It was a strange picture: Pagolo on his knees, bent double, with colorless cheeks, and deadly terror depicted on his features; Scozzone, half risen from her chair, motionless and dumfounded, like a statue of Astonishment; and lastly, Benvenuto standing with folded arms, a sword in its sheath in one hand, a naked sword in the other, with an expression in which irony and menace struggled for the mastery.
There was a moment of awful silence, Pagolo and Scozzone being equally abashed beneath the master's frown.
"Treachery!" muttered Pagolo, "treachery!"
"Yes, treachery on your part, wretch!" retorted Cellini.
"You asked to see him, Pagolo," said Scozzone; "here he is."
"Yes, here he is," said the apprentice, ashamed to be thus treated before the woman he was so anxious to please; "but he is armed, and I have no weapon."
"I have brought you one," said Cellini, stepping back, and throwing down the sword he held in his left hand at Pagolo's feet.
Pagolo looked at the sword, but made no movement.
"Come," said Cellini, "pick up the sword and stand up yourself. I am waiting."
"A duel?" muttered the apprentice, whose teeth were chattering with terror; "am I able to fight a duel on equal terms with you?"