Harold Lamb

“ His cry came back to Michael. “Death is upon us. Fly!”
“Fly!” echoed the wounded, struggling toward the ropes. “The Turks are at our heels.”
Those who could not stand unsupported were thrust down into the water. Men, striking at one another’s heads and tearing at the surcoats which bore a crimson cross—the stronger among the fugitives, up to their necks in water, fought for the ropes.
When Michael at last—seeing that the galleass was crowded to capacity—clambered up the gilded woodwork of the stern and gave the signal to get under weigh, the tumult on shore took on a fiercer note. ”

“ The servants, under the oaths of their bearded master, lashed the horses on and the woman, in all her sad finery, was cast to earth under the hoofs of the beasts. The cart disappeared into the darkness but she lay where she had fallen.
“You see!” cried the Italian. “Death is upon us unless we fly. Out of my way, dogs——”
Drawing back his arm, Michael struck the man, sending him headlong into the water. Heedless of the blow, the other rose and fought his way to the ropes that offered a way to safety. ”

“ The men on the vessel held their breath as the rider, before answering, swam his horse out to them and, grasping at ropes lowered over the stern where the oar-banks permitted him to gain the side of the galleass, climbed heavily upon the deck.
“If you are a Venetian—fly!” he cried, staggering against Michael. “Never have the eyes of God seen such a defeat. Bayezid has sworn he will stable his horse in Saint Peter’s. I am alone, of a company of knights who followed the Constable of France.”
Michael Bearn gripped the knight by the shoulder fiercely. ”