Count Varhely had sent this despatch before going to keep his appointment with Michel Menko.

...................

It had been arranged that they were to fight in a field near Pistoja.

Some peasant women, who were braiding straw hats, laughed as they saw the men pass by.

One of them called out, gayly: 

“Do you wish to find your sweethearts, signori?  That isn’t the way!”

A little farther, Varhely and his adversary encountered a monk with a cowl drawn over his head so that only his eyes could be seen, who, holding out a zinc money-box, demanded ‘elemosina’, alms for the sick in hospitals.

Menko opened his pocketbook, and dropped in the box a dozen pieces of gold.

“Mille grazie, signor!”

“It is of no consequence.”

They arrived on the ground, and the seconds loaded the pistols.

Michel asked permission of Yanski to say two words to him.

“Speak!” said Varhely.

The old Hungarian stood at his post with folded arms and lowered eyes, while Michel approached him, and said: 

“Count Varhely, I repeat to you that I wished to prevent this marriage, but not to insult the Prince.  I give you my word of honor that this is true.  If you survive me, will you promise to repeat this to him?”

“I promise.”

“I thank you.”

They took their positions.

Angelo Valla was to give the signal to fire.

He stood holding a white handkerchief in his outstretched hand, and with his eyes fixed upon the two adversaries, who were placed opposite each other, with their coats buttoned up to the chin, and their pistols held rigidly by their side.

Varhely was as motionless as if made of granite.  Menko smiled.

“One!  Two!” counted Valla.

He paused as if to take breath:  then—­

“Three!” he exclaimed, in the tone of a man pronouncing a death-sentence; and the handkerchief fell.

There were two reports in quick succession.

Varhely stood erect in his position; Menko’s ball had cut a branch above his head, and the green leaves fell fluttering to the ground.

Michel staggered back, his hand pressed to his left side.

His seconds hastened toward him, seized him under the arms, and tried to raise him.

“It is useless,” he said.  “It was well aimed!”

And, turning to Varhely, he cried, in a voice which he strove to render firm: 

“Remember your promise!”

They opened his coat.  The ball had entered his breast just above the heart.

They seated him upon the grass, with his back against a tree.

He remained there, with fixed eyes, gazing, perhaps, into the infinite, which was now close at hand.

His lips murmured inarticulate names, confused words: 
“Pardon—­punishment—­Marsa—­”

As Yanski Varhely, with his two seconds, again passed the straw-workers, the girls saluted them with: