The flaming logs lit up a ring of tense, pale faces--not one of which,
Silvestro saw, would rest content with that. The interrogatories began,
a dropping fire of them.
"How did you do it?"
"With my knife, of course."
"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.