The old man looked at her for one moment, and then, as though he had been twenty years younger, he made at Nino, brandishing his stick to strike.  But Nino is strong and young, and he is almost a Roman.  He foresaw the count’s action, and his right hand stole to the table and grasped the clean, murderous knife; the baroness had used it so innocently to cut the leaves of her book half an hour before.  With one wrench he had disarmed the elder man, forced him back upon a lounge, and set the razor edge of his weapon against the count’s throat.

“If you speak one word, or try to strike me, I will cut off your head,” he said quietly, bringing his cold, marble face close down to the old man’s eyes.  There was something so deathly in his voice, in spite of its quiet sound, that the count thought his hour was come, brave man as he was.  The baroness tottered back against the opposite wall, and stood staring at the two, dishevelled and horrified.

“This woman,” said Nino, still holding the cold thing against the flesh, “lies in part, and in part tells the truth I love your daughter, it is true.”  The poor old man quivered beneath Nino’s weight, and his eyes rolled wildly, searching for some means of escape.  But it was of no use.  “I love her, and have sung beneath her window; but I never had a written word from her in my life, and I neither told this woman of my love nor asked her assistance.  She guessed it at the first; she guessed the reason of my disguise, and she herself offered to help me.  You may speak now.  Ask her.”  Nino relaxed his hold, and stood off, still grasping the knife.  The old count breathed, shook himself and passed his handkerchief over his face before he spoke.  The baroness stood as though she were petrified.

“Thunder weather, you are a devilish young man!” said Von Lira, still panting.  Then he suddenly recovered his dignity.  “You have caused me to assault this young man by what you told me,” he said, struggling to his feet.  “He defended himself, and might have killed me, had he chosen.  Be good enough to tell me whether he has spoken the truth or you.”

“He has spoken—­the truth,” answered the baroness, staring vacantly about her.  Her fright had taken from her even the faculty of lying.  Her voice was low, but she articulated the words distinctly.  Then, suddenly, she threw up her hands, with a short quick scream, and fell forward, senseless, on the floor.  Nino looked at the count, and dropped his knife on a table.  The count looked at Nino.

“Sir,” said the old gentleman, “I forgive you for resisting my assault.  I do not forgive you for presuming to love my daughter, and I will find means to remind you of the scandal you have brought on my house.”  He drew himself up to his full height.  Nino handed him his crutch-stick civilly.

“Signor Conte,” he said simply, but with all his natural courtesy, “I am sorry for this affair, to which you forced me,—­or rather the Signora Baronessa forced us both.  I have acted foolishly, perhaps, but I am in love.  And permit me to assure you, sir, that I will yet marry the Signorina di Lira, if she consents to marry me.”