What a bitter fate it would be, Daoud thought, if his Frankish looks, which caused him to be sent here, earned him his death in a stupid street fight. "There are six of you," said Lorenzo. "But now that these four men have joined us, there are six of us. Bad odds for you, because no matter how much you harm us, you will certainly come out of this quarrel worse off than you went into it." Lowering his sword even more, he stepped closer to the young man with the silver badge on his cap. "Signore. Which of these men are you willing to lose, to pay for the privilege of hurting us?" With his free hand he pointed from man to man in the circle of six. "That man? That one? That one? Yourself?" "We will start with you!" the short man shouted. He lunged at Lorenzo, his sword thrusting straight for Lorenzo's chest. Lorenzo's sword was up in an instant, parrying the short man's attack. At the same moment, out of the corner of his eye Daoud saw Sordello's arm flash up, then down. The short man gave a cry and stumbled. He staggered a few steps, then collapsed in a heap at the feet of one of the other Filippeschi bravos. Lorenzo stepped back so that he and Sordello flanked Daoud. Sordello's three men moved up beside them, one to the left, two to the right. "You may see to the man who is hurt," said Lorenzo. "Unless you want to continue." "If he is only hurt, I should retire to a monastery." Sordello laughed. Indeed, Daoud saw that the man on the ground was not moving. _I do not like this Sordello_, Daoud thought. _He comes out of nowhere wanting to work for me. He kills in haste and boasts about it._ The young man with the silver badge on his cap knelt by the fallen bravo and felt under his cape. "Morte," he said harshly, and stood again. "Well, Messeres," said Lorenzo, "we are now six to five. We did not choose to quarrel. We still do not wish to fight. In fact, we ourselves are at odds with the Monaldeschi." "How might that be?" said the young man. "Are we done fighting? I wish to make a proposal to you." The Filippeschi spokesman glanced at his fellows. "What say you?" "Alfredo was my cousin," said a tall bravo in a rust-colored cape. "But I cannot avenge him alone." "Alfredo was impetuous," said the young man. "He acted before I gave an order." "You are no leader, Marco, if you will not undertake the vendetta for one of your men." _The vendetta. These Italians are like the desert tribesmen. Kill one of them, and you have his family to deal with._ "I will show you what kind of a leader I am if you speak that way to me again," said Marco. "Enough, enough," said one of the other bravos, and the man in the rust-colored cape shrugged. It was now almost daylight, and Daoud studied the face of the young man called Marco. He could not be more than seventeen, Daoud thought, looking at his smooth cheeks and downy black mustache. _Marco!_ He had heard that the head of the Filippeschi family was a young Conte Marco di Filippeschi.