"Be silent; it is too late," exclaimed Simon Turchi, beside himself with rage. "Fool, do you desire my ruin—my eternal dishonor? Shall I let my enemy live? Shall I let him—him the husband of Mary Van de Werve—look down upon me from the height of his grandeur and felicity? No, no. I myself will be, must be, happy, rich, prosperous; and even should all escape my grasp; should the scaffold be my lot, the rage of vengeance which lacerates my heart must be satisfied…. Nothing, nothing, can restrain me; and, Julio, were you an obstacle in my path, I would pass over your dead body to strike a fatal blow at him who has poisoned my life. Do not attempt to thwart me, or I will crush you where you stand."
At these words Simon Turchi placed his hand on the hilt of his sword; his face was scarlet, his lips trembled, and his eyes flashed.
This threat did not disturb Julio, probably because he thought his master could not execute it. An ironical smile played upon his lips; he stepped back one or two paces, drew his knife, and said, mockingly:
"It would be strange, signor, if Geronimo should find us engaged in a combat. It might save his life."
"What! would you dare?"
"Why not? Do you think Julio would permit himself to be led like a sheep to the slaughter?"
"Listen! Ho comes!" exclaimed Simon Turchi, starting with terror.
The repeated strokes of the knocker resounded through the court-yard where the little door gave entrance into the garden.
"Julio, I ask you again," said Turchi, anxiously, "what reliance I may place upon you?"
"I will do what I have promised—neither more nor less."