“Defend yourself, I say.”
“Ah! dotard, if thou bravest me.”
A little sawing of the swords, a click or two, and the white hair is touching the dust.
“Dead, by the rood!” exclaimed the cavalier, wiping his sword. “Here, Leporello, here!”
“Sinner that I am—behold me, master. Thou art not killed—then the old man is?”
“Surely, the old can better be spared than the young.”
“Rare, rare, my master, to break into the chamber of the daughter, and to kill the father, both in one night. Rare, oh! rare.”
“By my faith, he thrust himself upon my sword. Come, let us go. See, torches are flickering near.”
And without fear or hurry, the young don moved away, not swaggeringly, yet audaciously, followed by the trembling Leporello.
Another moment, and the light of torches was gleaming on the face of the dead. The old man’s daughter, Donna Anna, had hastened away for assistance, and returned with it but to find her father slain, the warm blood gurgling out from his heart on to the cold and thirsty ground.