"'Tis the Count! 'tis my husband! O Giulio, save your once-loved Diomida, before she expires at your feet!"
It was not La Torre, but a tall and richly clad cavalier wearing the uniform of the Dalmatian Guards, and having a black velvet mask on his face, as if he had just left a masquerade.
"Draw, Count Stefano! Ungallant ruffian! whose vices in peace obscure all the brilliant feats performed in war. Defend yourself."
Strazoldi drew promptly, while Diomida overcome, sank upon a sofa almost lifeless.
Fierce was the conflict that ensued between the cavaliers, who were both armed with those long narrow bladed and basket-Lilted rapiers, then usually worn by Italian gentlemen. Strazoldi, brave to excess, fought as resolutely in a bad cause, as he could have done in a good one, and the stranger was compelled to put forth his best skill. Both were perfect masters of their weapons; but Strazoldi had youth and agility in his favour. While his antagonist managed his sword with all the stern deliberation and coolness of a practised duellist, the fierce Stefano lunged forward, thrusting furiously, until by a sudden circular parry, his weapon was struck from his hand, and whirled up to the frescoed ceiling. His adversary rushed upon him, beat him to the floor, and placing a foot upon his neck, commanded him to ask pardon or die.
"Of the Countess I ask pardon most assuredly, but not of you!" replied the vanquished libertine, panting with rage. "Strike, whoever you are! Stefano di Strazoldi—who has ridden through the thickest battalions of the Turks, and planted the standard of Manuel de Vilhena on the summit of the Castello Roso—will never ask mercy of mortal man!"
"I esteem you brave among all the nobles of Venice; and, reckless libertine and ruffian as you are, would regret to slay you. Once more, I ask, will Count Stefano of Strazoldi yield?"
"Never!"
"Not to me?"
"No; not were you the Doge himself."