There was still no reply. Dressing in haste, I called often, but received no answer; and supposing that he must have risen, I drew back the curtain of his sleeping place to assure myself, when a scarcely articulate exclamation of horror escaped my lips. Imagine my grief and astonishment, to behold our poor friend lying drenched in his blood, pale and lifeless! I placed my hand on his heart; it was cold and still. Gascoigne bent over the window, and shouted— "Macnaisha—Macnaisha—you devil you, come here!" The doctor arrived in a moment, but the cavalier was beyond his skill: there was not the slightest warmth or pulsation. The gallant, the noble, and chivalric Castelermo had perished by the hand of a cowardly assassin. Buried to the very cross-guard, in his heart, a little ebony-hilted poniard, was struck, with such force that some strength had to be exerted to draw it forth; and on my doing so a strip of paper, attached to the pommel, attracted our attention; it contained these words:— "Let those who would avenge this insolent _Briton_, seek me among the ranks of the French at Cassano: a word I might have forgiven—a blow never.—_Pietro Navarro_." Although boiling with indignation, I shuddered at the fate I had so narrowly escaped. For me it was that the fatal stroke had been intended; and I then remembered Castelermo’s warning, to beware of the cowardly Navarro. Clambering up by a garden-wall, the miscreant had reached our casement, which he had contrived to open noiselessly; but on entering the room he had mistaken the unfortunate cavalier’s bed for mine, and my friend had thus perished in my stead. "The blow must have been struck about midnight," said Macnesia. Only an hour after we retired to rest: perhaps Navarro had been outside the window during the greater part of the night watching our preparations for the intended meeting next morning. But with three hundred of our soldiers we had all a narrower escape from this Italian’s hatred and duplicity: of which the reader shall hear more anon. The Signoressa Pia was overwhelmed with consternation and dismay on learning that the knight of Malta had perished under her roof. Followed by a mob of fishermen, the podesta, with his clerk, arrived and committed to writing a statement of the facts; while I preserved the poniard and the assassin’s signature for production and evidence, should a day of retribution ever arrive.