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 against a scoundrel. Now you know the whole.” At these words young Modrusi placed himself in a fencing attitude, and though considerably smaller than Camillo, it was nevertheless evident that he was determined to leave with his antagonist a lasting memorial of this meeting. Whether Camillo had not duly equipped himself, or the vapours of his preceding night’s debauch dimmed his sight, or conscious guilt unnerved his arm, while he neglected to cover himself, a desperate cut of Modrusi’s separated the band of his helmet, which fell to the floor, and Camillo’s antagonist seized the opportunity to inflict a gash on the cheek. Camillo mustered all his strength, designing to put an end to the conflict with one tremendous blow: but the elder Modrusi immediately interposed his sword. “Hold, captain!” he cried; “you are wounded, my nephew is satisfied, and you have no right to continue the combat. But, to shame you still more, behold who it is that has wounded you!” At the same moment the young champion loosed his helmet, and, taking it off, displayed to the astonished Camillo the features of Apollonia. “Yes,” cried she, with a look of noble indignation, “you are conquered by a woman. Had you not been heated with wine, I should have charged my husband to take a more signal vengeance. For the present, let this slight chastisement from a female hand suffice; and may it