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.

Seeing Giovanni take the knife and prepare for the combat, Solara bent partially forward and rushed upon him. The long, keen blades met with a flash of fire. The young Italian confined himself to acting upon the defensive, the utmost activity and watchfulness being required on his part to parry and ward off his opponent's skilful and incessant thrusts. The shepherd fought with the bewildering rapidity of the lightning's flash and seemed to be in a thousand different places at once so swiftly did he advance, retreat and spring aside. His excitement made him forget his hurts.

At length Massetti's arm became so strained and fatigued that it was impossible for him to hold out much longer. His hand was tightly clutched about the haft of his knife, but it was so benumbed that he could not feel the weapon. Still with the energy and resolution of despair he continued the unequal conflict, hoping against hope that some unexpected turn of affairs might give him the advantage.

Meanwhile old Solara, fiendishly confident, was steadily and surely closing upon him, narrowing the limit of his retreat after each blow. Finally he retreated no more, but began pressing his adversary backwards towards the chestnut grove, the while delivering blow after blow. Then he suddenly gave his wrist a dextrous twirl and Giovanni's knife was torn from his grasp, falling about ten feet away. Instantly the young man was forced to the ground and old Pasquale stood over him with his legs wide apart, firmly planted to give the death-dealing thrust. As Massetti lay his eye caught the glimmer of his own knife beyond the shepherd and slipping like a serpent between Solara's legs he seized it, sprang to his feet and, before Pasquale could recover from his surprise at this unlooked-for manoeuvre, buried the glittering blade in his breast. Solara reeled and fell upon the grass, where he lay bathed in blood.




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