_Concini_ (_draws_.)--Begin. _Borgia_.--Remove those children--they would be in our way. _Concini_.--They are gone. _Borgia_.--Take these letters, assassin! I had promised to restore them to you. (_He hands to Concini a black portfolio_.) _Concini_.--I would have taken them from your body. _Borgia_.--I have performed my promise--and now, ravisher! look to yourself. _Concini_.--Base seducer, defend _thyself_. _Borgia_.--The night is dark, but I shall feel you by my hate: Plant your foot against the wall, that you may not retreat. _Concini_.--Would I could chain yours to the pavement, that I might be sure of my mark! _Borgia_.--Agree that the first who is wounded shall inform the other. _Concini_.--Yes, for we should not see the blood. I swear it by the thirst I feel for yours.--But not that the affair should end there. _Borgia_.--No, only to begin again with more spirit. _Concini_--To continue till we can lift the sword no longer. _Borgia_.--Till the death of one or other of us. _Concini_--I see you not. Are you in front of me? _Borgia_.--Yes, wretch! Parry that thrust. Has it sped? _Concini_.--No; take that in return. _Borgia_.--I am untouched. _Concini_.--What, still? Oh! would I could but see thy hateful visage. (_They continue to fight desperately, but without touching each other. Both rest for a little_.) _Borgia_.--Have you a cuirass on, Concini? _Concini_.--I had, but I left it with your wife in her chamber. _Borgia_.--Liar! (_He rushes on him with his sword. Their blades are locked for a moment, and both are wounded_.) _Concini_.--I feel no sword opposed to mine. Have I wounded you? _Borgia_, (_leaning on his sword, and staunching the wound in his breast with, his handkerchief_.) No, let us begin again. There! _Concini_ (_binding his scarf round his thigh_.)--One moment and I am with you. (_He staggers against the pillar_.) _Borgia_, (_sinking on his knees_.)--Are you not wounded yourself? _Concini_.--No, no! I am resting. Advance, and you shall see. _Borgia_ (_endeavouring to rise, but unable_.)--I have struck my foot against a stone--wait an instant. _Concini_ (_with delight_.)--Ah! you are wounded! _Borgia_.--No, I tell you--'tis you who are so. Your voice is changed. _Concini_, (_feeling his sword_.)--My blade smells of blood. _Borgia_.--Mine is dabbled in it. _Concini_.--Come then, if you are not--come and finish me. _Borgia_, (_with triumph_.)--Finish! then you are wounded. _Concini_, (_with a voice of despair_.)--Were I not, would I not have already stabbed you twenty times over? But you are at least as severely handled. _Borgia_--It maybe so, or I should not be grovelling here. _Concini_.--Shall we now have done? _Borgia_, (_enraged_.)--Both wounded--yet both living! _Concini_.--What avails the blood I have drawn, while a drop remains.