Little Novels of Italy Part 10

"Why did you kill him?" said Castracane, suddenly--bolt upright.

This was awkward. Silvestro fenced. "Eh, corpo di Bacco, why does one kill the Jews?"

The others at first took the same side. Why, indeed? The question seemed absurd. Did they not crucify young children, and eat them afterwards?

Did they not kill Gesu Cristo? Everybody knows that they did; and, as for proof, look at them with a dish of pork. Ugh!

But Castracane blinked his small eyes, and held to it.

"Did you kill him because of Gesu Cristo?" he asked.

Silvestro shrugged. "It was partly that, of course."

"What else?"

Silvestro grew hot--desperate. Why, after all, would one kill a Jew?

Something must be urged, something solid.

"There was Annina, you know," said Silvestro, at his wit's end.

"Annina--that girl you were with? What of her?" Castracane licked his lips.

"Well, this Jew, you must understand, was a limber young fellow--"

"Young!" shouted the other. "You told me he had a great grey beard like a goat."

"It wasn't very grey--not so grey as a goat's. Well, he was always following Annina about, making her presents, cadging for favours.

Accidente! I couldn't stand it, you must know. So, thinking of Annina, and of Gesu Cristo, and one thing and another, I decided to follow him back to the Via Gatta--and so I did."

Andrea leaned forward, hoa.r.s.ely whispering (blessed diversion!)--

"Say, Silvestro, what colour was the Jew's blood?"

Silvestro opened wide those blue eyes, which had wrought such havoc among the Paduan n.o.bility.

"Black, Andrea!" he whispered again; "black as pig's blood!"

Andrea crossed himself. "Pio Cristo," he prayed, "let me kill a Jew some day!"

Even then Castracane, the sceptic, was not satisfied. "All I know is,"

said he, "that I saw a Jew cutting bread at the _Albero Verde_ last Martinmas, and he slipped into his own thumb, and came off as red as a dog's tongue. Bah!"

"d.a.m.n the Jew," said Petruccio, yawning; "let's go to sleep, boys."

VII

CASTRACANE

She woke early, with the full light of day in her eyes. She felt tired, but not inert, languid and luxurious, rather, and explored to the full the happiness of stretching. Round about her were huddled the drowsy boys; on the slopes of the steep place where she lay she could see the goats browsing on lentisk and juniper, acanthus, bramble, mountain-ash.

Misty on the blue plain lay Padua, a sleeping city, white and violet--remote now and in every sense below her and her concerns. The sky was without cloud, very pale still, glowing white at the edge; the sun not yet out of the sea. The freshness of the air fanned her deliciously; larks were climbing the sky singing their p.r.i.c.k-song, scores of finches crossed the slopes, dipping from bush to bush.

Ippolita clasped her hands behind her head, and looked lazily at all this early glory. The freedom of her heart seemed explicit in that of her limbs. What she could do with her legs, for instance! How she could sprawl at ease! She was just like all the others--as ragged, as dirty, at least; and soon she would be as brown. Dio buono, the splendid life of a goatherd!

Then she found that Castracane was watching her out of one wicked eye.

He had rolled over on to his belly, his face lay sideways on his hands; one eye was shrewdly on her. She considered him, rather scared, out of the corner of hers. Decidedly he was a sulky boy--you might say an enemy. As unconcernedly as she could she got up, stretched herself with elaborate ease, and strolled off along the edge of the hill. Castracane followed her; she affected not to know it; but her heart began to quicken, and when he was close beside her she found that she had to look at him.

"Good morning, Castracane," says Silvestro.

He grunted. "Look here, Silvestro," he began, "about that Jew--"

The accursed Jew, who, so far from denying the resurrection of the dead, seemed a standing proof of it! Was she never to have done with the Jew?

"Well, what about him?"

"Did you kill him or not? That's what about him."

"I told you last night."

"Yes, but I don't believe it."

"What!"

"I don't believe it. Now then?"

Silvestro looked about for help: they were out of sight of the others, and there lay Padua, slumbrous in the plain. It seemed as if Castracane meant quarrelling. Well, what must be, must be.

"I don't care whether you believe it or not. Now then?" The blue eyes were steady enough on the black by this time.

"Look here," said Castracane after a pause, "I'll fight you if you like. That'll settle it."

Silvestro laughed nervously. "Why should we fight, Castracane? Besides, we have no knives. How can we fight?"

"Like this," said the other between his teeth. His left arm whipped out, like a lizard's tongue, and Silvestro lay flat on his back among the cistus flowers, seeing ink and scarlet clouds.

"Stick a Jew indeed!" cried Castracane. "Stick a grandmother! Why, you're as soft as cheese!"

Silvestro's shoulders told a tale. He had turned on his face, but his shoulders were enough. Lord, Lord, look at that! Scorn in his conqueror gave way to amazement, amazement to disgust, disgust to contempt. Last came pity. Who'd have thought such a leggy lad such a green one? He was crying like a girl. Castracane had no malice in him: he was sorry for those sobbing shoulders. He stooped over the wreck he had made, and tried to put it together again.

"Come, Silvestro," he said gruffly, "I never meant to hurt you."

The wet face was up in a moment--red and wet and angry.

"It's not that! It's not that! I never killed the Jew--there! But I was a stranger, and I tried to be friendly, and you hated me. I hate being hated. Why should you hate me? What have I done?"

This was too subtle for the youth. "The trouble was," he said, "that I hit you in the right place. That's the knock-out blow, that one. Morte di Ercole, and down you went! Well, I'm sorry; will that do?"

"Yes, yes--I want no more. Let us be friends, Castracane."