_Concini_, (_with a voice of despair_.)--Were I not, would I not
have already stabbed you twenty times over? But you are at least as
severely handled.

_Borgia_--It maybe so, or I should not be grovelling here.

_Concini_.--Shall we now have done?

_Borgia_, (_enraged_.)--Both wounded--yet both living!

_Concini_.--What avails the blood I have drawn, while a drop remains.

_Borgia_.--O! were I but beside thee! _Enter_ Vitry, _followed by the
Guards walking slowly. He holds the young_ Count de la Pene _by the
hand; the boy leads his sister_.

_Vitry_, (_a pistol in his hand_.)--Well, my child, which is your
father?

_Count de la Pene_.--Oh! protect him, sir,--that is he leaning against
the pillar.

_Vitry_, (_aloud_.)--Draw tip--remain at that gate--Guards! (_The
Guards advance with lanterns and flambeaux_.) Sir, I arrest you--your
sword.

_Concini_, (_thrusting at him_.)--Take it. (Vitry _fires his
pistol_--Du Hallier, D'Ornano, _and_ Person _fire at the same
time_--Concini _falls dead_.)