Silvestro looked about for help: they were out of sight of the others, and there lay Padua, slumbrous in the plain. It seemed as if Castracane meant quarrelling. Well, what must be, must be.
"I don't care whether you believe it or not. Now then?" The blue eyes were steady enough on the black by this time.
"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.