Leonora drew back from the window and put out the light, but she listened with eager ears. "It was very like my father's figure," she thought; "his height, his walk, but yet, methinks, stouter. Hark! that is not his voice--one of the servants, perhaps."
The next instant there was a clash of steel, and she ran anxiously to the window. At some twenty yards distance she saw Lorenzo, sword in hand, defending himself against a man apparently much more powerful than himself. For a moment or two she gazed, bewildered, and not knowing what to do. Lorenzo at first seemed to stand entirely on the defensive; but soon his blood grew hot, and, in answer to his adversary's lunge, he lunged again; but the other held a dagger in his left hand, and with it easily parried the blade. The next pass she saw her lover stagger. She could bear no more, and, running down, she screamed aloud to wake the servants, who slept near the hall. An old man, a porter, was still dozing in a chair, and started up, exclaiming:
"What is it; what is it, signorina?"
"Haste! haste! Bring your halbert!" cried Leonora, pulling back slowly the great heavy door, and running down the steps; "there is murder about."
She fancied she should behold Lorenzo already fallen before his more vigorous enemy; but, on the contrary, he was now pressing him hard with an agility and vigour which outweighed the strength of maturity on the part of the other. All was as clear in the bright moonlight as if the sun had been shining; and, as Leonora sprung forward, she beheld, or thought she beheld, her lover's assailant gain some advantage. Lorenzo was pressed back along the terrace towards the spot where she stood. He seemed to fly, though still with his face to his adversary, but he had been well disciplined to arms in Italy as well as France, and knew every art of defence or assault. The space between him and his foe increased till he nearly reached the young girl's side, and then, with a sudden bound, like that of a lion, he sprang upon his enemy and passed his guard. What followed Leonora could not see; it was all the work of a moment; but the next instant she beheld the elder man raise his hand as if to strike with his dagger, drop it again, and fall back heavily upon the terrace.
Lorenzo leaned upon his sword, and seemed seeking to recover breath, while Leonora ran up to him, asking, "Are you hurt; are you hurt, Lorenzo?"
Ere he could answer there were many people around them. No house in Italy was unaccustomed to such scenes in those days. Indeed, scenes much more terrible habituated everybody, servants, masters, retinue, to wake at the first call, and to have everything ready for resistance and defence. A number of the attendants poured forth from the door she had left open, some with useless torches lighted, some with arms in their hands. Then came her father, Ramiro d'Orco, and last, the old Count Rovera himself, while Blanche Marie appeared at the window above, eagerly asking what had befallen.
No one answered her, but the Signor d'Orco advanced calmly to the side of the fallen man, gazed at him for a moment, and then turned to Lorenzo, asking, "Is he dead?"
"I know not," replied the young man, sheathing his sword.
"Who is he?" demanded Ramiro again.
"Neither know I that," said the youth; "he attacked me unprovoked as I walked here upon the terrace in the moonlight; but I never saw his face before, that I know of."
"Walked and sang," answered Ramiro, drily. "Perhaps he did not like your music, Signor Visconti."
"Probably," replied the youth, quite calmly. "It was but poor, and yet not worth killing a man for. Besides, as it was not intended for him, but for a lady, it could give him no offence."
"Not quite clear logic that, good youth," answered Ramiro. "Do any of you know this man?" he continued, turning to the servants.
"Not I;" "not I," answered several; but the old Count of Rovera bent down his head toward the man's face, waving the rest away that the moonlight might fall upon him. "Why, this is Pietro Buondoni, of Ferrara;" he exclaimed; "an attendant on Count Ludovico, and a great favorite. What could induce him to attack you, Lorenzo?"
"I know not, sir," replied Lorenzo; "I never set eyes on him before. He called me a French hound, and, ere I could answer him, he had nearly run me through the body. I had hardly time to draw."
"Well, bear him in--bear him in," said the old lord; "though I judge from his look he will not attack any one again. Did I not see Leonora here?"
But by this time she was gone, and Lorenzo took care not to answer. As he followed the rest into the villa, however, he stooped to pick up something from the ground. What if it were a lady's glove!
CHAPTER VII.
The servants bore Buondoni into the great hall; but it was in vain they attempted for a moment or two to rouse him into consciousness again. There was no waking from the sleep that was upon him. Lorenzo's sword, thrust home, had passed through and through his body, piercing his heart as it went. Very different were the sensations of the different persons who gazed upon his great, powerful limbs and handsome face, as he lay in death before them. Ramiro d'Orco could hardly be said to feel anything. It was a sight which he had looked on often. Death, in the abstract, touched him in no way. To see a man take any one of his ordinary meals or die was the same to him. It was an incident in the world's life--no more. He had no weak sympathies, no thrilling sensibilities, no fanciful shudderings at the extinction of human life. A man was dead--that was all. In that man he had no personal interests. He knew him not. There had been no likelihood that he ever would know him; if anything, less probability that that man could ever have served him, and therefore there seemed nothing to regret. Neither had there been any chance that Buondini could ever have injured him, therefore there could be no matter for rejoicing; but yet, if anything, there was a curious feeling of satisfaction, rather than otherwise, in his breast. Death--the death of others--was a thing not altogether displeasing to him. He knew not why it was so, and perhaps it sometimes puzzled him, for he had been known to say, when he heard a passing-bell. "Well, there is one man less in the world! There are fools enough left."
Old men grow hardened to such things, and in the ordinary course of nature, as their own days become less and less, as life with them becomes more and more a thing of the past, they estimate the death of others, as they would estimate their own approaching fate, but lightly. The old Count Rovera looked with but very little feeling upon the dead man; but he thought of his young relation Lorenzo, and of what might be the consequences to him. At first, when he remembered that this man had been a great favourite with Ludovic the Moor, and thus another offence had been offered by a Visconti to a Sforza, he entertained some fears for the youth's safety. But then the recollection of the King of France's powerful protection gave him more confidence, and his sympathies went no farther.
The feelings of Lorenzo himself were very different; but as they were such as would be experienced by most young men unaccustomed to bloodshed in looking for the first time upon an enemy slain by their own hands, we need not dwell much upon them. There was the shuddering impression which the aspect of death always makes upon young, exuberant life. There was the natural feeling of regret at having extinguished that which we can never reillume. There was that curious, almost fearful inquiry which springs up in the thoughtful mind at the sight of the dead, when our eyes are not much accustomed to it, "What is life?"
While he was still gazing, one of the servants touched the old count's arm and whispered something to him, "Ha!" cried Rovera; "I am told, Lorenzo, you received a letter to-night, which was sent up to your room by one of your men, after we all parted. It was not a challenge, perchance? If so, you should have chosen some other place for your meeting than our terrace."
"It was not so, sir," replied Lorenzo, promptly. "I had no previous quarrel with the man. The letter was from his Majesty King Charles. Here it is; you can satisfy yourself."
"My eyes are dim," said the old man; "read it Ramiro."
The Lord of Orco took the paper, and read while one of the servants held a flambeau near.
"Well-beloved Cousin"--so ran the note--"It has pleased us to bestow