And now began a contest which, had it been recorded in the chronicles of
the Crusades, would have been regarded as an act of heroism that only
awaited immortality from a poet great enough to sing it. Fatia Negra,
alone and surrounded, fought single-handed in the midst of the hostile
band. His light sword flashing in his hand like lightning, never stayed
to parry but attacked incessantly. Handless swords and headless shakos
flew around him in the air and whithersoever his horse turned its head,
an empty space gaped before him, every antagonist retreating before him.
So close was the _melee_ that the soldiers stood in each other's way and
could not use their firearms for fear of shooting their comrades. The
lieutenant was the only man who did not avoid him. Like a true soldier
who considers wounds an honour, he did not trouble himself to recollect
that his adversary was superior to him both in strength and skill, but
strove incessantly to urge his horse towards him. Twice he struck the
fellow but he did not seem to feel the blow. Once he dealt him a skilful
thrust in the side, but the sword bent nearly double without entering
his body. "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Fatia Negra--he must have put on a coat
of mail beneath his jacket--and the same instant he countered so
savagely that if the lieutenant had not dodged his head, he must have
lost it. As it was the sword pierced through his shako and out poured
the gold pieces by thousands on to the highroad.
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