The Italian sportsman does not pursue the partridge in the thicket, but
after covering up the waters of all the small pools save one, he there
awaits his sport with shot, with net, or with bird-lime, at the moment
that the innocent creature seeks refuge and refreshment. It is during
the sultry hours that the ploughman lies in wait at the watering-place,
to restore his rebel oxen to the yoke from which they have escaped. The
corsair, who would be in vain sought on the ocean, is trapped at the
mouth of his hiding place, to which he conducts his prey.
Such was the reasoning of our four Romans as regards Prince T-, for whom
they vainly sought in every hole and corner. After they had discovered
and sent home the cut-throats of the Holy Office, through the forced
assistance of Cencio, they placed themselves on the lookout, in the
vicinity of the Victoria Hotel, awaiting the appearance of T-. In fact,
about twelve o'clock, he made his appearance, and was followed to his
room by his friends, who made him acquainted with the design of the
assassin, and other circumstances.
The Prince was too reserved to inform his friends of his approaching
duel, especially Orazio, whose ardent nature he well knew, and who would
not have yielded to any other the office of second; still he needed a
second, and taking advantage of a moment's animated discussion among his
companions, he summoned Attilio to the balcony by a glance, and asked
him to remain with him for that night. Orazio, Muzio, and Gasparo
finally took leave, and Attilio remained, under pretext of particular
business.
At the first dawn of day, a young man in a red shirt knocked at the door
of a room marked No. 8 in the Victoria Hotel, and presented to
Prince T------ a cartel, signed Morosini, and thus worded:--
"I accept your challenge, and await you at the door of your hotel in my
gondola. I have weapons with me, but you had better bring your own,
in case mine should not be suitable. The seconds will regulate the
conditions of the duel.
"Morosini."
After the Prince had risen, and summoned Attilio, he introduced him to
the second of Morosini, and in a few minutes the conditions were settled
as to arms, which were to be pistols; distance, twenty steps, to be
walked over, firing _a volonte_. The ground chosen was behind the
Murazzi, to which the combatants could immediately repair.
And truly, when one has to die, or to kill, it is best over as soon as
possible, because even the stoutest hearts are disinclined to either
alternative, and wish the time of expectancy abridged.
What shall I say of duelling? I have always thought it disgraceful that
men can not come to an understanding without killing one another. But,
on the other hand, it is not time for us, who are still oppressed by
the powerful of the earth, still the despised of Europe, to preach
individual or general peace, to advocate the forgiveness of private
outrages, when we are often so publicly outraged. We, who are trampled
upon in our rights, our consciences, our honor, by the vilest section
of our nation--we, who, in order to be allowed life, consideration, and
protection, are compelled to debase ourselves, must not quite despoil
ourselves of our one protection!
Away with duelling, then, when we shall have a constitution, a
well-organized government--when we shall enjoy our rights within as well
as without; but, in the present dangerous times for honor and right, we
can not proclaim peace.
Meanwhile, the gondolas carrying the combatants proceeded towards
the Murazzi, the rowers for some time coasting the immense rampart
constructed by the Venetian republic as a defense against the fury of
the Adriatic, and finally disembarking their passengers on the deserted
shore, which is dry when the north winds or the siroccos blow.
The antagonists leaped on the sand, chose a convenient place, and, after
having measured twenty steps, the seconds handed the pistols to the
principals, who placed themselves on the two spots marked on the sand.
Attilio had to clap his hands three times, and at the third signal the
combatants were to walk forward and fire a volonte. Already two signals
were given; Attilio's hands were again raised to make the third, when a
voice cried, from the spot where the gondolas awaited, "Hold!"
The four men all turned in that direction, and saw one of the
gondoliers, a venerable, gray-haired man, who was advancing towards them.
"Hold!" repeated the old man; and he came forward without stopping until
he stood between the two antagonists. Then he spoke, with a somewhat
faltering voice, yet still in a manly tone, with such force as could
hardly have been expected in one of his breeding and age-
"Hold! sons of one mother! The act you are about to accomplish will
stain one of you with the blood of a compatriot--blood which might flow
for the welfare of this unhappy land, which has still so much to do ere
she can attain the independence she has aimed at for so many centuries.
The vanquished will pass away without one word of love or blessing from
those dear to him; the victor will remain for life with the sting of
remorse in his heart. You, by whose bronzed and noble face I recognize
a child of this unhappy land, has not Italy still many enemies? does she
not need all her offspring to loosen the chains of centuries? Abandon,
then, this fraticidal struggle, I beseech you, in the name of our common
mother! Why should you gratify the enemies of Italy by the murder of her
friends? You came forth antagonists, return companions and brothers!"
The waves of the Adriatic were breaking with more effect against the
rocks that border Murazzi than the patriotic and humane words of the
old man on the obstinate will of the two angry compatriots; and, with
a certain aristocratic impulse of pride, the Prince exclaimed to his
counsellor "Retire!"
The seconds recommenced with the same number of signals as before, and
at the third the adversaries marched towards one another, with pistol
cocked in the right hand, with eyes unflinchingly fixed on each other,
and with the deliberate intention of homicide. About the twelfth step
the Prince fired, his ball grazed the side of Morosini's neck, blood
flowed, but the wound was slight. The soldier of Calatafimi, cooler than
his antagonist, approached closer. At about eight paces he fired, and
the brother of Irene sank on the ground--the ball had pierced his heart.
The Holy Office of the Vatican laughed at the news, with the infernal
joy which it experiences every time that blood shed by private discord
reddens the unhappy soil.
And who spilt that Italian blood? An Italian hand, alas! consecrated to
the redemption of his country. How often it has been thus!