At the sight of the shower of gold pieces, Fatia Negra roared like a
demon. What he had done hitherto was a mere joke--now the battle began
in grim earnest.
"Down with your heads, down with your headpieces!" he thundered, and
with the fury of a lion he flung himself on his opponents, everyone of
whom wore on his head the dangerous magnet which irresistibly attracted
his flashing sword.
He himself was invulnerable. Neither sword nor lance could penetrate his
shirt of mail. And meanwhile his companions were rapidly galloping up.
Now another shako flew into the air and the horse's hoofs trampled the
falling ducats in the mud.
"Shoot down his horse!" cried the voice of the post-office functionary
from the rear, and the same instant three pistol shots resounded. At the
third, which struck him full in the chest, the animal reared high in the
air. Fatia Negra, perceiving the danger, and before the horse had time
to fall and crush him, leaped from the saddle on to the ground.
And now he attacked the enemy on foot. He was blind now. He saw nothing
before him but blood and ducats--he was drunk with both.
All at once he observed that he was alone, and, fighting the air--he no
longer felt the contact of swords, or skulls or human bodies. After the
officer had been wounded, the post-office functionary took the command
and concluded it advisable not to await the arrival of the whole robber
band.
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