THE FOOL ERRANT - World eBook Library - World Public Library

"You shall join one or the other of them," said I, "in a few moments. Have no doubt of that, and let me alone. One condition. I
will drop my arm and walk into the house, placing my back at your disposal, if you, in the article of death, as you now stand,
will pledge your word to save Virginia from Semifonte. What do you say?"
He gazed at me, open-mouthed, eyes aglow, as I stood waiting. I could see that he was torn; I could see the fiend working and
gouging within him, and (I believe) a good angel contending against him. Some time this lasted. Then Palamone gave a bitter
laugh—like the barking of a leopard in the night.
"Say?" he mocked me. "Why, I say that you are an exquisite, adorable fool—the very pink of fools. For two ticks I would have
taken you at your word. For two ticks."
"It was the third that prevented you," says I. "You are not such a villain as you think yourself."
"I believe that I am not, indeed," he says ruefully. "I have lost a chance. Well, I am ready. But here the shadow is bad. Let us go
to the obelisks and stand each back to one. There is a passable light there."
"As you will." I went directly out into the middle of the Piazza, and he followed—with my life between his wild hands.
I know not to this hour whether that act of mine was one of sublime courage or of the crassest folly; I remember that I strode
blithely forward, and that he followed; that some chance thing or another caused me to turn my head—the sun burning in a
casement, a pigeon, a cat, some speck of accident. That motion saved my life, for immediately afterwards I heard the report,
and felt the ball flicker through my hair. The fiend had gouged him again, and he had tried to murder me. At that certainty, in all
the fury of disgust that came with it, my stomach turned, and I was possessed by blind rage. I rounded full upon him, and he
must have seen cold death in my eyes, for round went he too and ran for his life. I pelted after him.
He made for the angle of the church whence he had come. There were railings there about a loggia, much broken down, by
which, I suppose, he hoped to get some sort of a screen, but I intended him to fight me in the Piazza, so increased my speed,
and cut him off that retreat. He doubled, and scoured past the steps of the church, round by the hospital, making for the Via del
Fosso; I cut a segment of his circle and stopped him there. Round he span, slavering at the lips, and went dead over the Piazza,
to the obelisks, I so close on his traces that I could not have missed him if I had chosen for murder. It was like coursing a hare,
for hare-like in his pains, he began to scream—not very loudly; a wretched, wrung and wiry appeal, like some bad woman's,
was all he could muster. Between the obelisks he fell on his knees, and when I reached him was praying, "Sancta Mater! Diva
Mater! Ab hostium incidiis libera me!" I saw a head at a window, a head in a night-cap—a man's. Over it peeped another—a
woman's. But I knew my Florence: there would be no interference in a duel. I said, "Get up, Palamone, and fight with me."
He was wild with terror—cried, "No, no, no—spare me! I give you my word, my sacred word—"
"You have none to give; you have broken it," I told him. "I will have no word in pieces. Get up, liar, and fight."
I got him to his feet, set him by his obelisk to face me. I loaded his piece for him, put it into his hands, then stepped back, facing
him always, till I was fifteen yards away. "Drop your glove when you are ready," I told him, "and fire first."
He took as good aim as he could, I am sure; but I could see his shaking arm quite well. He missed me by a full yard at least.
Then he waited for me, having got his courage back. I shot him in the breast, and he fell at once, and lay still. The faces at the
window had disappeared; looking round the Piazza, I could see nothing but blank green shutters.
When I went up to Palamone he opened his eyes. He was not bleeding freely, and seemed more weak than in pain. "I am a
dead man," he said in a whisper—I had to kneel down to hear him—"a dead man who has got his deserts. Semifonte intended
to have your Virginia—but it was not Giraldi—it was not Gir—" Strength failed him; I could not catch any more than the name
of Aurelia.
"Where are you hurt? Shall I fetch a surgeon?" He was hardly bleeding at all now—a bad sign. He shook his head and lay quiet.
I made a pillow of my coat.
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