Sempaly was beginning to look pale and exhausted, his feints were short, straight, and violent; Sterzl, on the contrary, looked fresher. Like every accomplished swordsman, in the course of a long fight he had warmed to his work and was fighting as he would have done with the foils, without duly calculating the strength of his play; things looked ill for Sempaly.
Suddenly, through the silence, a song was heard in the distance, in a boy's thin piping soprano:
"Bright May--the sweetest month of Spring;
The trees and fields with flowers are strown--"
It sent a thrill through Sterzl's veins, reminding him of the evening when Zinka had sung those words to Sempaly. The romantic element that was so strong in him surged to his brain; he lost his head; fearing to wound Sempaly mortally, he forgot to cover himself and for a second he suddenly stood as awkward and exposed as though he had never had a sword in his hand.
The seconds rushed forward--too late.
With the scarcely audible sound that the sharp steel makes as it pierces the flesh, Sempaly's sword ran into his adversary's side. Sterzl's flannel shirt was dyed with blood--his eyes glazed--he staggered forward a step or two--then he fell senseless. The duel was over.
A quarter of an hour later and the wound had been bound up as best it might, and in the closed landau, which they had made as comfortable as they could by arranging the cushions so as to form a couch--the general supporting the groaning man's head on his arm, and opposite to him the surgeon--they were driving homewards' slowly--slowly.
Dusk had fallen on the Campagna, from time to time the general looked out anxiously to see how far they were still from Rome. The road was emptier and more deserted every minute; a cart rattled past them full of peasants, shouting and singing at the top of their voices; then they met a few white-robed monks, wending their way with flaring torches to some church; and then the road was perfectly empty. The cypresses stood up tall and black against the dull-hued sky and the wide plain was one stretch of grey.
At last the arch of Constantine bends over them for a minute and the horses hoofs clatter on the stones--slowly--slowly.... The lamps of Rome twinkle in the distance--they have reached the Corso, at this hour almost empty of vehicles but crowded with idlers, and the cafés are brilliantly lighted up. The slowly-moving landau excites attention, the gapers crowd into knots, and stare and whisper. At last they reach the palazetto, turn into the court-yard and get out. The porter comes out of his den, his dog at his heels barking loudly.