They struggled upwards through the bushwood and starry flowers. It was a
scented night, the air heavy with the burden of midsummer. The fireflies
spread a jewelled web before their faces, great white moths flapped and
droned about them. On they pushed, their hands locked through all
hazards of brake or briar: neither would let go for a whole world, but
Silvestro was always in front, leading Castracane for this once. One
knew the way as well as another; but Silvestro led it. They rounded the
hill-top.
"Here we are at last," said Silvestro. "Let us sit here, and look at the
splendour of the night. Oh, Pilade! Oh, dear friend! How couldst thou do
so much for me?"
"What else could I do?" said he gruffly. "You never killed the pig-Jew."
"Nor did you, Pilade. Tell me why you gave yourself up."
"Because you didn't do it, of course."
"But you didn't do it either?"
"Well, but I knocked you down."
"Did you do it because of that; or because--because you like me?"