nothing except that I love Castracane and will save him. Who has taken him?"
"It is a lord—the Sotto-Prefetto—the hook-nosed gentleman with thin eyebrows; him they call Messer Alessandro. Castracane is tied like a netted calf—his hands behind him, and them to his neck. What's the good of his strength? He is as strong as the town bull; but if he writhes his hands he strangles, and if he thrusts his neck he chokes. Ecco!"
Silvestro was staring down into the valley. "Where is Messer Alessandro, Andrea? Tell me quickly, for I can save Castracane."
"He is eating with the hermit in the wood. But what can you do?"
"You stay here," said Silvestro with decision; "that's what you can do. I'll go down."
The sound of breaking through undergrowth was followed by rapping at the hermit's door.
"What do you want, boy?" said the pious man to the ragged figure in the dark.
"Messer Alessandro, my reverend—Messer Alessandro at once."
"Are you come about the Jew? He will bear no more. He is eating. He tells me he knows more about the Jew than he does about our holy religion—which is a dangerous state of things, except that he is sick to death of him."
"It is not about the Jew, father," said Silvestro, out of breath. "Tell him it is about—Ippolita."
"Va bene," said the hermit. "Stay where you are."
Messer Alessandro dropped his tools with a
