"He scattered them like the wind," said Vittore. "I know not how. He is a giant. He flung me on this black horse here; he mounted, I had the halters of the others in my hand. We rushed away. Of one he broke the head, I think, with his thick staff, and had his arm hit hard, but 'tis not hurt, he says. Some followed awhile, but they drank too deep; we left them like men dazed and mad, some falling by the road. It was a great business, cousin, but I felt no fear; Francisco is a brave, brave man." "He is a leader of men, methinks," said Tomaso gravely. "I little doubt the Count is right; he is more than he appears. Now we will leave the horses here behind these chestnuts, and step toward the road and reconnoiter." CHAPTER NINE THE RETURN OF THE DEAD Gripping Vittore's hand, Tomaso looked cautiously up and down the road. Crouching back in among the wayside trees, they commanded unseen a view of any who might come or go; and though the days faded fast, it was still light enough to see many paces off. "No soldiery about to-night," whispered Tomaso; "they have ridden farther afield. We will go back, Vittore." They had turned to retrace their steps when Vittore clutched his cousin's hand yet tighter, and suppressed an exclamation. "Look!" he whispered, "a horseman coming toward Milan." Tomaso looked round nervously, and saw a single rider approaching swiftly, but casting searching glances around. As the boys watched, mistrustfully waiting, still in hiding, to see him safely pass, to their dismay he slackened pace, and finally drew rein altogether and looked eagerly in their direction. "Not a movement," breathed Tomaso, and Vittore crouched in silent fright. None the less, motionless as they thought themselves, some slight movement betrayed them, for the rider dismounted, advanced toward their hiding-place, and softly spoke. "Who is there? I am a friend," he said. "He is a Florentine," whispered Vittore joyfully; but Tomaso leaned against the tree in silence, and even through the gathering dusk, as the younger boy looked up, he saw that he was pale and trembling. "Canst thou direct me?" said the stranger. "I can pay thee for thy services." "Answer him, Tomaso," Vittore whispered eagerly; "he is a Florentine, he will not hurt us." Tomaso made a step forward. "It is some one we know," he said chokingly, "or my brain is playing me strange tricks." As he spoke, he put aside the branches that hid them, and stepped forward. The stranger had guessed their hiding-place unerringly; he stood close by, his horse's bridle across his arm. He was a slight, roughly-dressed, but well-formed man of middle age, light in color and of strong yet delicate features. "Thou needst not fear me," he began with a smile; then, as the two figures drew nearer, he paused, and in his turn grew pale and trembled. Tomaso, tossing his hair back from his face, with parted lips, stepped close, followed by Vittore. "Father! Thou dost not know me!"