Bob Malcolm came to see me early in the morning with news that the
count's cartel had been delivered in form. He told me that I might as
well fight the Grand Duke--"For if you kill, Frank, if you kill," says
he, "you'll be in a fortress for life; and if you don't kill, why, then
you're a dead man. Body of a dog, as they say here, you're a dead man
either way." Good Bob was much put about.

I did my best to hearten him. I said that I would take the risk of
Volterra, as I had taken it before, and should do my best to kill the
count. He was, I said, a lying blasphemer whose death would be an act of
justice. Malcolm whistled.

"This is a devilish sharp-set affair," says he; "for that is just how
the marchese put his man's frame of mind. He stipulates, it seems, that
you fight to the death. Look out for him too, Frank," he added. "He is
dangerous. I never liked him; and to-day he looked like a sick wolf."

"Who is your marchese?" I asked without interest.

"Semifonte," says Bob, "and as mad as a March hare." I got up at once. I
said, "I shall kill Count Giraldi."

We met in the Cascine at six o'clock of a foggy morning; the light bad,
the ground heavy from a night's rain. The marchese wore black, I
remember, and looked horrible; a wan, doomed face, a mouth drawn down at
one corner, a slavered, untidy red beard; and those wide fish-eyes of
his which seemed to see nothing. Count Giraldi bore himself gallantly,
as he always did. I was extremely cool.

We stripped and faced each other, the swords were produced and measured;