It would be some
time before they recovered their senses.
While the man who had whispered to Pasquale was doing effectual work in
the rear, his companion was boldly attacking the main party in front. As
the lieutenant stopped short and turned his head when the halberds
dropped, a blow under the jaw from a fist like a sledge hammer almost
lifted him off his feet and sent him reeling till he fell senseless,
half-a-dozen paces away. Before the two archers who were guarding Zorzi
could defend themselves, unarmed as they were, another blow had felled
one of them. The second, springing forward, was caught up like a child
by his terrible assailant and whirled through the air, to fall with a
noisy splash into the shallow waters of the canal. The other companion
attacked the remaining two from behind with his club and knocked one of
them down. The last sprang to one side and ran on a few steps as fast as
he could. But swifter feet followed him, and in an instant iron fingers
were clutching his throat and squeezing his breath out. He struggled a
moment, and then sank down. His captor deliberately knocked him on the
head with his fist, and he rolled over like a stone.
Utterly bewildered, Zorzi stood still, where he had stopped. Never in
his life had he dreamed that two men could dispose of seven, in
something like half a minute, with nothing but a stick for a weapon
between them.
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