Then, returning to the body, he glanced at the fallen youth, lying stark on the turf in incomparable beauty.

The silence was broken by a soft rustling, as the morning breeze stirred the tree-tops.
"What shall I do ?" Casanova asked himself.

"Shall I summon aid?
Olivo?
Amalia?
Marcolina?
To what purpose?
No one can bring him back to life." He pondered with the calmness invariable to him in the most dangerous moments of his career.

"It may be hours before anyone finds him; perhaps no one will come by before evening; perchance later still.

That will give me time, and time is of the first importance." He was still holding his sword.