“When corn ripeth in every steade
Mury it is in feld and hyde;
Sinne hit is and shame to chyde. 
Knyghtis wolleth on huntyng ride,
The deor galopith by wodis side,
He that can his tyme abyde,
At his wille him schal betyde.”

          
                                        Alisaunder.

More than this Marc’antonio would not tell me, though I laid many traps for more during the long weeks my bones were healing.  But although he denied me his confidence in this matter, he told me much of this Corsica I had so childishly invaded, and a great deal to make me blush for my random ignorance; of the people, their untiring feud with Genoa, their insufferable wrongs, their succession of heroic leaders.  He did not speak of their passion for liberty, as a man will not of what is holiest in his love.  He had no need.  It spoke for itself in the ring of his voice, in the glooms and lights of his eyes, as we lay on either side of our wood fire; and I listened, till the embers died down, to the deeds of Jean Paul de Leca, of Giudice della Rocca, of Bel Messer, of Sampiero di Ornano, of the great Gaffori and other chiefs, all famous in their day, each in his turn assassinated by Genoese gold.  I heard of Venaco, where the ghost of Bel Messer yet wanders, with the ghosts of his wife and seven children drowned by the Genoese in the little lake of the Seven Bowls.  I heard of the twenty-one shepherds of Bastelica who marched down from their mountains, and routed eight hundred Greeks and Genoese of the garrison of Ajaccio; how at length they were intercepted and slain between the river and the marshes—­all but one youth, who, stretched among his comrades and feigning death, was taken and led to execution through the streets of the town, carrying six heads, and each a kinsman’s.  I heard how Gaffori besieged his own house; how the Genoese, having stolen his infant son, exposed the child in the breach to stop the firing; and how Gaffori called to them “I was a Corsican before I was a father,” and the cannonade went on, yet the child miraculously escaped unhurt.  I heard of Sampiero’s last fight with his murderers, in the torrent bed under the castle of Giglio; of Maria Gentili of Oletta, who died to save her brother from death. . . .  And until now these had not even been names to me!  I had adventured to win this kingdom as a man goes out with a gun to shoot partridges.  I could not hide my shame of it.

“You have taught me much in these evenings, O Marc’antonio,” said I.

“And you, cavalier, have taught me much.”

“In what way, my friend?”

Marc’antonio looked across the fire with a smile, and held up a carved piece of wood he had been sharpening to a point.  In shape it resembled an elephant’s tusk, and it formed part of an apparatus to keep a pig from straying, two of these tusks being so fastened above the beast’s neck that they caught and hampered him in the undergrowth.