"There was Annina, you know," said Silvestro, at his wit's end.
"Annina—that girl you were with? What of her?" Castracane licked his lips.
"Well, this Jew, you must understand, was a limber young fellow—"
"Young!" shouted the other. "You told me he had a great grey beard like a goat."
"It wasn't very grey—not so grey as a goat's. Well, he was always following Annina about, making her presents, cadging for favours. Accidente! I couldn't stand it, you must know. So, thinking of Annina, and of Gesù Cristo, and one thing and another, I decided to follow him back to the Via Gatta—and so I did."
Andrea leaned forward, hoarsely whispering (blessed diversion!)—
"Say, Silvestro, what colour was the Jew's blood?"
Silvestro opened wide those blue eyes, which had wrought such havoc among the Paduan nobility.
"Black, Andrea!" he whispered again; "black as pig's blood!"
Andrea crossed himself. "Pio Cristo," he prayed, "let me kill a Jew some day!"
Even then Castracane, the sceptic, was not satisfied. "All I know is," said he, "that I saw a Jew cutting bread at the Albero Verde last Martinmas, and he slipped into his own thumb, and came off as red as a dog's tongue. Bah!"
"Damn the Jew," said Petruccio, yawning; "let's go to sleep, boys."
