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?