His cheeks were flushed, his eyes wandering, and while the smile upon his lips indicated a disagreeable surprise at the presence of his master, it also said plainly that he feared not Simon's anger.

He held in his hand a small wheaten loaf, but he hid it hastily under his doublet as if unwilling for Turchi to see it.
Casting upon him a look of fury, Simon Turchi sprang to his feet, clenched his fist, and exclaimed in a rage: "This is too much! Infamous traitor! cowardly rascal! whence do you come?
Does hell itself bring you here for the destruction of both of us?
Speak, base drunkard, and tell me why you are here! Quick, or I will stretch you dead at my feet.

I thirst for your blood." Julio drew his knife from the scabbard and stammered, in a voice indistinct from intoxication: "Wait awhile, signor.

Wine, good wine has dulled my senses.

You want to kill me?
It would be very fortunate for one of us to die here--the executioner would have less work.