“I remember that you told her so last night,” growled Marzio, growing pale with anger.

“Certainly.”

“You—­you—­you priest!” cried the chiseller, unable in his rage to find an epithet which he judged more degrading.  Don Paolo smiled.

“Yes, I am a priest,” he answered calmly.

“Yea, you are a priest,” yelled Marzio, “and what is to become of paternal authority in a household where such fellows as you are listening at the keyholes?  Is a man to have no more rights?  Are we to be ruled by women and creatures in petticoats?  Viper!  Poisoning my household, teaching my daughter to disobey me, my wife to despise me, my paid workmen to—­”

“Silence!” cried Gianbattista in ringing tones, and with the word he sprang to his feet and clapped his hand on Marzio’s mouth.

The effect was sudden and unexpected.  Marzio was utterly taken by surprise.  It was incredible to him that any one should dare to forcibly prevent him from indulging in the language he had used with impunity for so many years.  He leaned back pale and astonished, and momentarily dumb with amazement.  Gianbattista stood over him, his young cheeks flushed with anger, and his broad fist clenched.

“If you dare to talk in that way to Don Paolo, I will kill you with my hands!” he said, his voice sinking lower with concentrated determination.  “I have had enough of your foul talk.  He is a better man than you, as I told you last night, and I repeat it now—­take care—­”

Marzio made a movement as though he would rise, and at the same instant Gianbattista seized the long, fine-pointed punch, which served for the eyes of the cherubs—­a dangerous weapon in a determined hand.

Don Paolo had risen from his chair, and was trying to push himself between the two.  But Gianbattista would not let him.

“For heaven’s sake,” cried the priest in great distress, “no violence, Tista—­I will call the men—­”

“Never fear,” answered the apprentice quietly; “the man is a coward.”

“To me—­you dare to say that to me!” exclaimed Marzio, drawing back at the same time.

“Yes—­it is quite true.  But do not suppose that I think any the worse of you on that account, Sor Marzio.”

With this taunt, delivered in a voice that expressed the most profound contempt, Gianbattista went back to his seat and took up his hammer as though nothing had happened.  Don Paolo drew a long breath of relief.  As for Marzio, his teeth chattered with rage.  His weakness had been betrayed at last, and by Gianbattista.  All his life he had succeeded in concealing the physical fear which his words belied.  He had cultivated the habit of offering to face danger, speaking of it in a quiet way, as he had observed that brave men did.  He had found it good policy to tell people that he was not afraid of them, and his bearing had hitherto saved him from physical violence.  Now he felt as though all his nerves had been drawn out of his body.  He had been terrified, and he knew that he had shown it.  Gianbattista’s words stung in his ears like the sting of wasps.