Luigi and Beppo were at the villa, both charged with news from Milan.  Beppo claiming the right to speak first, which Luigi granted with a magnificent sweep of his hand, related that Captain Weisspriess, of the garrison, had wounded Count Medole in a duel severely.  He brought a letter to Vittoria from Merthyr, in which Merthyr urged her to prevent Count Ammiani’s visiting Milan for any purpose whatever, and said that he was coming to be present at, her marriage.  She was reading this while Luigi delivered his burden; which was, that in a subsequent duel, the slaughtering captain had killed little Leone Rufo, the gay and gallant boy, Carlo’s comrade, and her friend.

Luigi laughed scornfully at his rival, and had edged away—­out of sight before he could be asked who had sent him.  Beppo ignominiously confessed that he had not heard of this second duel.  At midnight he was on horseback, bound for Milan, with a challenge to the captain from Carlo, who had a jealous fear that Luciano at Vercelli might have outstripped him.  Carlo requested the captain to guarantee him an hour’s immunity in the city on a stated day, or to name any spot on the borders of Piedmont for the meeting.  The challenge was sent with Countess Ammiani’s approbation and Laura’s.  Vittoria submitted.

That done, Carlo gave up his heart to his bride.  A fight in prospect was the hope of wholesome work after his late indecision and double play.  They laughed at themselves, accused hotly, and humbly excused themselves, praying for mutual pardon.

She had behaved badly in disobeying his mandate from Brescia.

Yes, but had he not been over-imperious?

True; still she should have remembered her promise in the Vicentino.

She did indeed; but how could she quit her wounded friend Merthyr?

Perhaps not:  then, why had she sent word to him from Milan that she would be at Pallanza?

This question knocked at a sealed chamber.  She was silent, and Carlo had to brood over something as well.  He gave her hints of his foolish pique, his wrath and bitter baffled desire for her when, coming to Pallanza, he came to an empty house.  But he could not help her to see, for he did not himself feel, that he had been spurred by silly passions, pique, and wrath, to plunge instantly into new political intrigue; and that some of his worst faults had become mixed up with his devotion to his country.  Had he taken Violetta for an ally in all purity of heart?  The kiss he had laid on the woman’s sweet lips had shaken his absolute belief in that.  He tried to set his brain travelling backward, in order to contemplate accurately the point of his original weakness.  It being almost too severe a task for any young head, Carlo deemed it sufficient that he should say—­and this he felt—­that he was unworthy of his beloved.