A crowd of citizens, armed with whatever they could find — bludgeons, daggers, torches — murmurs indignantly.

A crowd of citizens, armed with whatever they could find — bludgeons, daggers, torches — murmurs indignantly. They're listening to Alondi. A man in expensive clothes lies at his feet, writhing in a puddle of blood as he presses his hand over a wound. You gather from the screaming crowd that this must be Nunzio Arpaia, Irovetti's master of ceremonies.