Some Italians pulled up in a luxury convertible to see what the matter was. I approached the car and said,
"Laugh! Go ahead, laugh! That's what you want to do! It's fucking funny—hilarious—when you see an otherwise intact human with his fucking brains spilling out of his head!" (Nonsense, though my nose was broken and I had a good scrape and bruise over my right eye.) I continued shouting after them as they sped off.
I was hustled by my party onto a big red Roman bus. These buses have tires, but run on prescribed tracks with elevated electrical wires, and are open like trolleys. As we passed over the river and up the hill I assumed a reserved air. In a stage-whisper, I repeatedly told my assailant I intended to kill him. When we gained our lodging, I ran up the staircase ahead of him, turned, and sprung diagonally down through the air with my arms outstretched, aiming for his neck. He caught me bodily and set me down. He smuggled me to my room with the assistance of no small part of the group, where I awoke in the morning fully clothed, my bloody face stuck to the pillow. I did not speak until late that afternoon.