As in a dream, Blanden saw the colossal officer step before him. He hated the man until that moment, then he was seized as with pity for such a sensual life, and then, again, with a change of thought, quick as lightning, his mind flew to recollections of his school days, and he thought of Homer and the Bible, which tell so accurately how many feet of earth such a mighty man covered in his fall. Then in the midst of these dreamy thoughts, rang the call of the seconds, the fatal counting began, the shots fell, and behind the clouds of powder, each glance sought the falling opponent, but only Buschmann had the satisfaction of rejoicing in that spectacle. Blanden sank to the ground, the officer's bullet had struck his breast. Kuhl and the surgeon knelt beside him. Buschmann did not trouble himself about his victim, did not even vouchsafe a casual enquiry; with a hasty greeting, he left the scene of the conflict. The surgeon gave hopes; the ball had penetrated the chest, but it appeared to him to be one of those rare cases in which no serious injury of a vital organ had taken place. Kuhl also shared that opinion. After adjusting the bandages, Blanden was lifted into the carriage, and driven home. The drive was very exhausting, and as the carriage rattled over the stone pavement, Blanden lost consciousness. When he awoke out of the dull web of a confused world of dreams, with its shadows melting into one another, he saw a pale form seated by his bed. It was Giulia. Her gaze rested anxiously upon him; she kissed his unclosing eyes, she kissed his hands amidst scalding tears. He had fought for his betrothed, from henceforth she would be his. CHAPTER V. INTERNAL STRUGGLES. Giulia nursed Blanden unweariedly; she let the performance of "Il Barbière di Sevilla" be postponed again and again, to the great annoyance of the _impressario_, and only when Blanden began to recover did she attend the rehearsals. Calm as she appeared by the bedside, a mighty struggle was disturbing her soul. She often gazed with silent emotion upon his noble gentle features, as he lay there with closed eyes, when his wounded chest heaved with convulsive breathing. For her he had gone to meet death. Was he the victim of a lie? Her passionate love was indeed truth, although all else might be deception. She had but one alternative, the fearful alternative of losing him for ever, or of conquering him by impious defiance of law and custom. She was an Italian; she possessed fiery blood, and the language which passion spoke, even if it drove her out into the boundless, was to her almost irresistible.