beads, and they told me that in his own country he owned great estates—­greater even than the Count’s.  Indeed, cavalier, had your father thought less of love and more of ambition there is no saying but he might have reached out for the crown, and his love would have come to him afterwards.  But, as the saying goes, while Peter stalked the mufro Paul stole the mountain:  and again says the proverb, ’Bury not your treasure in another’s orchard.’  Along came this Theodore, and with a few lies took the crown and the jewel with it.  So your father went away, and has come again after many years; and at the first I did not recognize him, for time has dealt heavily with us all.  But afterwards, and before he spoke his name, I knew him—­partly by his great stature, partly by his carriage, and partly, cavalier, by the likeness your youth bears to his as I remember it.  So you have the tale.”

“And in the telling, Marc’antonio,” said I, “it appears that you, who champion his children, bear Theodore’s memory no good will.”

“Theodore!” Marc’antonio spat again.  “If he were alive here and before me, I would shoot him where he stood.”

“For what cause?” I asked, surprised by the shake in his voice.

But Marc’antonio turned to the fire again, and would not answer.

As I remember, some three or four days passed before I contrived to draw him into further talk; and, curiously enough, after trying him a dozen times per ambages (as old Mr. Grylls would have said) and in vain, on the point of despair I succeeded with a few straight words.

“Marc’antonio,” said I, “I have a notion about King Theodore.”

“I am listening, cavalier.”

“A suspicion only, and horribly to his discredit.”

“It is the likelier to be near the truth.”

“Could he—­think you—­have sold his children to the Genoese?”

Marc’antonio cast a quick glance at me.  “I have thought of that,” he said quietly.  “He was capable of it.”

“It would explain why they were allowed to live.  A father, however deep his treachery, would make that a part of the bargain.”

Marc’antonio nodded.

“I would give something,” I went on, “to know how Father Domenico came by the secret.  By confession of one of the sisters, you suggest.  Well, it may be so.  But there might be another way—­only take warning that I do not like this Father Domenico—­”

“I am listening.”

“Is it not possible that he himself contrived the kidnapping—­always with King Theodore’s consent?”

“Not possible,” decided Marc’antonio, after a moment’s thought.  “No more than you do I like the man:  but consider.  It was he who sent us to find and bring them back to Corsica.  At this moment, when (as I will confess to you) all odds are against it, he holds to their cause; he, a comfortable priest and a loose liver, has taken to the bush and fares hardly for his zeal.”