Then she found that Castracane was watching her out of one wicked eye. He had rolled over on to his belly, his face lay sideways on his hands; one eye was shrewdly on her. She considered him, rather scared, out of the corner of hers. Decidedly he was a sulky boy—you might say an enemy. As unconcernedly as she could she got up, stretched herself with elaborate ease, and strolled off along the edge of the hill. Castracane followed her; she affected not to know it; but her heart began to quicken, and when he was close beside her she found that she had to look at him.
"Good morning, Castracane," says Silvestro.
He grunted. "Look here, Silvestro," he began, "about that Jew—"
The accursed Jew, who, so far from denying the resurrection of the dead, seemed a standing proof of it! Was she never to have done with the Jew?
"Well, what about him?"
"Did you kill him or not? That's what about him."
"I told you last night."
"Yes, but I don't believe it."
"What!"
"I don't believe it. Now then?"
Silvestro looked about for help: they were out of sight of the others, and there lay Padua, slumbrous in the plain. It seemed as if Castracane meant quarrelling. Well, what must be, must be.
"I don't care whether you believe it or not. Now then?" The blue eyes were steady enough on the black by this time.
