Brancaleone, by a bold and rapid movement that showed no common degree of skill and bravery, while struggling in the grasp of his powerful adversary, drew forth in his right hand a long dagger with a fine barbed blade.  Gabriel smiled scornfully, snatched the weapon from him, and even as he stooped to break it across his knee, gave the prince a furious blow with his head that made him stagger and sent him rolling on the floor, three paces away; then, leaning over his poor sister and gazing on her with hungry eyes, by the passing gleam of a flash, “Dead!” he repeated, wringing his arms in despair,—­“dead!”

In the fearful paroxysm that compressed his throat he could find no other words to assuage his rage or to pour forth his woe.  His hair, which the storm had flattened, rose on his head, the marrow of his bones was chilled, and he felt his tears rush back upon his heart.  It was a terrible moment; he forgot that the murderer still lived.

The prince, however, whose admirable composure did not for a moment desert him, had risen, bruised and bleeding.  Pale and trembling with rage, he sought everywhere for a weapon with which to avenge himself.  Gabriel returned towards him gloomier and more ominous than ever, and grasping his neck with an iron hand, dragged him into the room where the old man was sleeping.

“Father! father! father!” he cried in a piercing voice, “here is the Bastard who Has just murdered Nisida!”

The old man, who had drunk but a few drops of the narcotic potion, was awakened by this cry which echoed through his soul; he arose as though moved by a spring, flung off his coverings, and with that promptitude of action that God has bestowed upon mothers in moments of danger, event up to his daughter’s room, found a light, knelt on the edge of the bed, and began to test his child’s pulse and watch her breathing with mortal anxiety.

All! this had passed in less time than we have taken in telling it.  Brancaleone by an unheard-of effort had freed himself from the hands of the young fisherman, and suddenly resuming his princely pride, said in a loud voice, “You shall not kill me without listening to me.”

Gabriel would have overwhelmed him with Bitter reproaches, but, unable to utter a single word, he burst into tears.

“Your sifter is not dead,” said the prince, with cold dignity; “she is merely asleep.  You can assure yourself of it, and meanwhile I undertake, upon my Honour, not to move a single step away.”

These words were pronounced with such an accent of truth that the fisherman was struck by them.  An unexpected gleam of hope suddenly dawned in his thoughts; he cast upon the stranger a glance of hate and distrust, and muttered in a muffled voice, “Do not flatter yourself, in any case, that you will be able to escape me.”

Then he went up to his sister’s room, and approaching the old man, asked tremblingly, “Well, father?”