uld not have been doubtful.

The young Italian did not waste a moment, but made his way towards Rome
as rapidly as he was able, though his progress was necessarily toilsome
and painful in the extreme. Having at length reached the bank of a small
brook at a safe distance from the scene of the conflict, he washed the
dust and sweat from his face, and held his benumbed hand in the cool,
limpid water until the blood resumed its normal circulation. Then he
arranged his torn and disordered garments so as not to attract too much
attention from the curious pedestrians he would be sure to meet on the
outskirts of the city, resuming his journey strengthened and refreshed.
Contrary to his expectations he eventually gained the Hotel de France
without exciting any special observation or comment. Once in his own
apartment he carefully locked the door and, casting himself upon his
bed, breathed freely for the first time since old Solara had fallen by
his hand.

His thoughts, however, were not altogether of a reassuring nature. He
had taken an Italian's vengeance upon the despicable old Pasquale
Solara, who certainly merited all he had received, but how would
Monte-Cristo look at the affair when he learned of it as he most
assuredly would when he began his campaign against Vampa, if not before?
Undoubtedly with strong disapprobation and displeasure. The Count had
cautioned him to keep out of sight, to restrain his impetuosity, and he
had done neither. On the contrary he had shown himself to the shepherd,
declared his identity and assumed the responsibility of dealing with
him, though, to be sure, he had given him a chance to defend himself. If
Solara was dead, if he had expired without making any revelation, his
secret was secure and even Monte-Cristo could not unearth it, but would
not the death of old Pasquale deprive the Count of a most important
witness, a most important factor in his rehabilitation? Perhaps so,
perhaps not, for it was by no means certain that Monte-Cristo could
force Solara to confess and make at least partial and tardy amends for
his atrocious misdeeds. It was highly probable that Annunziata's
wretched father, even if brought to bay, would persist in preserving a
stony and unbroken silence, would make no admissions whatever. Taking
this view of the matter the Viscount felt relieved and, composing
himself on his couch, yielded to the influence of extreme fatigue and
fell asleep. His slumber was profound and dream