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The pale apparition of a fair-haired boy, timid in rags, cloaked in rusty black, with bandaged legs, and his old felt hat crushed against his breast, stood in the doorway. "Oh, boy!" cried Alessandro, gesticulating with one hand, "may you be my Hermes, my swiftfoot messenger. Tell me what you know of the divine Ippolita." "I know where she is, Signor Sotto-Prefetto," says Silvestro huskily.
"Who was it then, son of a pig? Who was it?" "Mercy, mercy, my lord! I will tell the truth!" he whined as he twisted. "Gesù morto! Tell anything else and I cut thy liver out, hound!" swore the man who held him. "Ah, Dio! I will! I will! It was Silvestro who killed the Jew!" "You shall come with me to the Signor Sotto-Prefetto," said his holder. "There's a ducat for me in this affair."
So ending as he began, he danced about the hill-top, wringing his hands. But Silvestro, very pale, came quickly up, and laid hold of him. "Tell me all, Andrea," says he; "for I know nothing except that I love Castracane and will save him. Who has taken him?" "It is a lord the Sotto-Prefetto the hook-nosed gentleman with thin eyebrows; him they call Messer Alessandro.
Why, it's 'My honest friend' that he hails me already! That is what a man may call climbing up, I hope, when a poetical roaring blade cuts out your 'servo suo' in that fashion. And he's Sotto-Prefetto, remember. That means all Padua yours for the asking. Sleep sound, my pretty bird, Ippolita bella! After this night you shall sleep by day."
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