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You would rather not tell me any more quite sure?" "No, I can't indeed. Let's talk of something else. How old are you?" "Seventeen." "I'm not sixteen yet. Is Castracane your real name?" Castracane looked pleased. "I'm glad you asked. No; they call me that among ourselves, because of a little knack I have; but my name is Pilade." "That's a very nice name," said Silvestro.
Ser Giacomo, the notary, folds up his newspaper in dead silence, puts it into his pocket, and departs. The lights in the dark café, which burn sometimes all day when it is cloudy, are extinguished. The domino-players disappear. Oreste and Pilade shut up their shop despondingly. The baker Pietro comes out no more to cool at the door.
Oreste, who, with his brother Pilade, both wearing snow-white aprons, are squaring themselves at their open doorway, over which hangs a copper basin, shaped like Manbrino's helmet, looking for customers Oreste and Pilade turn pale. Then Oreste tells the baker, Pietro, who, naked as Nature made him, has run out from his oven to the open door, for a breath of air. Now the carriage stops.
If you want miracles, for example!" "I do want them, Pilade. I want them very much." Silvestro sighed again, and leaned his cheek till it touched his friend's. A shock transfused Castracane; he was caught by the starry influences. Suddenly he turned his mouth towards that blushing flower, and kissed Silvestro. Silvestro thrilled but lay close.
Thankless it was, since Master Pilade took no sort of notice; yet Silvestro gave thanks. Pilade allowed the other to stoop to his shoe-ties, to wind the swathes about his sturdy calves, to carry his very cloak and staff, while he slouched along with hands deep in breeches pockets, and his hat pulled down to his nose. Silvestro would proudly have carried him, too, had that been possible.
"Your will is done." "Thank you, Signor Alessandro: God be with you. Come, Pilade." Silvestro took Castracane by the hand, but not before the gentleman had kissed his own with profound respect. Then Silvestro led his friend away through the trees, and the Sub-Prefect was understood to say "We have been on the wrong scent, men. Mount. To the city Avanti!" "What's all this?
"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." But that he denied. "Santissimo! Did I treat you like a boy, I ask you?" "You knocked me down once, Pilade." "Every honest man knocks his wife down once," said Pilade gravely. "And then you kissed me." "I can kiss you again," said Pilade; and did.
The two young fellows on the box were quiet, too. The horses now needed no encouragement to go; the scraping of the brake gave evidence rather of the need to hold them back. The driver's friend, named appropriately Pilade, sat hunched with chilly sleepiness; but Angelo, the driver, was kept visibly alert by the responsibility of making a safe descent in the fast-failing light.
You may sleep at my feet if you like: it will keep them warm, to begin with, and you'll be near me, don't you see?" "Thank you, thank you, dear Pilade," cried the enraptured Silvestro. The world is a very odd one, and it is most true that the man who is for taming hearts should pursue, ostensibly, any other calling. Not that Pilade had that in view. He only sought to be comfortable, good lad.
"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.
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