“No man”—­I am quoting my father—­“can be great, or even wise, or even, properly speaking, a man at all, until he has burnt his boats”; but I imagine that those who achieve wisdom and greatness burn their boats deliberately and not—­as did I, next moment—­upon a sudden wild impulse.

My excuse is, the door was already closing behind the Princess.  I knew she had tracked the Prince Camillo and his confessor, and that these two were within the cottage.  I knew nothing of their business, save that it must be shameful, since she who had detected and would prevent it chose to hide her knowledge even from Marc’antonio and Stephanu.  Then much rather (you may urge) would she choose to hide it from me.  The objection is a sound one, had I paused to consider it; but (fortunately or unfortunately, as you may determine) I did not.  She had stepped into peril.  The door was closing behind her:  in another couple of seconds it would be bolted again.  I sprang for it, hurled myself in through the entry, and there, pulling myself erect, stared about me.

Four faces returned my stare; four faces, and all dismayed as though a live bombshell had dropped through the doorway.  To the priest, whom my impact had flung aside against the wall, I paid no attention.  My eyes fastened themselves on the table at which, with a lantern and some scattered papers between them, sat two men—­the Prince, and a grey-haired officer in the blue-and-white Genoese uniform.  The Prince, who had pushed back his chair and confronted his sister with hands stretched out to cover or to gather up the papers on the table, slewed round upon me a face that, as it turned, slowly stiffened with terror.  The Genoese officer rose with one hand resting on the table, while with the other he fumbled at a silver chain hanging across his breast, and as he shot a glance at the Prince I could almost see his lips forming the word “treachery.”  The Princess’s consternation was of all the most absolute. “The Crown!  Where is the Crown?”—­as I broke in, her voice, half imperious, half supplicatory, had panted out these words, while with outstretched hand and forefinger she pointed at the table.  Her hand still pointed there, rigid as the rest of her body, as with dilated eyes she stared into mine.

“Yes, gentlemen,” said I, in the easiest tone I could manage, “the Princess asks you a question, which allow me to repeat.  Where is the Crown?”

“In the devil’s name—­” gasped the Prince.

The Genoese interrupted him.  “Shut and bolt the door!” he commanded the priest, sharply.

“Master Domenico,” said I, “if you move so much as a step, I will shoot you through the body.”

The Genoese tugged at the chain on his breast and drew forth a whistle.  “Signore,” he said quietly and with another side glance at the Prince, “I do not know your name, but mine is Andrea Fornari, and I command the Genoese garrison at Nonza.  Having some inherited knowledge of the Corsicans, and some fifty years’ experience of my own, I do not walk into traps.  A dozen men of mine stand within call here, at the back entrance, and my whistle will call me up another fifty.  Bearing this in mind, you will state your business as peaceably as possible.”