“Ah, do not say that word, Miss Nevil.  I like the other far better.”

“Well, then, monsieur, I must tell you that without having tried to find out your secrets, I have learned some of them, and they grieve me.  I have heard, monsieur, of the misfortune which has overtaken your family.  A great deal has been said to me about the vindictive nature of your fellow-countrymen, and the fashion in which they take their vengeance.  Was it not to that the prefect was alluding?”

“Miss Lydia!  Can you believe it!” and Orso turned deadly pale.

“No, M. della Rebbia,” she said, interrupting him, “I know you to be a most honourable gentleman.  You have told me yourself that it was only the common people in your country who still practised the vendetta—­which you are pleased to describe as a kind of duel.”

“Do you, then, believe me capable of ever becoming a murderer?”

“Since I have mentioned the subject at all, Monsieur Orso, you must clearly see that I do not suspect you, and if I have spoken to you at all,” she added, dropping her eyes, “it is because I have realized that surrounded, it may be, by barbarous prejudices on your return home, you will be glad to know that there is somebody who esteems you for having the courage to resist them.  Come!” said she, rising to her feet, “don’t let us talk again of such horrid things, they make my head ache, and besides it’s very late.  You are not angry with me, are you?  Let us say good-night in the English fashion,” and she held out her hand.

Orso pressed it, looking grave and deeply moved.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “do you know that there are moments when the instincts of my country wake up within me.  Sometimes, when I think of my poor father, horrible thoughts assail me.  Thanks to you, I am rid of them forever.  Thank you! thank you!”

He would have continued, but Miss Lydia dropped a teaspoon, and the noise woke up the colonel.

“Della Rebbia, we’ll start at five o’clock to-morrow morning.  Be punctual!”

“Yes, colonel.”

CHAPTER V

The next day, a short time before the sportsmen came back, Miss Nevil, returning with her maid from a walk along the seashore, was just about to enter the inn, when she noticed a young woman, dressed in black, riding into the town on a small but strong horse.  She was followed by a sort of peasant, also on horseback, who wore a brown cloth jacket cut at the elbows.  A gourd was slung over his shoulder and a pistol was hanging at his belt, his hand grasped a gun, the butt of which rested in a leathern pocket fastened to his saddle-bow—­in short, he wore the complete costume of a brigand in a melodrama, or of the middle-class Corsican on his travels.  Miss Nevil’s attention was first attracted by the woman’s remarkable beauty.  She seemed about twenty years of age; she was tall and pale, with dark blue eyes, red lips, and teeth like enamel.  In her expression pride, anxiety, and sadness were all legible.  On her head she wore a black silk veil called a mezzaro, which the Genoese introduced into Corsica, and which is so becoming to women.  Long braids of chestnut hair formed a sort of turban round her head.  Her dress was neat, but simple in the extreme.