Concini (with delight.)—Ah! you are wounded!
Borgia.—No, I tell you—'tis you who are so. Your voice is changed.
Concini, (feeling his sword.)—My blade smells of blood.
Borgia.—Mine is dabbled in it.
Concini.—Come then, if you are not *—come and finish me.
Borgia, (with triumph.)—Finish! then you are wounded.
Concini, (with a voice of despair.)—Were I not, would I not have already stabbed you twenty times over? But you are at least as severely handled.
Borgia—It maybe so, or I should not be grovelling here.
Concini.—Shall we now have done?
Borgia, (enraged.)—Both wounded—yet both living!