'Weisspriess, there's the rascal who headed the attack on me in Verona the other day.
It's the same! 'Himmel!' returned his companion, scrutinizing the sword-cut, 'if that's your work on his head, you did it right well, my Pierson! He is very neatly scored indeed.

A clean stroke, manifestly!' 'But here when I left Milan! at Verona when I entered the North-west gate there; and the first man I see as I come back is this very brute.
He dogs me everywhere! By the way, there may be two of them.' Lieutenant Pierson leaned over his horse's neck, and looked narrowly at the man Barto Rizzo.

He himself was eyed as in retort, and with yet greater intentness.

At first Barto's hand was sweeping the air within a finger's length of his forehead, like one who fought a giddiness for steady sight.

The mist upon his brain dispersing under the gaze of his enemy, his eyeballs fixed, and he became a curious picture of passive malice, his eyes seeming to say: 'It is enough for me to know your features, and I know them.' Such a look from a civilian is exasperating: it was scarcely to be endured from an Italian of the plebs.
'You appear to me to want more,' said the lieutenant audibly to himself; and he repeated words to the same effect to his companion, in bad German.
'Eh?
You would promote him to another epaulette ?' laughed Captain Weisspriess.