"Your life is in danger," she said. "Good swordsman and expert with the pistol as you are, you are no match for the Baron with either, whose skill is from the Evil One. Listen to me, and do not refuse my last petition. Wear this round your neck, and it will protect you from all harm." Having spoken thus, she kissed me on the brow and vanished. I awoke, and would you believe it, gentlemen, I found suspended round my neck that identical relic that I left at the bottom of my trunk in town, the key of which was lost. Well, I could no longer doubt this being a spiritual visitation, so I left the relic there suspended. In the course of the day my friend arrived. The usual ceremonies were gone through, and the meeting was to be at sundown, in a wood belonging to the Baron's estate. A surgeon was also provided to bind up the wounds of the one who should fall, should they not be mortal. As I was asked my choice of weapon, I chose the rapier, having at that time no inconsiderable skill in the use of it. The hour arrived, and we met on the spot. The Baron, at the sight of me, was unable to restrain his rage, and it was with difficulty that he was prevented from breaking through every rule of etiquette appertaining to the duello. Without waiting for the customary salute beforehand, he rushed at me sword in hand at the first sight of me like a savage. The seconds interfered, and something like order was restored. We advanced, retired, clashed swords, lunged, parried. "_Tierce_, _quarte_, _quinte_, _flanconade_, single attack, double attack, lunge." The Baron lunged furiously, I parried, and the Baron was disarmed. Without waiting for my permission to pick up his sword, he, disregarding all etiquette, made a sudden grab at it, and flew at me again in fury. The Baron's fencing was very wild. He made three or four successive desperate lunges at me, but was foiled every time. He grew more and more furious; he had never been accustomed to be thus thwarted. I felt my hand grow lame, however. It was like fencing with Mephistopheles. To tire him out was impossible. His long wind was his _forte_. I could only try to match the Baron's fury by the most guarded coolness and self-possession. For some time past I had done nothing but parry, waiting calmly for an opportunity. At length an opening presented itself. I lunged, and the Baron fell, pierced right through the heart, at the foot of one of his own stately oaks. He rolled up his eyes, and after death still retained the same expression of ferocity that he wore when living. Thus died the last Baron ----. With his death the line became extinct, and the property fell into other hands. Duelling even in those days was fast falling into disuse, and I had to fly the country. I travelled for many years, and at length returned home, but never from the day of the duel up to the present time have I once neglected to wear the pious relic of that poor Italian girl round my neck. * * * * *