Spicca alone remained behind, and he immediately went to Giovanni, carrying a copy of the protocol, on which the ink was still wet.

“Here it is,” he said sadly, as he entered the room, holding up the paper in his hand.  “These revolutions are very annoying!  There is no end to the inconvenience they cause.”

“I suppose it could not be helped,” answered Giovanni, gloomily.

“No.  I believe I have not the reputation of wasting time in these matters.  You must try and amuse yourself as best you can until the day comes.  It is a pity you have not some other affair in the meanwhile, just to make the time pass pleasantly.  It would keep your hand in, too.  But then you have the pleasures of anticipation.”

Giovanni laughed hoarsely, Spicca took a foil from the wall and played with it, looking along the thin blade, then setting the point on the carpet and bending the weapon to see whether it would spring back properly.  Giovanni’s eyes followed his movements, watching the slender steel, and then glancing at Spicca’s long arms, his nervous fingers and peculiar grip.

“How do you manage to kill your man whenever you choose?” asked Sant’ Ilario, half idly, half in curiosity.

“It is perfectly simple, at least with foils,” replied the other, making passes in the air.  “Now, if you will take a foil, I will promise to run you through any part of your body within three minutes.  You may make a chalked mark on the precise spot.  If I miss by a hair’s-breadth I will let you lunge at me without guarding.”

“Thank you,” said Giovanni; “I do not care to be run through this morning, but I confess I would like to know how you do it.  Could not you touch the spot without thrusting home?”

“Certainly, if you do not mind a scratch on the shoulder or the arm.  I will try and not draw blood.  Come on—­so—­in guard—­wait a minute!  Where will you be hit?  That is rather important.”

Giovanni, who was in a desperate humour and cared little what he did, rather relished the idea of a bout which savoured of reality.  There was a billiard-table in the adjoining room, and he fetched a piece of chalk at once.

“Here,” said he, making a small white spot upon his coat on the outside of his right shoulder.

“Very well,” observed Spicca.  “Now, do not rush in or I may hurt you.”

“Am I to thrust, too?” asked Giovanni.

“If you like.  You cannot touch me if you do.”

“We shall see,” answered Sant’ Ilario, nettled at Spicca’s poor opinion of his skill.  “In guard!”

They fell into position and began play.  Giovanni immediately tried his special method of disarming his adversary, which he had scarcely ever known to fail.  He forgot, however, that Spicca had seen him practise this piece of strategy with success upon Del Ferice.  The melancholy duellist had spent weeks in studying the trick, and had completely mastered it.  To Giovanni’s surprise the Count’s