“_Buono!_ Signore,” spoke the non-German again, and I surely recognized Orosi, “then it is over the wall and into the house. Ecco! I will display to you the deed of a real virtuoso, of a true son of Italy. Your clumsy Tedesci shall behold and admire!” “We will admire you on the gallows, you long-tongued magpie,” growled the other, “if you do not keep a quieter tongue, or I, Hans Lange, am no prophet. I am well paid for this task, or I would drop it even now. Quick now! _Frisch!_ Up and over; but silent as tombstones. There’s no time for mumbling.” Adolf and Gunter had silently set the wheel-locks of their arquebuses, and now levelled at the crest of the wall, clearly visible, to take the first cutthroat as he should appear, but I knocked up their barrels. “Let them in,” I muttered; “all are then at our mercy.” In an instant a tall figure stood on the narrow parapet, then sprang boldly inside, landing on the slippery earth and sending the clods in our faces. A second, a third, a fourth, a fifth followed. The last two I knew clearly enough, by the flutter of their garments, were Italians, but the first three were Germans, Swabian lanz-knechts who would pawn their souls cheerfully for a little drink money. There they stood, those five men of blood, each doubtless with more sins than they had hairs. Before them, clearly in view, was the open lattice of Dr. Luther, the sill so low as to be easily scaled by a vigorous man; not fifteen feet away in the shadow of the wall stood we. Adolf and Gunter had covered the gang with their arquebuses, Amsdorf and I raised our pistols. All waited to follow my fire. Surely if ever heaven delivered Amalek into the hands of Israel, these five wild spirits were delivered into mine. And yet, though I knew God and man would justify me in instant execution, I hesitated. It was too much like slaying in cold blood. These creatures deserved the law of the chase as little as kites or wolves, but to mow them down before they had so much as regained their wind seemed an unknightly thing. Lange, the tallest, burliest, and evidently the conductor of the gang, forgot his own prudence and swore a round oath over the slipperiness of the ground. Then I saw him stretch out an arm. “Here is the window,” he announced; “see, the Reverend Doctor is still at his studies. We shall not need to awaken him.” “No,” retorted Orosi, and I could imagine his grimace, “we are kind physicians, the noble heretic suffers from wakefulness, we will make him sleep, a fine draught, see!” And I caught the faint glint of a dagger. “Curses on us,” growled one German, “for not bringing firearms. A shot through the window.” “Would arouse the town, and get us torn in pieces. No, he was right. Cold steel is the best.” (Whom “he” was, I could never discover; possibly Forli, possibly some less ecclesiastical instigator.)