The feelings of Lorenzo himself were very different; but as they were such as would be experienced by most young men unaccustomed to bloodshed in looking for the first time upon an enemy slain by their own hands, we need not dwell much upon them. There was the shuddering impression which the aspect of death always makes upon young, exuberant life. There was the natural feeling of regret at having extinguished that which we can never reillume. There was that curious, almost fearful inquiry which springs up in the thoughtful mind at the sight of the dead, when our eyes are not much accustomed to it, "What is life?" While he was still gazing, one of the servants touched the old count's arm and whispered something to him, "Ha!" cried Rovera; "I am told, Lorenzo, you received a letter to-night, which was sent up to your room by one of your men, after we all parted. It was not a challenge, perchance? If so, you should have chosen some other place for your meeting than our terrace." "It was not so, sir," replied Lorenzo, promptly. "I had no previous quarrel with the man. The letter was from his Majesty King Charles. Here it is; you can satisfy yourself." "My eyes are dim," said the old man; "read it Ramiro." The Lord of Orco took the paper, and read while one of the servants held a flambeau near. "Well-beloved Cousin"--so ran the note--"It has pleased us to bestow on you the troop of our ordnance, become vacant by the death of Monsieur de Moustier. We march hence speedily, and the Seigneur de Vitry proceeds to-night toward Pavia. As he will not be able to depart till late in the day, we judge it best to advise you, in order to your preparation, that he will halt near the Villa Rovera for an hour to-morrow early, and that we expect you will accompany him on his march without delay. Fail not as you would merit our favour. "CHARLES." Ramiro read the letter aloud, and then, without any comment on the contents, remarked: "You have left the impress of your thumb in blood upon the king's missive, Signor Visconti; you are wounded, mayhap." "Ah! a scratch--a mere scratch in my right shoulder," answered Lorenzo; "I could not completely parry one of his first thrusts, and he touched me, but it is nothing." "Oh, you are hurt, Lorenzo! you are hurt!" cried Bianca Maria, who had come down from her chamber, and was standing behind the little circle which had gathered round the dead man. "Get you to bed, child!" said the old count sharply; "these are no matters for you. Your cousin has but a scratch. Get you to bed, girl, I say; this is a pretty pass, that two men cannot fight without having all the women in the house for witnesses!" In the mean time Ramiro d'Orco had raised the left hand of the dead man, in which was still firmly clasped his poniard--his sword had fallen out of the right when he fell--and, taking a torch from one of the servants, he gazed along the blade.