# Little Novels of Italy/Ippolita in the Hills/Chapter 10

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CYMON FINDS HIS IPHIGENIA
They struggled upwards through the bushwood and starry flowers. It was a scented night, the air heavy with the burden of midsummer. The fireflies spread a jewelled web before their faces, great white moths flapped and droned about them. On they pushed, their hands locked through all hazards of brake or briar: neither would let go for a whole world, but Silvestro was always in front, leading Castracane for this once. One knew the way as well as another; but Silvestro led it. They rounded the hill-top.
"Here we are at last," said Silvestro. "Let us sit here, and look at the splendour of the night. Oh, Pilade! Oh, dear friend! How couldst thou do so much for me?"
"What else could I do?" said he gruffly. "You never killed the pig-Jew."
"Nor did you, Pilade. Tell me why you gave yourself up."
"Because you didn't do it, of course."
"But you didn't do it either?"
"Well, but I knocked you down."
"Did you do it because of that; or because—because you like me?"
Pilade grunted. "Suppose I did?"
Silvestro sighed, and leaned his head on his friend's shoulder.
​"O wondrous night!" said he, whispering. "Look, the stars are like moons."
It was certainly a wonderful night—a night of enormous silence, of great steady stars, of gold-dusted air, of a sky like a purple dome encrusted with jewelled lights. The two boys sat together, blinking at so much speechless glory. Castracane's arm was round his fellow's shoulder; that fellow's lips parted, and his breath came soft and eager—yet too quickly for ease. It was certainly a night of wonder.
Castracane's arm slipped down to Silvestro's waist; Silvestro sighed, and snuggled into the haven it made.
"O holy night!" said he. "Now might miracles happen, and we be by."
"Ah," said Castracane, "the miracle of choice would be an angel with a basket of bread and cheese—or a beautiful maiden to come and lie in one's arms."
Silvestro thrilled. Castracane gave a responsive squeeze, and went on.
"I am not too sure, you must know, that one has not happened already. To see you lead that signore by the nose! You came swimming among the tree-stems like an angel. You might have knocked me down with a feather. And how he kissed your hand! Miracles! Why, if you had been the maiden I dream about, he couldn't have been more respectful. If you want miracles, for example!"
"I do want them, Pilade. I want them very much." Silvestro sighed again, and leaned his cheek till it touched his friend's.
​A shock transfused Castracane; he was caught by the starry influences. Suddenly he turned his mouth towards that blushing flower, and kissed Silvestro. Silvestro thrilled but lay close.
"Buon' Dio, ecco miracolo!" said Castracane hoarsely, and kissed again.
Again his nestling companion gave no sign but a quiver.
Castracane surveyed the stars. "A miracle has certainly happened," he said. "I feel very queer. My head swims, fingers and toes tingle; I seem to have hot lead in my legs. It may be that I am empty. I think it is a miracle; but as yet I see no angel."
Some quicker thrill of what he held made him look at Silvestro. At the same moment Silvestro slowly turned his head, and looked at him. What each saw in the other's face beyond a white moon-shape, what shining of truth in the eye, what expectancy, what revelation in the lips, I know not. Two pair of lips, at least, met and stayed together.
"O Dio!"
"Oh, Pilade! Oh, carissimo!" She abandoned herself to joy.
"You are the angel, the miracle! You are—"
"No, no, I am not an angel; but oh, I love you, dearly!"
"Ah, la Madonna!"
"I am Ippolita! I love you!"
"You love me? You are mine then—come."
"Andrea," said Castracane next morning, "I think the others will be back before noon. You must wait here till they come. I am going to ​take Silvestro over La Venda to see my mother, and confess to our curate. It is good for the soul."
"Silvestro looks well this morning," said Andrea, with his mouth full of bread. "What a colour of dawn! What shining eyes! He would make a proper Madonna for a Mystery—eh?"
"He would," said Castracane laconically; "a most proper Madonna. With a Bambino on his lap—eh, Silvestro."
Silvestro blushed; Castracane pinched his cheek, which made matters worse.
They took the road together through the deep hedges of the valley. Monte Venda rose before them, dark with woods. Castracane's arm was round Silvestro's waist: every twenty yards they stopped.
"To think of it!" cried Castracane, on one of these breathless halts. "You to be like any one of us—breeched, clouted, swathed—and a lovely lass within your shirt—Madonna!"
"Do you think me lovely?" asked Ippolita devoutly. "I have heard that till I have been sick to death of it; but from you I shall never be tired of knowing it."
"Blessed Angel!"
"Oh, Pilade, my love!"
They loitered on.
"You see that I am not what you thought me," said Ippolita, with an arch look. "You thought I had killed a Jew."
"Never, per Bacco!" cried Castracane. "That I'll swear to."
"You thought I was a boy, even last night, dearest."
​But that he denied. "Santissimo! Did I treat you like a boy, I ask you?"
"You knocked me down once, Pilade."
"Every honest man knocks his wife down once," said Pilade gravely.
"And then you kissed me."
"I can kiss you again," said Pilade; and did.
I repeat, Padua is a freakish city. The Sub-Prefect writes madrigals in vain. Castracane, the goatherd, sends Silvestro sprawling, and wins the golden Ippolita for a willing bride. What are we to make of it? Deus nobis hæc otia fecit.