Was he not champion and defender of the helpless and lonely woman he loved—the woman upon whom the Marquess had sworn within himself to be avenged?
And so the pair, accompanied by their seconds and a doctor, now faced each other, revolvers in their hands.
The Prince stood unflinching, his dark brow slightly contracted, his teeth hard set, his handsome countenance pale and serious.
As he raised his weapon he murmured to himself some words.
“For your honour, my own Angelica—my dear lost love!”
The signal was given an instant later, and two shots sounded in rapid succession.
Next moment it was seen that the Italian was hit, for he staggered, clutched at air, and fell forward upon his face, shot through the throat.
Quickly the doctor was kneeling at his side, but though medical aid was rendered so quickly, he never spoke again, and five minutes afterwards he was dead.
Half an hour later Prince Albert was driving the hired car for all he was worth across the great plain towards the marble-built city of Pisa to catch the express to Paris. From that day Jack Cross has concealed his identity, and has never been traced by the pretty Crown-Princess.