He approached a large wardrobe, took from it a bottle, poured out a large glass of wine and drank it.  Lighted by the lamp, he descended the staircase and approached the cellar; but before proceeding through the subterranean passage, he hesitated and stepped back: 

“Singular!” he said; “I am overpowered by fear!  I recoil in terror before that dark cave, as though the dead could arise from the grave to take revenge.  What!  I had the courage to stab him while living, and yet I tremble upon approaching the spot where lie his inanimate remains!  Away with this childish terror!”

However bold his words, the Signor Turchi did not become calm, and his heart beat violently as he again slowly approached the entrance to the cellar.  He hesitated an instant, as he looked down the long, dark passage, but was about to proceed, when a noise outside the building made him shake with fear.

“What can it be?  Am I not mistaken?  Some one unlocks the garden-gate!  Will I be found here?  Am I betrayed?”

After a moment of torturing doubt he fled from the cellar to his room, his hair bristling with terror.

“They open the door of the house!  They are within!  They come!  Great heavens!  What can it mean?”

A man appeared on the threshold of the room in which Simon Turchi had taken refuge.

“Julio! it is Julio!” exclaimed Simon, in despair.

The servant reeled under the influence of liquor.  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.  But which of us must first render our account before the supreme tribunal, my knife and your dagger will decide.  I am ready.”

“Insolent wretch!” cried Turchi, grinding his teeth, “my own safety and yours compel me to a painful circumspection; but beware how you brave me!  Tell me why you are not on your way to Germany.”

“You ask me something that I don’t know myself.  But let me see.  Just as I was about to leave I went to the Swan, and drank a few pints of wine.  This morning, when I awoke, I was seated before a table at the Silver Dice.  How I came there, I cannot tell.  It was then too late for me to pass the gate.  I determined to wait until to-morrow, and I came here to take a night’s rest before setting out on the journey.”