Guiseppe, his cheek still smarting from Pappina's blow, strode along toward the Quay and its beautiful walk, Corso Garibaldi.
In spite of his intoxication, Guiseppe was conscious of a new respect for Marta, awakened by her fearless defence of the child she loved.
"They are both against me," he muttered. "Marta—staid, timid Marta—she becomes a lioness when she fights for Pappina. Who would believe it? But she is right, Marta's right. I can't beat the minx and keep her. They are two against me, two against me."
Time and again he turned his head and glared fiercely from under his shaggy eyebrows at Pappina, and without his usual bullying look at Marta. His gaze was met unflinchingly by both, who, as he said, seemed banded against him.
Pappina would not admit, even to herself, that she was afraid of Guiseppe in his drunken, quarrelsome condition, but Marta noticed that the little hand in hers trembled and held her own more tightly whenever Guiseppe turned toward them.
Worn and tired from the long tramp, Pappina inquired of Marta: "Where is he going? I can't walk much farther. I feel weak, Marta."
"Poverina [poor little one], I do not know, but we are together and you are safe with me," Marta replied as they followed Guiseppe through the merry crowd that was enjoying the pleasures of the walk and the beauties of the moonlit bay.
When he reached the theater, he stopped and put down the Punchinellos. Assuming a bravado air, he ordered Pappina to sing.
"You remember what I said?" he asked. "You shall sing all night if I will it so. Marta knows me. She can tell you that I say what I mean and mean what I say. It is not the Punchinellos to–night, it is you." He shook his fist in Pappina's face.
Rebellious, tired, and hungry, she quickly lifted her clenched fist to strike again, but Marta enfolded the little doubled–up hand in hers.