“You left our State.  All was well until you entered it again.  I admit that when I saw you in Siena I was in Donna Aurelia’s company, and feared the effect of your apparition upon her.  She did not recognise you, but I did.  I confess that I had you arrested, and assure you that you would never have gone to Volterra, but to Leghorn.  You would have been placed upon an English ship and sent to your own country, where your peculiar qualities would have had freer play.  Lastly, I admit that I was vexed at your reappearance here in circumstances of prosperity which forbade my touching you.  I admit that I have resented this late visit of yours to Donna Aurelia and am still smarting at the length of it.  Ridiculous, but so it is!  I know that she has a feeling for you—­I am not secure—­I wish you to go.  You are really unconscionable, you must let me say.  You have deprived the marchese of a possible mistress, and now you seem inclined to deprive me of an actual mistress.  You are exorbitant, my young sir——­”

“Stop there, Count Giraldi,” I said in a voice which I myself hardly knew for my own.  “Stop there.  Repeat your last words.  You say that I am for robbing you—­of what?”

“Donna Aurelia,” said he deliberately, “has done me great honour.  I am her accepted cavalier.  She has accorded me the highest favour.  She occupies my villa—­the doctor is my humble servant.  You will not wish me to enlarge upon this?”

“You are a liar,” I said, “you are a liar,” and struck him full in the face with my open hand.  His white face was nearly all I could see of him.

He recoiled—­he had not expected it, I am sure.  At that moment, before he could recover his self-possession, Semifonte gave another hoarse cry and leapt at me with a dagger.  I caught him under the arm-pit, closed with him and threw him easily.  His back gave at the first jerk—­there was no strength in him—­and when he was on the ground I disarmed him with ease and bade him lie still.  I put my foot upon his neck, and drew my sword.  “If you stir, assassin, I shall run you through,” I said.  “Now, Count Giraldi, I am at your service.”

“You are bolder than I thought, and readier,” the count said; “but you have gone too far, and I shall meet you as soon as you please.  I don’t know whether you believe that this has been part of my plan, or whether you care to hear me deny it.  If you believe me a liar, you can easily believe me assassin also.  I will bid you good-night, Don Francis.  We know where to find each other.”

I told him that my friend, Mr. Robert Malcolm, of the English Legation, would receive any friend of his, at any hour—­the sooner the better.  He went away.

I removed my foot from the marchese’s neck and told him to get up.

“You see, my lord, what your friend thinks of you by the way he has disavowed your performance and left you in the mud,” I said.  “Give yourself the trouble to go to your own house.”  I gave him the road and waited while he walked swiftly away.  I incline to believe that he was mad, this miserable man.  He said nothing—­not one word—­but did exactly as he was told.  I could barely make out the outline of him in the darkness, and could not see his eyes.  I know that they were white and scared.