And as Orso made no response, she added:  “Our family was rich, in days gone by.  It is still one of the most respected in the island.  All these signori about us are bastards.  The only noble blood left is in the families of the corporals, and as you know, Orso, your ancestors were the chief corporals in the island.  You know our family came from beyond the hills, and it was the civil wars that forced us over to this side.  If I were you, Orso, I shouldn’t hesitate—­I should ask Colonel Nevil for his daughter’s hand.”  Orso shrugged his shoulders.  “With her fortune, you might buy the Falsetta woods, and the vineyards below ours.  I would build a fine stone house, and add a story to the old tower in which Sambucuccio killed so many Moors in the days of Count Henry, il bel Missere.”

“Colomba, you’re talking nonsense,” said Orso, cantering forward.

“You are a man, Ors’ Anton’, and of course you know what you ought to do better than any woman.  But I should very much like to know what objection that Englishman could have to the marriage.  Are there any corporals in England?”

After a somewhat lengthy ride, spent in talking in this fashion, the brother and sister reached a little village, not far from Bocognano, where they halted to dine and sleep at a friend’s house.  They were welcomed with a hospitality which must be experienced before it can be appreciated.  The next morning, their host, who had stood godfather to a child to whom Madame della Rebbia had been godmother, accompanied them a league beyond his house.

“Do you see those woods and thickets?” said he to Orso, just as they were parting.  “A man who had met with a misfortune might live there peacefully for ten years, and no gendarme or soldier would ever come to look for him.  The woods run into the Vizzavona forest, and anybody who had friends at Bocognano or in the neighbourhood would want for nothing.  That’s a good gun you have there.  It must carry a long way.  Blood of the Madonna!  What calibre!  You might kill better game than boars with it!”

Orso answered, coldly, that his gun was of English make, and carried “the lead” a long distance.  The friends embraced, and took their different ways.

Our travellers were drawing quite close to Pietranera, when, at the entrance of a little gorge, through which they had to pass, they beheld seven or eight men, armed with guns, some sitting on stones, others lying on the grass, others standing up, and seemingly on the lookout.  Their horses were grazing a little way off.  Colomba looked at them for a moment, through a spy-glass which she took out of one of the large leathern pockets all Corsicans wear when on a journey.

“Those are our men!” she cried, with a well-pleased air.  “Pieruccio had done his errand well!”

“What men?” inquired Orso.

“Our herdsmen,” she replied.  “I sent Pieruccio off yesterday evening to call the good fellows together, so that they may attend you home.  It would not do for you to enter Pietranera without an escort, and besides, you must know the Barricini are capable of anything!”