# Little Novels of Italy/Ippolita in the Hills/Chapter 6

VI
SILVESTRO
The guard at the Porta San Zuan let them go unheeded; one ragamuffin more or less made no odds. The heart of the new-born Silvestro gave a great bound as they cleared the gate, and she saw before her the straight white road with its border of silver stems and the spreading tent-roof of golden green. These stems were so obviously like the pillars of a church that Silvestro ventured to remark as much to her neighbour—a broad-faced, thick fellow, not quite her own height, but twice as big in the girth. His mouth was large, his eyes were small and rather hot. He blinked a good deal, was very sulky, and met her advances with a grunt. "Chi lo sa?" was as far as he would go along with her in the matter of tree-trunks.
It was annoying. Every one had seemed friendly at first. But being free, she could not feel daunted long; and at the second bend of the road the hills sailed into full vision—the solemn hills in a long line of peak and hollow, velvety, dark, and brooding sleep, like a bank of cloud edging the pale sky. The frogs were singing vespers in the ditches, the sharp chorus of the cicalas shrilled on all sides. At ​the sight of this enormous calm Silvestro forgot rebuffs. For a murderer he was in a very cheerful humour; he began to sing; soon he had all the boys (except that blinker) rapt to attention. Andrea slewed round his bag and pipes and began upon a winding air; they all sang, going at a trot. The goats pricked up their ears; they too began to amble; it became a stampede. The sun went down behind Monte Venda, the bats came flickering out, the great droning cockchafers dropped on the road like splashes of rain. The night found them still far from Abano, but still talking and nearly all friends. Silvestro was hand in hand with Petruccio and another boy, called Mastino because he was heavy-jowled and underhung. Their tongues wagged against each other about nothing at all. Silvestro strengthened his position by hints and shrewd winks, but it was decided that the Jew should be kept for the night fire. That was too choice a morsel to be eaten on the road; that must be rolled on the palate, to get the flavours. It was a pity, certainly, about the pig-eyed boy, who snorted whenever the exploit was mentioned—but "Never mind him," thought Silvestro; "I have all the others."
They passed through Abano; Monte Ortone was ahead, a spur of the great body of the hills.
"There's the hermit's candle," said Petruccio. A twinkling light showed deep in the trees. "There was a most excellent miracle there—the Blessed Virgin in a tree. Two girls saw her and thought she was a kite entangled. But they fetched a priest from Abano, and he knew better. So then ​they built an oracle or some such place, and paid a hermit to pray there. And now, whoever has ague, or is with child, or hath bandy-legged children, or witch-crossed cows, always goes there; and the hermit cures them. That was money well laid out, I suppose."
"Per Bacco!" cried Andrea, "I'll tell you some more. Did you ever hear of Monna Betta's short leg?"
Petruccio cuffed him well. "A palsy on her leg, and a palsy strike thee," he thundered, "if with thy old women's tales we miss the path! Go drive the goats in, thick-chops, and stay that clapper of thine till they ask for a crow-keeper. Move now, be off!"
"’Tis a hard thing, Petruccio," blubbered Andrea, "if one may not tell the honour of his own land to a stranger."
But Petruccio sent him flying with grit in his ear.
By a brambly path they climbed Monte Ortone—Petruccio first, the others after him, the newcomer as best might be, then musically the goats. That round-faced, blinking boy, whom they called Castracane, was behind Silvestro now, much diverted by her panting efforts to go up without panting what he could rise on with closed mouth and scarcely any sharper whistling at the nose.
"Hey, comrade," said he, grinning, "one sees that the Jew's stair was easier going for thee than Ortone." And he prodded her with his staff.
This was not friendly. Ippolita did her best to humour him. "I go up as well as I can, ​Castracane," she said. "But do you go first, if you will."
"Nay, nay," he replied, with a chuckle; "I make very good practice in the rear." So saying he caught her ankle in the crook of his staff, and brought her down into the bushes like a running ram.
Silvestro was hurt in his feelings; all the rest laughed; his late-won empire seemed slipping. And it was very strange treatment for the Queen of the Collegio d'Amore, if wholesome. She arrived wet and breathless at the top, feeling moreover that she must by all means make a friend of this ugly fellow.
The fire was made, the pot put on, the pot boiled. Then for a time, though jaws worked like mill-clappers, it was to better purpose than words. But when the last shred of garlic or last gobbet of pork had been fished up, when the wine-skin was flabby, the last crust's memory faded from the toothpick, Petruccio slapped Silvestro on the knee.
"Now, comrade," cried he, "we'll have the Jew for dessert."
"The Jew, the Jew! Now for the Jew!" went the chorus.
Silvestro coloured. "The Jew? Eh, well, I killed him—ecco!"
The flaming logs lit up a ring of tense, pale faces—not one of which, Silvestro saw, would rest content with that. The interrogatories began, a dropping fire of them.
"How did you do it?"
"With my knife, of course."
​"Where did you strike?"
"Under the ribs. I took him by his great goat's beard, the old dog, and jerked up his head—so. Then I drove in between his ribs—ping!"
Surely that would do? Not at all.
"The left ribs?"
"Ah!"
"Did he gurgle?"
"Didn't he!"
"Blood choked him—eh?"
"Per Bacco!"
"You stabbed him on the stair?"
"Già!"
"Did he roll down?"
"No, no; he just lay where he fell."
"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 Gesù 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 Gesù 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 Gesù Cristo, and one thing and another, I decided to follow him back to the Via Gatta—and so I did."
Andrea leaned forward, hoarsely 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 nobility.
"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!"
"Damn the Jew," said Petruccio, yawning; "let's go to sleep, boys."