"Guard, devil, guard!" There was the upflashing of a sword, and a hoarse challenge frightened the night. Giovanni Frangipani saw a furious face glaring dead white from under the shadow of a shield. He stopped in his onward rush, blinked at the duke as one gone mad. "Damnation, what have we here?" "By the love of God, I have you now!" "Fool, are you mad?" The hoarse voice echoed him, the eyes flashed fire. "Guard, ravisher,--guard!" "Ten thousand devils! Who are you?" "Your obedient servant,--the Duke of Spoleto!" The Frangipani growled like a trapped bear. He raised his sword, put forward his shield. "On with you, dog!" he roared. "Join your wanton under the sod!" "Ha, say you so?" cried the duke, closing in. Their swords flashed, yelped, twisted in the air. A down cut hewed the dexter cantrel from the Frangipani's shield. His face with a gashed cheek glared at the duke from under his upreared arm. So close were they that blood spattered in the duke's face as the Frangipani blew the red stream from his mouth and beard. [Illustration: "'They lied,' he cried. 'Give me but life.'"] The duke broke away, wheeled and came again. He lashed home, split the Frangipani's collar-bone even through the rags of his hauberk. The Frangipani yelped like a gored hound. Rabid, dazed, he began to make blind rushes that boded ill for him. The swords began to leap and to sing, while blinding flashes of lightning followed each other in quick succession and thunder rolled in deafening echoes through the heavens. Cut and counter-cut rang through the night, like the cry of axes, whirled by woodmen's hands. Suddenly the Frangipani parried an upper cut and stabbed at the duke. The sword point missed him a hair's breadth. Before he could guard the duke was upon him like a leopard. Both men smote together, both swords met with a sound that seemed to shake the rocks. The Frangipani's blade snapped at the hilt. He stood still for a moment as one dazed, then plucked out his poniard and made a spring. A merciless down cut beat him back. His courage, his assurance seemed to ebb from him on a sudden, as though the blow had broken his soul. He fell on his knees and held up his hands, with a thick, choking cry. "Mercy! God's mercy!" "Curse you! Had you pity on your victims?" Thunder crashed overhead; the girdles of the sky were loosed. A torrent of rain beat upon the Frangipani's streaming face; he tottered on his knees, but still held his hands to the heavens. "They lied," he cried. "Give me but life."-- The duke looked at him and heaved up his sword. Giovanni Frangipani saw the white face above him, gave a great cry and cowered behind his hands. It was all ended in a moment. The rain washed his gilded harness as he lay with his blood soaking into the crevices of the rocks.--