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“Not I,” replied Ippolito, with the same immovable smile.

“What, then, you are determined that your sheep shall, in very despite of me, pasture in my fields?”

“They shall.”

“Villain!” raved Giulio; and ere the word was well uttered he had dashed his clenched hand in his brother’s face. Ippolito sprang like a wild beast at Giulio, and for a moment they stood with a hand at each other’s throat, and their eyes, in the words of the Psalmist, were “whetted” on one another. They stood but to gain breath, then grappled closer. Ippolito threw his brother to the earth, huddling his knees upon him, furious blows were exchanged, but scarce a sound was uttered, save at intervals a blasphemous oath or a half-strangled groan. Giulio was completely overpowered by the superior strength and cooler temper of his brother; but, lying prostrate and conquered, his hands pinioned to his breast, and Ippolito glaring at him with malicious triumph, he cursed and spat at him. Ippolito removed his hand from his brother’s throat, and ere his pulse could beat, Giulio’s poniard was in his brother’s heart. He gave a loud shriek, and fell a streaming corpse upon his murderer. The father, roused by the sound, came hurrying to the garden; Giulio, leaping from under the dead body, rushed by the old man, who was all too speedily bending over his murdered child. From that hour hope and tranquillity forsook the father; he became a brain-sick, querulous creature, and in a few months died almost an idiot. Giulio joined a party of robbers, and, after a brief but dark career of crime, was shot by the sbirri.