Borgia.—Have you a cuirass on, Concini?
Concini.—I had, but I left it with your wife in her chamber.
Borgia.—Liar! (He rushes on him with his sword. Their blades are locked for a moment, and both are wounded.)
Concini.—I feel no sword opposed to mine. Have I wounded you?
Borgia, (leaning on his sword, and staunching the wound in his breast with, his handkerchief.) No, let us begin again. There!
Concini (binding his scarf round his thigh.)—One moment and I am with you. (He staggers against the pillar.)
Borgia, (sinking on his knees.)—Are you not wounded yourself?
Concini.—No, no! I am resting. Advance, and you shall see.
Borgia (endeavouring to rise, but unable.)—I have struck my foot against a stone—wait an instant.