The doors were thrown open. Contarino entered hastily, enveloped in his cloak.
“Good evening, sweet gentlemen,” said he, and threw his mantle aside. And Memmo, Parozzi, and Falieri started back in horror.
“Good God!” they exclaimed, “what has happened? You are covered with blood?”
“A trifle!” cried Contarino; “is that wine? quick, give me a goblet of it, I expire with thirst.”
Falieri (while he gives him a cup).—But, Contarino, you bleed?
Contarino.—You need not tell me that. I did not do it myself, I promise you.
Parozzi.—First let us bind up your wounds, and then tell us what has happened to you. It is as well that the servants should remain ignorant of your adventure; I will be your surgeon myself.
Contarino.—What has happened to me, say you? Oh! a joke, gentlemen, a mere joke. Here, Falieri, fill the bowl again.
Memmo.—I can scarcely breathe for terror.
Contarino.—Very possibly; neither should I, were I Memmo instead of being Contarino. The wound bleeds plenteously it’s true, but it’s by no means dangerous (he tore open his doublet, and uncovered his bosom). There, look, comrades; you see it’s only a cut of not more than two inches deep.