Ercole, and down you went! Well, I'm sorry; will that do?"
"Yes, yes—I want no more. Let us be friends, Castracane."
"Benissimo."
He helped his late enemy up; they kissed each other, then sat together on the grass—admirable friends.
"So you didn't kill the Jew?" Castracane began. "I knew it! But what did you do to run away?"
"Ah, you mustn't ask. Indeed, I can't tell you. It was rather bad."
Castracane looked keenly at his new friend. "Was it a girl?" he said.
Silvestro blushed. "Yes, it was a girl."
"Ah, ah! Then I say no more. I like girls myself. But they get you into trouble quicker than anything. You would rather not tell me any more—quite sure?"
"No, I can't indeed. Let's talk of something else. How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"I'm not sixteen yet. Is Castracane your real name?"
Castracane looked pleased.
"I'm glad you asked. No; they call me that among ourselves, because of a little knack I have; but my name is Pilade."
"That's a very nice name," said Silvestro.
"I believe you—it's a splendid name. There's no better. It's the name of a Roman—Emperor of Rome and Sultan of Padua he was—who killed a giant called Oreste, having first caused him to become a Christian."
