"Ah, ah! Then I say no more. I like girls myself. But they get you into
trouble quicker than anything. You would rather not tell me any
more--quite sure?"
"No, I can't indeed. Let's talk of something else. How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"I'm not sixteen yet. Is Castracane your real name?"
Castracane looked pleased.
"I'm glad you asked. No; they call me that among ourselves, because of a
little knack I have; but my name is Pilade."
"That's a very nice name," said Silvestro.
"I believe you--it's a splendid name. There's no better. It's the name
of a Roman--Emperor of Rome and Sultan of Padua he was--who killed a
giant called Oreste, having first caused him to become a Christian."
"But why did he kill him when he had made a Christian of him?" asked
Silvestro, greatly interested; "or why did he make him a Christian, if
he was going to kill him?"
"Pouf! What questions!" cried Castracane. "He made him a Christian
because he was a good Catholic himself, and killed him for being a
giant, of course. Or take it this way. If he hadn't been a Christian,
how could he have made a good death? He couldn't, naturally. So the
Emperor christened him first and killed him afterwards--ecco! It's
always done like that, they tell me."
"I see it now," said Silvestro; "it was very fine. I like your name of
Pilade best. I shall always call you that, if you will let me."
"Call me what you like," says Pilade. "Let's go and wake the others. I'm
as hungry as the devil with all this talking."
The result of this was that Silvestro became Pilade's foot-boy, his
slave. The lout was in clover; nothing could have suited him so well. No
more goats to herd in the heat of the day--Silvestro would do it; no
share of foraging for him; no more milk to carry into the valley; no
more fires to make up; nor strays to follow; nor kids to carry to new
pastures--Silvestro would do it. The luxurious rascal lay out the
daylight stretched on his back with his hat over his eyes; he woke only
for his meals. He would not be at the pains even to swathe his own legs
or strap his own sandals. Silvestro, bathed in sweat, his fair skin
burnt and blistered, his delicate hands and smooth legs scratched by
brambles, his slender neck bowed beneath the weights he carried on
shoulders stretched to cracking point--Silvestro worked from dawn to
dusk, rejoicing in the thankless office. Thankless it was, since Master
Pilade took no sort of notice; yet Silvestro gave thanks. Pilade allowed
the other to stoop to his shoe-ties, to wind the swathes about his
sturdy calves, to carry his very cloak and staff, while he slouched
along with hands deep in breeches pockets, and his hat pulled down to
his nose. Silvestro would proudly have carried him, too, had that been
possible. Most unmanly of Silvestro, all this; but the rogue he petted
was too snug to consider it. At the falling-in of night, having his
belly full of meat and drink (which Silvestro had prepared and served
him with), he might, if the mood took him, pull out his reed pipe.
"Silvestro," he might say, "you have been useful to-day; perhaps I'll
play you something."
And the beautiful Silvestro (tanned counterpart of the Glorious
Ippolita) would hang upon the melancholy noise, and observe with adoring
interest every twitch and distension of the fat-cheeked hero; and at the
end sigh his content, saying--
"Ah, thank you, Pilade; you have been very kind to me."
"The truth is," Pilade would allow, "I am a good-natured devil if you
take me the right way. I'll tell you what, Silvestro; you have pleased
me to-day. You may sleep at my feet if you like: it will keep them warm,
to begin with, and you'll be near me, don't you see?"
"Thank you, thank you, dear Pilade," cried the enraptured Silvestro.
The world is a very odd one, and it is most true that the man who is
for taming hearts should pursue, ostensibly, any other calling. Not that
Pilade had that in view. He only sought to be comfortable, good lad.