When the surgeon had dressed Giovanni’s wounds, he left the father and son together.  Giovanni lay upon a couch in his own sitting-room, eating his breakfast as best he could with one hand.  The old Prince paced the floor, commenting from time to time upon the events of the morning.

“It is just as well that you did not kill him, Giovanni,” he remarked; “it would have been a nuisance to have been obliged to go away just now.”

Giovanni did not answer.

“Of course, duelling is a great sin, and is strictly forbidden by our religion,” said the Prince suddenly.  “But then—­”

“Precisely,” returned Giovanni.  “We nevertheless cannot always help ourselves.”

“I was going to say,” continued his father, “that it is, of course, very wicked, and if one is killed in a duel, one probably goes straight into hell.  But then—­it was worth something to see how you sent that fellow’s foil flying through the window!”

“It is a very simple trick.  If you will take a foil, I will teach it to you.”

“Presently, presently; when you have finished your breakfast.  Tell me, why did you say, ’more broken glass’?”

Giovanni bit his lip, remembering his imprudence.

“I hardly know.  I believe it suggested something to my mind.  One says all sorts of foolish things in moments of excitement.”

“It struck me as a very odd remark,” answered the Prince, still walking about.  “By the bye,” he added, pausing before the writing-table, “here is that letter you wrote for me.  Do you want me to read it?”

“No,” said Giovanni, with a laugh.  “It is of no use now.  It would seem absurd, since I am alive and well.  It was only a word of farewell.”

The Prince laughed too, and threw the sealed letter into the fire.

“The last of the Saracinesca is not dead yet,” he said.  “Giovanni, what are we to say to the gossips?  All Rome will be ringing with this affair before night.  Of course, you must stay at home for a few days, or you will catch cold, in your arm.  I will go out and carry the news of our victory.”

“Better to say nothing about it—­better to refer people to Del Ferice, and tell them he challenged me.  Come in!” cried Giovanni, in answer to a knock at the door.  Pasquale, the old butler, entered the room.

“The Duca d’Astrardente has sent to inquire after the health of his Excellency Don Giovanni,” said the old man, respectfully.

The elder Saracinesca paused in his walk, and broke out into a loud laugh.

“Already!  You see, Giovannino,” he said.  “Tell him, Pasquale, that Don Giovanni caught a severe cold at the ball last night—­or no—­wait!  What shall we say, Giovannino?”

“Tell the servant,” said Giovanni, sternly, “that I am much obliged for the kind inquiry, that I am perfectly well, and that you have just seen me eating my breakfast.”

Pasquale bowed and left the room.