise. But if they knew thee again in Milan, they had known thee of old."
"Why, yes, sir," the heavy Italian replied; "long ago, when I took the old Duke Barnaby's pay for the war in Piedmont"
"Bleed on your sack!" the Captain interrupted him. "Bleed on your sack! See what a quag you make out here!"
"And valiantly I should have served him but for an evil acquaintance I made. For in his service there was a spearman, a most rascally knave, if not the devil in person, who beguiled me with hopes of high renown combined with comfort. Sir, he was the plausiblest, God-bless-you kind of a man that ever you saw—and you will have seen many"
Captain Brazenhead's face was a study at this time. Profound meditation, humour, judgment, acquaintance with villainy, benevolence: all knowledge could be read there. He covered his mouth with his hand, his hand with his nose, and his eyes twinkled as if to say: "Proceed, son."
"And says this sly one to me over the camp-fire: 'Hark ye, jail-bird'—for he had a pleasant name for everybody—'knowst thou aught of a convoy that comes this way?' 'A convoy?' says I. 'What convoy?' Just like that I said it, civil-spoken; and says he: 'Treasure, hire for the troops;' and lays his finger along his nose, as you might do."
It so happened that Captain Brazenhead was doing exactly that, and no less. The coincidence startled him; he dropped his hand and began to hum an air.
The Italian resumed: "'And what of that?' says myself. 'We have our share, I suppose?' says he darkly; 'look to it that we do.' To be brief with you, sir, he did beguile me into a dark venture—me and a company of eight Christians—that with horses and arms we went up the sea-road some six leagues by night, and there lay hid in a little wood, and stood by our arms all night, and heard him tell tales—this wily, hairy man. And in the grey of dawn came the convoy down the sea-road, a round dozen of men-at-arms, with the treasure on mules' backs; and at the word of command: 'Leap, ye thousand devils!' out we did leap, and put those men to the sword; and the muleteers fled, believing that hairy man's word that we were a thousand—though we were but eight Christians and one devil."
Captain Brazenhead cheered the speaker: "O brave! It was bravely done, my brother!"
"Not so brave as you might suppose," said the Italian, with grief thickening his voice. "When we came to share the plunder, what think you fell to me out of all that booty untold? Three sols Tournois, as I'm a hoping soul—and if I had remained snug in camp I had had fifty. But, said that deceiver, I was the best-nourished man he had ever set eyes on, and therefore"
"'Therefore' will be thy ruin, Demetrio," said Captain Brazenhead. "I gave you four, which is enough for any man not a leader of a company. But now, look you, I spare your life for the sake of our old friendship. You shall go alive into that sack, and drink my health this night in a flagon or two of right liquor—you, man, who, but for my clemency, might have been paddling upon red-hot bricks, mingling fires for your new prince, Beelzebub. Think of it, Demetrio, and rejoice greatly—and there's for you and your three sols Tournois. For I'll go into the fire myself for it that I gave you the four."
Sedately, with a very stiff leg, the large Italian crawled into his sack, and lay hidden there beside the Biscayan, who was by this time asleep.