becomes a young official of spirit. The result of his labours was that the Jew got posthumous fame out of all proportion to his merits. The city fairly hummed with him; nobody talked of anything but the dead Jew.
The goatherds, coming in by the Porta San Zuan a day later, were shrewdly scrutinised by the Guard. They were numbered off, their names taken; they were pulled about and flustered, asked questions, contradicted before they had time to answer, and then called prevaricators because they said nothing; they were, in fact, brought to that state of breathless hurry in which a boy will say anything you choose. This, as everybody knows, is the only way of getting at the truth.
"There were more of you fellows the other night," said the Corporal of the Guard. "Where are the rest of you? Come now, out with it; no lies here!"
Petruccio, who had some sense, shammed to have none; but Andrea, less happy, was a real fool. At this invitation he looked wise.
"Castracane is not here—true, but it wasn't Castracane," he muttered, and found his neck in a vice.
"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
