Varhely spoke these words like a judge
delivering a solemn sentence.

A strange expression passed over Zilah's face. He felt as if some
horrible weight had been lifted from his heart.

Menko dead!

Yet there was a time when he had loved this Michel Menko: and, of the
three beings present in the little salon, the man who had been injured
by him was perhaps the one who gave a pitying thought to the dead, the
old soldier remaining as impassive as an executioner, and the Tzigana
remembering only the hatred she had felt for the one who had been her
ruin.

Menko dead!

Varhely took from the mantelpiece the despatch he had sent from
Florence, three days before, to the Princess Zilah, the one of which
Vogotzine had spoken to Andras.

He handed it to the Prince, and Andras read as follows:

"I am about to risk my life for you. Tuesday evening either I shall be
at Maisons-Lafitte, or I shall be dead. I fight tomorrow with Count M.
If you do not see me again, pray for the soul of Varhely."

Count Varhely had sent this despatch before going to keep his
appointment with Michel Menko.

...................

It had been arranged that they were to fight in a field near Pistoja.

Some peasant women, who were braiding straw hats, laughed as they saw
the men pass by.

One of them called out, gayly:

"Do you wish to find your sweethearts, signori? That isn't the way!"

A little farther, Varhely and his adversary encountered a monk with
a cowl drawn over his head so that only his eyes could be seen, who,
holding out a zinc money-box, demanded 'elemosina', alms for the sick in
hospitals.

Menko opened his pocketbook, and dropped in the box a dozen pieces of
gold.

"Mille grazie, signor!"

"It is of no consequence."

They arrived on the ground, and the seconds loaded the pistols.

Michel asked permission of Yanski to say two words to him.

"Speak!" said Varhely.

The old Hungarian stood at his post with folded arms and lowered eyes,
while Michel approached him, and said:

"Count Varhely, I repeat to you that I wished to prevent this marriage,
but not to insult the Prince. I give you my word of honor that this is
true. If you survive me, will you promise to repeat this to him?"

"I promise."

"I thank you."

They took their positions.

Angelo Valla was to give the signal to fire.

He stood holding a white handkerchief in his outstretched hand, and with
his eyes fixed upon the two adversaries, who