He wore no beard, and his leathery cheeks were blue from the razor.

His age may have been fifty; his air was mean and sycophantic.

Finally he was dressed in a black gaberdine that descended to his knees, and he ended in a pair of the leanest shanks and largest feet conceivable.
To greet us he fawned and washed his bony hands in the air.
"You have made a safe journey, then," he purred.

"Benedicamus Dominum!" "Deo gratias!" rumbled the fat priest, as he heaved his rotundity from the saddle with the assistance of one of the grooms.
They shook hands, and Fifanti turned to survey me for the second time.
"And this is my noble charge!" said he.

"Salve! Be welcome to my house, Messer Agostino." I got to earth, accepted his proffered hand, and thanked him.
Meanwhile the grooms were unpacking my baggage, and from the house came hurrying an elderly servant to receive it and convey it within doors.
I stood there a little awkwardly, shifting from leg to leg, what time Doctor Fifanti pressed Arcolano to come within and rest; he spoke, too, of some Vesuvian wine that had been sent him from the South and upon which he desired the priest's rare judgment.
Arcolano hesitated, and his gluttonous mouth quivered and twitched.