There was a sharp order repeated and passed on, the corsairs drew back, and
the "Africans" shouted that the triumph was theirs; but they little knew
Dragut, the sea-hawk who poised to strike anew. A blazing beam dropped
across the street, the townsfolk shouted in insult and derision; but the
joy which they had experienced at seeing their adversaries recoil was but a
short and fleeting emotion. Giving himself and those who had hitherto been
engaged time to breathe and recover themselves, Dragut waited while the
noise of the strife died down, and nought was heard but the roar of the
flames and the crash of the burning buildings.
The leader turned to his followers, among whom dwelt an ominous silence.
"Dost remember Prevesa," he cried, "when Andrea Doria and the best of the
Christian warriors fled before you like sheep before a dog: are these
miserable townsmen to stay your onward march?"
There remained for an appreciable period after he had spoken a tense
silence; the red light from the burning houses shone on the lean faces
alight with the fierce fire of fanaticism, with an inextinguishable lust of
slaughter. There came an answering frenetic roar, "Lead! Lead! Dragut!
Dragut! Dragut!" It was enough: the corsair had tried the temper of the
steel, he had now but to use the edge. There was an ordered movement on the
part of the pirates: a fresh hundred men, who had hitherto taken no part in
the combat, now pressed to the front and formed the advance, those who had
been before engaged now forming the supports; that which had been the shaft
of the spear now forming its head.
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