"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 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?"