r is with child, or hath bandy-legged
children, or witch-crossed cows, always goes there; and the hermit cures
them. That was money well laid out, I suppose."

"Per Bacco!" cried Andrea, "I'll tell you some more. Did you ever hear
of Monna Betta's short leg?"

Petruccio cuffed him well. "A palsy on her leg, and a palsy strike
thee," he thundered, "if with thy old women's tales we miss the path! Go
drive the goats in, thick-chops, and stay that clapper of thine till
they ask for a crow-keeper. Move now, be off!"

"'Tis a hard thing, Petruccio," blubbered Andrea, "if one may not tell
the honour of his own land to a stranger."

But Petruccio sent him flying with grit in his ear.

By a brambly path they climbed Monte Ortone--Petruccio first, the others
after him, the newcomer as best might be, then musically the goats. That
round-faced, blinking boy, whom they called Castracane, was behind
Silvestro now, much diverted by her panting efforts to go up without
panting what he could rise on with closed mouth and scarcely any sharper
whistling at the nose.

"Hey, comrade," said he, grinning, "one sees that the Jew's stair was
easier going for thee than Ortone." And he prodded her with his staff.

This was not friendly. Ippolita did her best to humour him. "I go up as
well as I can, Castracane," she said. "But do you go first, if you
will."

"Nay, nay," he replied, with a chuckle; "I make very good practice in
the rear." 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. She arrived wet and breathless at
the top, feeling moreover that she must by all means make a friend of
this ugly fellow.

The fire was made, the pot put on, the pot boiled. Then for a time,
though jaws worked like mill-clappers, it was to better purpose than
words. But when the last shred of garlic or last gobbet of pork had been
fished up, when the wine-skin was flabby, the last crust's memory faded
from the toothpick, Petruccio slapped Silvestro on the knee.

"Now, comrade," cried he, "we'll have the Jew for dessert."

"The Jew, the Jew! Now for the Jew!" went the chorus.

Silvestro coloured. "The Jew? Eh, well, I killed him--ecco!"

The flaming logs lit up a ring of tense, pale faces--not one of which,