have missed him if I had chosen for murder.  It was like coursing a hare, for hare-like in his pains, he began to scream—­not very loudly; a wretched, wrung and wiry appeal, like some bad woman’s, was all he could muster.  Between the obelisks he fell on his knees, and when I reached him was praying, “Sancta Mater!  Diva Mater!  Ab hostium incidiis libera me!” I saw a head at a window, a head in a night-cap—­a man’s.  Over it peeped another—­a woman’s.  But I knew my Florence:  there would be no interference in a duel.  I said, “Get up, Palamone, and fight with me.”

He was wild with terror—­cried, “No, no, no—­spare me!  I give you my word, my sacred word—­”

“You have none to give; you have broken it,” I told him.  “I will have no word in pieces.  Get up, liar, and fight.”

I got him to his feet, set him by his obelisk to face me.  I loaded his piece for him, put it into his hands, then stepped back, facing him always, till I was fifteen yards away.  “Drop your glove when you are ready,” I told him, “and fire first.”

He took as good aim as he could, I am sure; but I could see his shaking arm quite well.  He missed me by a full yard at least.  Then he waited for me, having got his courage back.  I shot him in the breast, and he fell at once, and lay still.  The faces at the window had disappeared; looking round the Piazza, I could see nothing but blank green shutters.

When I went up to Palamone he opened his eyes.  He was not bleeding freely, and seemed more weak than in pain.  “I am a dead man,” he said in a whisper—­I had to kneel down to hear him—­“a dead man who has got his deserts.  Semifonte intended to have your Virginia—­but it was not Giraldi—­it was not Gir—­” Strength failed him; I could not catch any more than the name of Aurelia.

“Where are you hurt?  Shall I fetch a surgeon?” He was hardly bleeding at all now—­a bad sign.  He shook his head and lay quiet.  I made a pillow of my coat.

When he opened his eyes again they were very dim.  “I’m off,” he said, in that same dry whisper.  “You have served me right—­I love you for it.  I have always loved you—­but—­yes, always loved you.  Kiss me, Francis, if you can.”

I could not refuse.  I did kiss him, and he me.  “God receive you, Palamone, and forgive me.  I shall go and fetch you a priest.”  My face being very near him, suddenly he lifted his head and caught my cheek in his teeth.  They met there—­the dying act of a savage.  I wrenched myself free, and heard his head knock with a thud on the pavement.  Then I felt the blood stream down my neck.  Stopping it as best I could, I went for a surgeon and a priest.

When I came back with them—­I may have been half an hour finding the couple—­Fra Palamone was gone, and my pistol too, which had my name on the butt.  “Gentlemen,” I said, “I am very sorry, but I assure you that I left a dying man on this spot.  I can only ask you to excuse me for breaking your repose.”