homeward road behind them, in case of defeat; but the men of Pistoja,
driven from the woods by the thick smoke and the burning of the
undergrowth, were obliged to scramble down a descent so steep that many
of them were forced to dismount, and they then found themselves huddled
together in a narrow strip of irregular meadow between the road and the
foot of the stony hill. Buondelmonte saw his advantage. His sword shot
up at arm's length over his head, and his high, clear voice rang out in
a single word of command.

In a moment the peace of nature was rent by the scream of war. Hoofs
thundered, swords flashed, men yelled, and arrows shot through the
great cloud of dust that rose suddenly as from an explosion. In the
front of the charge the Italian and the Norman rode side by side, the
inscrutable black eyes and the calm olive features beside the Norman's
terrible young figure, with its white glowing face and fair hair
streaming on the wind, and wide, deep eyes like blue steel, and the
quivering nostrils of the man born for fight.

Short was the strife and sharp, as the Florentines spread to right and
left of their leader and pressed the foe back against the steep hill in
the narrow meadow. Then Buondelmonte thrust out straight and sure, in
the Italian fashion, and once the mortal wound was in the face, and
once in the throat, and many times men felt it in their breasts through
mail and gambison and bone. But Gilbert's great strokes flashed like
lightnings from his pliant wrist, and behind the wrist was the Norman
arm, and behind the arm the relentless pale face and the even lips,
that just tightened upon each other as the deathblows went out, one by
one, each to its place in a life. The Italian destroyed men skilfully
and quickly, yet as if it were distasteful to him. The Norman slew like
a bright destroying angel, breathing the swift and silent wrath of God