Ramiro read the letter aloud, and then, without any comment on the contents, remarked:
"You have left the impress of your thumb in blood upon the king's missive, Signor Visconti; you are wounded, mayhap."
"Ah! a scratch--a mere scratch in my right shoulder," answered Lorenzo; "I could not completely parry one of his first thrusts, and he touched me, but it is nothing."
"Oh, you are hurt, Lorenzo! you are hurt!" cried Bianca Maria, who had come down from her chamber, and was standing behind the little circle which had gathered round the dead man.
"Get you to bed, child!" said the old count sharply; "these are no matters for you. Your cousin has but a scratch. Get you to bed, girl, I say; this is a pretty pass, that two men cannot fight without having all the women in the house for witnesses!"
In the mean time Ramiro d'Orco had raised the left hand of the dead man, in which was still firmly clasped his poniard--his sword had fallen out of the right when he fell--and, taking a torch from one of the servants, he gazed along the blade.
"This dagger is grooved for poison, Conte," he said, addressing his host in the same quiet, indifferent tone he generally used; "better look to the young gentleman's wound."
"I thank you, sir," replied Lorenzo; "but it came from his sword, not his poniard. I will retire and let my men stanch the bleeding."
"Better, at all events, apply some antidote," said Ramiro; "a little parsley boiled will extract most poisons, unless they remain too long. It were well to attend to it speedily."
"Well, I will go," replied Lorenzo; "but, I call Heaven to witness, I have no blame in this man's death. He attacked me unprovoked, and I killed him in self-defence."