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Updated: September 30, 2025
"He is eating with the hermit in the wood. But what can you do?" "You stay here," said Silvestro with decision; "that's what you can do. I'll go down." The sound of breaking through undergrowth was followed by rapping at the hermit's door. "What do you want, boy?" said the pious man to the ragged figure in the dark. "Messer Alessandro, my reverend Messer Alessandro at once."
Consoled by this reflection, he knocks. A well-known voice answers, "Come in." Silvestro's clammy hand is on the lock a worm-eaten door creaks on its hinges he enters. The marchesa nods to Silvestro without speaking. She is seated before a high desk of carved walnut-wood, facing the door. The desk is covered with papers. A file of papers is in her hand; others lie upon her lap.
Whither now?" stammered Castracane. Silvestro squeezed his hand. "Oh, dearest, let us go to the cave let us go to the cave on the hill!" Castracane felt his friend trembling. Trembling is infectious; he began to tremble too. "Yes, yes, we will go to our cave," he agreed in a quick whisper. They struggled upwards through the bushwood and starry flowers.
So saying he caught her ankle in the crook of his staff, and brought her down into the bushes like a running ram. Silvestro was hurt in his feelings; all the rest laughed; his late-won empire seemed slipping. And it was very strange treatment for the Queen of the Collegio d'Amore, if wholesome.
"Then do not keep his Majesty waiting," says the captain. "Come at once and cure him." Silvestro agrees to come, but not till he has celebrated Mass, at which he invites them to be present.
The marchesa is far too much absorbed to notice this. Silvestro, standing near the door the high desk and the marchesa's tall figure between him and the hearth does not perceive it either. Still the marchesa bends over her papers, reading some and throwing others over her shoulders into the flames behind.
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. "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?"
I repeat, Padua is a freakish city. The Sub-Prefect writes madrigals in vain. Castracane, the goatherd, sends Silvestro sprawling, and wins the golden Ippolita for a willing bride. What are we to make of it? Deus nobis hæc otia fecit. "L'Anima semplicetta, che sa nulla, Salvo che, mossa da lieto fattore, Volentier torna a ciò che la trastulla." Purg. xvi. 88.
One knew the way as well as another; but Silvestro led it. They rounded the hill-top. "Here we are at last," said Silvestro. "Let us sit here, and look at the splendour of the night. Oh, Pilade! Oh, dear friend! How couldst thou do so much for me?" "What else could I do?" said he gruffly. "You never killed the pig-Jew." "Nor did you, Pilade. Tell me why you gave yourself up."
But the marchesa's words strike terror into all who hear them. All owe her long arrears of rent, and much besides. Why oh! why did the cruel lady come to Corellia? Having announced her intentions in a clear, metallic voice, the marchesa draws her head back into the coach. "Send Silvestro to me," she adds, addressing the sindaco. "Silvestro will inform me of all I want to know."
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