Page:Maurice Hewlett--Little novels of Italy.djvu/128

116 "Look here," said Castracane after a pause, "I'll fight you if you like. That'll settle it."

Silvestro laughed nervously. "Why should we fight, Castracane? Besides, we have no knives. How can we fight?"

"Like this," said the other between his teeth. His left arm whipped out, like a lizard's tongue, and Silvestro lay flat on his back among the cistus flowers, seeing ink and scarlet clouds.

"Stick a Jew indeed!" cried Castracane. "Stick a grandmother! Why, you're as soft as cheese!"

Silvestro's shoulders told a tale. He had turned on his face, but his shoulders were enough. Lord, Lord, look at that! Scorn in his conqueror gave way to amazement, amazement to disgust, disgust to contempt. Last came pity. Who'd have thought such a leggy lad such a green one? He was crying like a girl. Castracane had no malice in him: he was sorry for those sobbing shoulders. He stooped over the wreck he had made, and tried to put it together again.

"Come, Silvestro," he said gruffly, "I never meant to hurt you."

The wet face was up in a moment—red and wet and angry.

"It's not that! It's not that! I never killed the Jew—there! But I was a stranger, and I tried to be friendly, and you hated me. I hate being hated. Why should you hate me? What have I done?"

This was too subtle for the youth. "The trouble was," he said, "that I hit you in the right place. That's the knock-out blow, that one. Morte di