From every trusty scabbard near at hand
Sharp kindred swords that gleamed defiant fire
Into the bright'ning day, and in his face
Who stood unarmed, alone.
The unsheathed sword
Of pitiless Giovanni had well-nigh
Its rueful deed of deadly wrath made sure
When he, the helpless foe confronted thus
By certain death, saw in death's pallid light
The spectre of his sin as it must seem