Wherewith I drove the poleaxe on the shoulder of one hulking villain of the Forli crew and sent him down with a mortal yell. Andrea had snatched a chair and with a dexterous side blow felled a second less fatally. They gave back a moment, gathered for a second rush, then made it; with God’s help I met them. Once an axe stroke missed my shoulder by a hair’s-breadth. Twice a boar-spear was thrust into my face, and twice I swept it aside. The mighty Jan was foremost in the attack; a great good fortune, for his bulk clouded the whole door and forbade other attackers. He had snatched a broadaxe somewhere and thrust forward recklessly. Once driven from the narrow opening I was lost, but my assailants fought with poor generalship. I held my own, and Andrea, whipping out a murderous dirk, added shrewd blows beside mine. Then as we fought, and as the inn resounded with the horrid cry, in a dim way I knew that, though my eyes were ever to the front, there was a strange combat waging behind me. Only later did I learn it all; yet I could hear my assailants calling to one another as they peered past me, “Holy Christ! The women! The women! The nun and the Italian.” For what befell was this. Even as the door fell from its casement Marianna had reached for her second pistol, but had never drawn it. Around her wrist had gripped the hand of Ilsa, a clutch like steel. Breast against breast, their hot breath smiting one another’s faces, they had fought. Struggling, tearing, panting, till Ilsa’s black serge flew in a myriad tatters; and still they waged their battle. Once for a desperate instant they had paused, and Ilsa, in a kind of irony, cried, “What will you?” To which Marianna shot across her teeth, “If I die I will be buried, if I live, you will be.” And with that resumed her battle. Then at length, and I am glad I saw it not, though I glory in it all, Harzland strength and German love triumphed over Italian storm and hate. Marianna’s dagger sprang from the sheath, but it was Ilsa’s hand that grasped it. The weapon went deep to another sheath--the breast of Madonna di Forli. Again a cry, a shrill, long cry, agonized, inarticulate. I turned my head. Beside the slain abbess I saw lying the form of Marianna.