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."
