ring?  It is an Egyptian scarabaeus, found, if you please, in a pyramid.  That strange figure, which you may perhaps take for a bottle, stands for ’human life.’  There are certain people in my country to whom this hieroglyphic should appear exceedingly appropriate.  This, which comes after it, is a shield upon an arm, holding a lance; that means ‘struggle, battle.’  Thus the two characters, together, form this motto, which strikes me as a fine one, ‘Life is a battle.’  Pray do not fancy I can translate hieroglyphics at sight!  It was a man learned in such matters who explained these to me.  Here, I will give you my scarabaeus.  Whenever you feel some wicked Corsican thought stir in you, look at my talisman, and tell yourself you must win the battle our evil passions wage against us.  Why, really, I don’t preach at all badly!”

“I shall think of you, Miss Nevil, and I shall say to myself——­”

“Say to yourself you have a friend who would be in despair at the idea of your being hanged—­and besides it would be too distressing for your ancestors the corporals!”

With these words she dropped Orso’s arm, laughing and running to her father.

“Papa,” she said, “do leave those poor birds alone, and come and make up poetry with us, in Napoleon’s grotto!”

CHAPTER VIII

There is always a certain solemnity about a departure, even when the separation is only to be a short one.  Orso and his sister were to start very early in the morning, and he had taken his leave of Miss Lydia the night before—­for he had no hope that she would disturb her indolent habits on his account.  Their farewells had been cold and grave.  Since that conversation on the sea-shore, Miss Lydia had been afraid she had perhaps shown too strong an interest in Orso, and on the other hand, her jests, and more especially her careless tone, lay heavy on Orso’s heart.  At one moment he had thought the young Englishwoman’s manner betrayed a budding feeling of affection, but now, put out of countenance by her jests, he told himself she only looked on him as a mere acquaintance, who would be soon forgotten.  Great, therefore, was his surprise, next morning, when, as he sat at coffee with the colonel, he saw Miss Lydia come into the room, followed by his sister.  She had risen at five o’clock, and for an Englishwoman, and especially for Miss Nevil, the effort was so great that it could not but give him some cause for vanity.

“I am so sorry you should have disturbed yourself so early,” said Orso.  “No doubt my sister woke you up in spite of my injunctions, and you must hate us heartily!  Perhaps you wish I was hanged already!”

“No,” said Miss Lydia, very low and in Italian, evidently so that her father might not hear her, “but you were somewhat sulky with me yesterday, because of my innocent jokes, and I would not have you carry away an unpleasant recollection of your humble servant.  What terrible people you are, you Corsicans!  Well, good-bye!  We shall meet soon, I hope.”