ng 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.

_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_.)

The malice of Du Luynes, the inveterate enemy of the D'Ancres, and
afterwards the minion of Louis, contrives that the Marechale, in her
way to execution, shall be conducted to this scene, where her husband
lies dead, on the spot which had been stained with the blood of Henry,
like Caesar at the foot of Pompey's statue; and the play concludes
with her indignant and animated denunciation of this wretch, who
stands calm and triumphant, while the Marechale exacts from her son,
over the body of Concini, an oath of vengeance against the destroyer
of her house."

* * * * *

THE MARTYR-STUDENT.

I am sick of the