"Oaths, on such an occasion," said the other, coldly, "are worthless. This is a superfluous waste of words. Leave _her_ defence to herself. The question is now between you and me. Your presence here, with the avowal of passion you have made, is in itself an insult demanding reparation. _I_ consent to forget the difference of rank between a hireling soldier and a prince of Spain, and you can hardly refuse to meet my vengeance." "Enough, sir!" said Zanotti; "that slight was unnecessary. I am ready." Their blades crossed, and, at first, every movement was studied and cautious, as if each sought to measure the other's skill, and hesitated to risk consequences that, in the situation in which they were placed, involved life or death. Many a feint passed between them, and each found in the other a much more formidable antagonist than he had anticipated. The Italian, the moment his sword touched that of his adversary, regained at once the calm, resolute bearing of one accustomed to rely upon those qualities for existence; and the Spaniard, at first, exhibited an equal degree of coolness. Gradually, however, he grew more excited, and made one or two lunges, which were quickly parried, but no effort made to return them. This indicated, on the part of Zanotti, an intention either to confine his action to defence, or murderously wait an opportunity of ending the struggle by a single, fatal stroke. Either supposition, as be-speaking a consciousness of superiority, was sufficiently galling to add to his excitement, and his thrusts increased in number, leaving him at each more and more exposed. But, suddenly, Zanotti altered his tactics. He brought his "_forte_" in contact with his opponent's "_foible_," and the next instant the prince's weapon, twirled from his grasp, was spinning through the air and fell upon the ground at some distance from where they stood. For one moment, one single moment, the Spaniard glared upon him, his face bearing a look of concentrated venomous hate, then, snatching from its jewelled sheath a short stiletto, he sprang with the bound of an enraged panther upon his foe. Taken unprepared--for, the moment his adversary was disarmed, he had dropped the point of his own weapon--Zanotti staggered and fell, and the next instant the dagger was, as it seemed, plunged up to the very hilt in his heart. Drawing the weapon from its still palpitating sheath, he wiped the blade, and then, with hands wet with her lover's blood, took the form of Leonora, yet happily insensible, and bore it to the palazzo. There was still revelry and mirth within. * * * * *