A second time he essayed that side-long blow upon my helm, and with such force and ready address that he burst the fastening of my visor on the left, so that it swung down and left my beaver open.
With a cry of triumph he closed with me, and shortened his sword to stab me in the face.

And then a second cry escaped him, for the countenance he beheld was not the countenance he had looked to see.

Instead of the fair skin, the handsome features and the bearded mouth of the Lord Giovanni, he beheld a shaven face, a hooked nose and a complexion swarthy as the devil's.
"I know you, rogue," he roared.

"By the Host! your valour seemed too fierce for Giovanni Sforza.

You are Bocca--" Exerting all the strength that I had been gradually collecting, I hurled him back with a force that almost drove him from the saddle, and rising in my stirrups I rained blow after blow upon his morion ere he could recover.
"Dog!" I muttered softly, "your knowledge shall be the death of you." He drew away from me at last, and during the moments that I spent in readjusting my visor he sallied, and charged me again.