Milan burns bad powder, and goes off like a drugged pistol.

It's a nest of bunglers, and may it be razed! We could do without it, and well! If it were a family failing, should not I too be trusting them?
My brother was one of the fifteen who marched out as targets to try the skill of those hell-plumed Tyrolese: and they did it thoroughly--shot him straight here." Corte struck his chest.

"He gave a jump and a cry.

Was it a viva for Milan?
They swear that it was, and they can't translate from a living mouth, much more from a dead one; but I know my Niccolo better.

I have kissed his lips a thousand times, and I know the poor boy meant, 'Scorn and eternal distrust of such peddling conspirators as these!' I can deal with traitors, but these flash-in-the-pan plotters--these shaking, jelly-bodied patriots!--trust to them again?
Rather draw lots for another fifteen to bare their breasts and bandage their eyes, and march out in the grey morning, while the stupid Croat corporal goes on smoking his lumpy pipe! We shall hear that Milan is moving; we shall rise; we shall be hot at it; and the news will come that Milan has merely yawned and turned over to sleep on the other side.