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But everything had gone wrong. His employers had suspected his perfidy, had come to an understanding with their antagonists, the battle had been a sham, a parade, an elaborate snare laid to trap him and his company into shame and massacre. At the crisis of the day both leagues had laid aside their age-long enmities and feuds and had joyously united in the pleasant pastime of butchering his men. Many of them had been slaughtered. But some, taught by long service with a leader who had changed sides whenever it suited his advantage, had won honor in a new service by joining in the carnage and helping to exterminate their less facile comrades. Most of his mercenaries were dead, not one of the survivors would ever again own Melozzo Carpineti for his master.

He could hardly believe that he was Melozzo Carpineti.

He resolved that no man should take him alive, that he would never be a prisoner to be taunted, insulted, tortured, shamed.

He thought of falling on his rapier-point, he fingered his throat and half drew his poignard.

Then he remembered Fabrizia.

He had not thought of Fabrizia for years, for ten years at least; at least fourteen years had passed since he had seen her.

He recalled their parting, she leaning out of