The fact which determined me to kill him was this.  I had pushed him vigorously, after parrying with ease half a dozen of his frenzied attacks—­I had pushed him, and he had given ground as usual; but, although I did not perceive it at the time, in giving way he had worked back towards his second, who had not budged; so that, as I advanced, I got to be actually within wounding distance of the marchese.  Bob Malcolm ought to have knocked our swords up, no doubt; but he did not.  In the full tide of my attack, then, when I had my man almost at my mercy, I felt a sudden and sharp pain in the side, and at the same moment heard Malcolm’s cry, “Ah, bloody villain, none of that!” Almost immediately I heard the clash of swords, and turning my head for a moment, saw our seconds engaged.  In that same instant of forgetfulness Giraldi was upon me, lunged furiously and ran his blade through my sword arm.  There was an assassination, planned and nearly achieved!

Red rage now possessed me; I do not believe an angelic messenger could have stopped me now.  Changing my sword hand, I attacked my man, who ran lightly back to avoid me.  I pursued him, I closed with him, we had a desperate rally for perhaps a minute and a half.  I know that I pinked him twice, for I saw the blood on his shirt; in another few seconds I had his sword flying out of his hand and himself his full length on the sward.

There then lay this shameful enemy, traducer of ladies, treacherous friend, hirer of murderers—­why should I spare him?  I did not intend it.  I went up to him fully prepared to deal death upon him, fallen though he were.  At that moment I thought that no power of earth or Heaven could have saved his life.  And yet there was one power which could and did:  the power of Aurelia’s name.

His pocket-handkerchief was stuck in his waistband; and as I stood above him full of meditated and most reasonable murder, I happened to see upon it, in red letters, his cipher; a coronet, and under that the initials of his name, Amadeo Giraldi.  They struck me like the writing on the wall, as if they had been letters of fire.  A. G., I read there—­the letters of Aurelia’s virgin name!  A. G.—­Aurelia Gualandi, untried maiden of Siena once, innocent of all the evil that men could devise against her, unsullied rose dropped from the lap of Mary the mother of us all!  Could I dare—­could I indeed dare to slay one who bore, though shamefully, those letters of hers whose perfection I was here to maintain?  I knew that I could not; I lowered my sword.

I looked at him where he lay, perfectly still, calm now, with his black eyes fixed upon mine.  I said, “I hope that you are prepared for justice, Count Giraldi, at my hands.”

He replied with a smile, “I am prepared for anything, my dear sir.  Least of all, perhaps, for justice at this moment.”

“It is what you least deserve,” I said, “since it is what you practise least; but there are circumstances at work in your favour.  You must, however, confess yourself a liar.  That is indispensable.  Come now, what do you say?” At this moment Malcolm came back with a red sword.