"Where did you strike?"
"Under the ribs. I took him by his great goat's beard, the old dog, and jerked up his head—so. Then I drove in between his ribs—ping!"
Surely that would do? Not at all.
"The left ribs?"
"Ah!"
"Did he gurgle?"
"Didn't he!"
"Blood choked him—eh?"
"Per Bacco!"
"You stabbed him on the stair?"
"Già!"
"Did he roll down?"
"No, no; he just lay where he fell."
"Why did you kill him?" said Castracane, suddenly—bolt upright.
This was awkward. Silvestro fenced. "Eh, corpo di Bacco, why does one kill the Jews?"
The others at first took the same side. Why, indeed? 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?"
Silvestro grew hot—desperate. Why, after all, would one kill a Jew? Something must be urged, something solid.
