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Updated: June 2, 2025
The voice was known, and the occasion thoroughly understood. The cry of distress was succeeded by the rush of the water, as it piled before the beak of the Bravo's gondola. The sound of the parted element was like the sighing of a breeze.
Strange to say, it never occurred to him that his was the life aimed at. To be sure he was not aware he had an enemy in the world. He turned and walked up to the bravo. "My good friend," said he eagerly, "sell me thine arm! a single stroke! See, here is all I have;" and he forced his money into the bravo's hands.
I shall be frightened out of my senses if he comes here." "Noble ladies," said Flodoardo, with a smile, expressing rather sorrow than joy, "you have nothing to apprehend. "Oh, my best friend," she answered, "how shall I express my thanks to you for having thus put an end to my terrors? I shall tremble no more at hearing Abellino named. Rosabella shall now be called the Bravo's Bride no longer."
"I do not know their names, Excellency," he stammered; "it is gossip from the bravo's kitchen. They say that you are to die before Mass to-morrow. I implore you not to leave this house to-night. We shall know how to do the rest if you will but remain indoors." It was an earnest entreaty, but it fell upon deaf ears. The priest answered by taking a sheet of paper and beginning to write upon it.
Loyalty was a virtue but little esteemed in Italy: engagements seemed made to be broken; even the crime of violence was aggravated by the crime of perfidy, a bravo's stiletto or a slow poison being reckoned among the legitimate means for ridding men of rivals or for revenging a slight. Yet it must not be forgotten that the commercial integrity of the Italians ranked high.
"Triumph!" cried he, "Rosabella is the Bravo's Bride," and he clasped the blushing maid to his bosom.
"You will not," said the hunter, in his cool, measured tones. "You will fight me, instead." "My quarrel is not with you." "But it soon will be." Near Willet was a rose bush with fresh earth heaped over its roots. Stooping suddenly he picked up a handful and flung it with force into the bravo's face. Boucher swore under his breath, stepped back, and wiped away the earth.
It rarely keeps off the tyrant; the knife, the dirk, or whatever else may be the instrument, is almost invariably forced from the young bravo's hand, and the thrashing that he afterwards gets is pitiless, and the would-be stabber finds no voice lifted in his favour. He also gains the stigma of cowardice, and the bad reputation of being malignant and revengeful.
"I am no Jacques Clément to stab and be massacred. You cannot buy such a service of me, M. de Mayenne. If I do bravo's work for you I choose my own time and way. I brought the duke to Paris, delivered him up to you to deal with as it liked you. But you with your army at your back were afraid to kill him. You flinched and waited. You dared not shoulder the onus of his death.
The music ceased. Panting for breath, she leaped down amid a chorus of "Bravo's!" and held out her hand for the liqueur-glass. Peter put it in her fingers, and he was trembling more than she, and spilt a little of it. "Well, here's the best," she cried, and raised the glass. Then, with a gay laugh, she put her moistened fingers to his mouth and he kissed them, the spirit on his lips.
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