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Updated: September 30, 2025
"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."
We may be sure that that faithful retainer did not go unrewarded for his fraudulent act. BIANCA, By W. E. Norris Not long since, I was one among a crowd of nobodies at a big official reception in Paris when the Marchese and Marchesa di San Silvestro were announced.
Opposite is a range of mountains, fair and forest-spread on the lower flanks, rising above into wild crags, and broken, blackened peaks, that mock the soft blue radiance of the evening sky. Silvestro, the steward, is a man "full of conscience," as people say, deeply sensible of his responsibilities, and more in dread of the marchesa than of the Church.
The question seemed absurd. Did they not crucify young children, and eat them afterwards? Did they not kill Gesù Cristo? Everybody knows that they did; and, as for proof, look at them with a dish of pork. Ugh! But Castracane blinked his small eyes, and held to it. "Did you kill him because of Gesù Cristo?" he asked. Silvestro shrugged. "It was partly that, of course." "What else?"
He smiled benignly, shrugged his shoulders, said "Prego" and pointed to the post-office itself, which was over the way and, of course, in the Piazza S. Silvestro. Then I knew him.
The emperor hesitated not a moment. Silvestro retired to have a cup fixed into his right fist and filled with real water, while the sufferer cleverly turned down the bedclothes and, with the assistance of Fiovo and Sanguineo, got out of bed and stood upright, showing his body and arms covered with the dreadful marks of the leprosy.
Silvestro returns from Mass with the captain, who is deep in thought, and the two soldiers, who show comic incredulity in every movement. The captain tells Silvestro that during Mass he had a vision of the Passion. Silvestro is not surprised. "Ah!" he says musingly, "yes; that, I suppose, would be so." The captain is so much impressed he is not at all sure he ought not to be baptized.
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.
It was certainly a night of wonder. Castracane's arm slipped down to Silvestro's waist; Silvestro sighed, and snuggled into the haven it made. "O holy night!" said he. "Now might miracles happen, and we be by." "Ah," said Castracane, "the miracle of choice would be an angel with a basket of bread and cheese or a beautiful maiden to come and lie in one's arms." Silvestro thrilled.
The doors, closed on Savonarala's entrance, soon crashed before the vehement onset of the powerful multitude, which struck down on the instant every obstacle it met: the whole convent was quickly flooded with people, and Savonarola, with his two confederates, Domenico Bonvicini and Silvestro Maruffi, was arrested in his cell, and conducted to prison amid the insults of the crowd, who, always in extremes, whether of enthusiasm or hatred, would have liked to tear them to pieces, and would not be quieted till they had exacted a promise that the prisoners should be forcibly compelled to make the trial of fire which they had refused to make of their own free will.
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