"Oh! do not go so soon," murmured Leonora; "I will be down and on the terrace by daybreak; but to-night--no, no, Lorenzo, I cannot, for very maiden shame, come down to-night. There, take my glove, Lorenzo, and if I find you still wear it for my sake when next we meet, I shall know--and then, perhaps--perhaps I will tell you more. But there is some one coming--fly! fly!--the other way. He is coming from the east end of the terrace."
"I never turned my back on friend or foe," answered Lorenzo, turning to confront the new comer.
Leonora drew back from the window and put out the light, but she listened with eager ears. "It was very like my father's figure," she thought; "his height, his walk, but yet, methinks, stouter. Hark! that is not his voice--one of the servants, perhaps."
The next instant there was a clash of steel, and she ran anxiously to the window. At some twenty yards distance she saw Lorenzo, sword in hand, defending himself against a man apparently much more powerful than himself. For a moment or two she gazed, bewildered, and not knowing what to do. Lorenzo at first seemed to stand entirely on the defensive; but soon his blood grew hot, and, in answer to his adversary's lunge, he lunged again; but the other held a dagger in his left hand, and with it easily parried the blade. The next pass she saw her lover stagger. She could bear no more, and, running down, she screamed aloud to wake the servants, who slept near the hall. An old man, a porter, was still dozing in a chair, and started up, exclaiming:
"What is it; what is it, signorina?"
"Haste! haste! Bring your halbert!" cried Leonora, pulling back slowly the great heavy door, and running down the steps; "there is murder about."
She fancied she should behold Lorenzo already fallen before his more vigorous enemy; but, on the contrary, he was now pressing him hard with an agility and vigour which outweighed the strength of maturity on the part of the other. All was as clear in the bright moonlight as if the sun had been shining; and, as Leonora sprung forward, she beheld, or thought she beheld, her lover's assailant gain some advantage. Lorenzo was pressed back along the terrace towards the spot where she stood. He seemed to fly, though still with his face to his adversary, but he had been well disciplined to arms in Italy as well as France, and knew every art of defence or assault. The space between him and his foe increased till he nearly reached the young girl's side, and then, with a sudden bound, like that of a lion, he sprang upon his enemy and passed his guard. What followed Leonora could not see; it was all the work of a moment; but the next instant she beheld the elder man raise his hand as if to strike with his dagger, drop it again, and fall back heavily upon the terrace.
Lorenzo leaned upon his sword, and seemed seeking to recover breath, while Leonora ran up to him, asking, "Are you hurt; are you hurt, Lorenzo?"
Ere he could answer there were many people around them. No house in Italy was unaccustomed to such scenes in those days. Indeed, scenes much more terrible habituated everybody, servants, masters, retinue, to wake at the first call, and to have everything ready for resistance and defence. A number of the attendants poured forth from the door she had left open, some with useless torches lighted, some with arms in their hands. Then came her father, Ramiro d'Orco, and last, the old Count Rovera himself, while Blanche Marie appeared at the window above, eagerly asking what had befallen.
No one answered her, but the Signor d'Orco advanced calmly to the side of the fallen man, gazed at him for a moment, and then turned to Lorenzo, asking, "Is he dead?"