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 heard the key instantly turned in the lock; he heard the repeated ringing of the countess, and, foaming with rage, hastened to reach his chamber, before the servants should intercept him. He succeeded in securing his retreat, and, furiously cursing his disappointment, threw himself upon his couch. Scarcely had his rage given place to the heavy sleep of intoxication, when he found himself shaken by no very delicate arm: he awoke. A lofty figure in armour stood beside him, with his visor closed. “Up,” cried he, in a hollow tone, “and arm without delay! The Marchese Modrusi, the brother of the countess, awaits you in the marble hall, to make bloody atonement for your misconduct.” There was no time for reflection, as an immediate answer was required. Camillo, scarcely awake, began to equip himself in silence for the combat. He repaired to the marble hall, where his antagonist, likewise in armour, was waiting for him with drawn sword. Camillo’s guide now raised his visor, and displayed, in the clear moonlight, the face of a venerable old man. “I am,” said he, “the Cavaliere Modrusi, Apollonia’s uncle. You scarcely number so many years as I do scars of wounds received in glorious battles. This young man opposite to you is my nephew, who lends to my infirmity and the insulted honour of his cousin his arm