"You are bolder than I thought, and readier," the count said; "but you have gone too far, and I shall meet you as soon as you please. I don't know whether you believe that this has been part of my plan, or whether you care to hear me deny it. If you believe me a liar, you can easily believe me assassin also. I will bid you good-night, Don Francis. We know where to find each other." I told him that my friend, Mr. Robert Malcolm, of the English Legation, would receive any friend of his, at any hour--the sooner the better. He went away. I removed my foot from the marchese's neck and told him to get up. "You see, my lord, what your friend thinks of you by the way he has disavowed your performance and left you in the mud," I said. "Give yourself the trouble to go to your own house." I gave him the road and waited while he walked swiftly away. I incline to believe that he was mad, this miserable man. He said nothing--not one word--but did exactly as he was told. I could barely make out the outline of him in the darkness, and could not see his eyes. I know that they were white and scared. CHAPTER XLV THE MEETING Bob Malcolm came to see me early in the morning with news that the count's cartel had been delivered in form. He told me that I might as well fight the Grand Duke--"For if you kill, Frank, if you kill," says he, "you'll be in a fortress for life; and if you don't kill, why, then you're a dead man. Body of a dog, as they say here, you're a dead man either way." Good Bob was much put about. I did my best to hearten him. I said that I would take the risk of Volterra, as I had taken it before, and should do my best to kill the count. He was, I said, a lying blasphemer whose death would be an act of justice. Malcolm whistled. "This is a devilish sharp-set affair," says he; "for that is just how the marchese put his man's frame of mind. He stipulates, it seems, that you fight to the death. Look out for him too, Frank," he added. "He is dangerous. I never liked him; and to-day he looked like a sick wolf." "Who is your marchese?" I asked without interest. "Semifonte," says Bob, "and as mad as a March hare." I got up at once. I said, "I shall kill Count Giraldi." We met in the Cascine at six o'clock of a foggy morning; the light bad, the ground heavy from a night's rain. The marchese wore black, I remember, and looked horrible; a wan, doomed face, a mouth drawn down at one corner, a slavered, untidy red beard; and those wide fish-eyes of his which seemed to see nothing. Count Giraldi bore himself gallantly, as he always did. I was extremely cool.