This ominous word, with all the terrible weight of meaning it conveyed, struck upon the young Italian's ear like a sound of-doom. A murderer? Yes, he would be a murderer, if he slew old Solara then and there, and branded with an assassin's dark crime he must forever resign all hope of possessing his beloved Zuleika, must abandon her to die of a broken heart! Perhaps, too, he would be seized, tried, condemned and meet a felon's fate upon the ignominious scaffold! True, Roman justice might be silenced with money, but he was a disowned and disinherited son, a penniless outcast! These thoughts brought him to a realization of the black depths of the yawning gulf into which he was about to plunge and made him hesitate. But a quick idea came to his relief—if he were to fight a duel with old Solara and kill him thus the Roman law would not pursue him, he would not be stamped with a murderer's crime! He would do it, he would fight him! Springing to his feet, he drew a second pistol, and, casting it upon the ground beside his astonished foe, said to him, speaking slowly and impressively:
"Pasquale Solara, I will give you a chance for your life! Rise, take that pistol and face me! We will fight!"
The shepherd arose with some difficulty; he was considerably bruised and had, besides, seriously strained one of his legs. Taking up the weapon, he cocked it and without a word, but with a look of demoniac ferocity and triumph upon his evil countenance, assumed a position about twenty paces distant from his opponent. Instantly both raised their pistols and fired. When the light smoke cleared away it became evident that neither of them had been hit. Old Solara cast his empty weapon from him with a curse and, producing a pair of long, keen-bladed knives, threw one of them towards the Viscount.
"You challenged me and I accepted!" he said, in a harsh tone. "Now I challenge you! Take that knife and fight me!"
Massetti hesitated, with a look of horror upon his countenance. A duel with knives! It was barbarous! It was worthy of the red savages of the American wilds!
"Take the knife, I say!" thundered old Solara. "Take it and face me, or by the canopy of heaven I will show you less mercy than you have been weak enough to show me! I will stab you to the heart where you stand!"
He advanced with his murderous weapon in his outstretched hand, having previously rolled up his sleeve and bared his brown, sinewy arm.
Massetti stooped and took up the knife from where it lay. He also bared his arm, nervously grasping the hilt of the weapon.
Pasquale Solara's eyes gleamed like those of a tiger seen through the darkness of a Hindoostan jungle. They had a terrible, a bloodthirsty gleam. The shepherd now felt sure of his ground. With a pistol he was nothing, with a knife he was a power! Giovanni could not cope with him; he would fall an easy victim to his skill and cunning!
The Viscount watched the old scoundrel with feverish anxiety, fully realizing what was passing through his mind. That Pasquale would vanquish him, kill him, he could not doubt, for he knew no more about fighting with a knife than an infant in its cradle. However, his courage did not desert him, and he resolved to sell his life as dearly as possible.