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."