_Borgia_.--Liar! (_He rushes on him with his sword. Their blades are
locked for a moment, and both are wounded_.)

_Concini_.--I feel no sword opposed to mine. Have I wounded you?

_Borgia_, (_leaning on his sword, and staunching the wound in his
breast with, his handkerchief_.) No, let us begin again. There!

_Concini_ (_binding his scarf round his thigh_.)--One moment and I am
with you. (_He staggers against the pillar_.)

_Borgia_, (_sinking on his knees_.)--Are you not wounded yourself?

_Concini_.--No, no! I am resting. Advance, and you shall see.

_Borgia_ (_endeavouring to rise, but unable_.)--I have struck my foot
against a stone--wait an instant.

_Concini_ (_with delight_.)--Ah! you are wounded!

_Borgia_.--No, I tell you--'tis you who are so. Your voice is changed.

_Concini_, (_feeling his sword_.)--My blade smells of blood.

_Borgia_.--Mine is dabbled in it.

_Concini_.--Come then, if you are not--come and finish me.

_Borgia_, (_with triumph_.)--Finish! then you are wounded.