Orso wore his new clothes at breakfast, and during that meal he told his sister that his trunk contained a certain number of books, that he was going to send to France and Italy for others, and intended she should study a great deal.

“For it really is disgraceful, Colomba,” he added, “that a grown-up girl like you should still be ignorant of things that children on the mainland know as soon as they are weaned.”

“You are right, brother,” said Colomba.  “I know my own shortcomings quite well, and I shall be too glad to learn—­especially if you are kind enough to teach me.”

Some days went by, and Colomba never mentioned the name of Barricini.  She lavished care and attention on her brother, and often talked to him about Miss Nevil.  Orso made her read French and Italian books, and was constantly being surprised either by the correctness and good sense of her comments, or by her utter ignorance on the most ordinary subjects.

One morning, after breakfast, Colomba left the room for a moment, and instead of returning as usual, with a book and some sheets of paper, reappeared with her mezzaro on her head.  The expression of her countenance was even more serious than it generally was.

“Brother,” she said, “I want you to come out with me.”

“Where do you want me to go with you?” said Orso, holding out his arm.

“I don’t want your arm, brother, but take your gun and your cartridge-pouch.  A man should never go abroad without his arms.”

“So be it.  I must follow the fashion.  Where are we going?”

Colomba, without answering, drew her mezzaro closer about her head, called the watch-dog, and went out followed by her brother.  Striding swiftly out of the village, she turned into a sunken road that wound among the vineyards, sending on the dog, to whom she made some gesture, which he seemed to understand, in front of her.  He instantly began to run zigzag fashion, through the vines, first on one side and then on the other, always keeping within about fifty paces of his mistress, and occasionally stopping in the middle of the road and wagging his tail.  He seemed to perform his duties as a scout in the most perfect fashion imaginable.

“If Muschetto begins to bark, brother,” said Colomba, “cock your gun, and stand still.”

Half a mile beyond the village, after making many detours, Colomba stopped short, just where there was a bend in the road.  On that spot there rose a little pyramid of branches, some of them green, some withered, heaped about three feet high.  Above them rose the top of a wooden cross, painted black.  In several of the Corsican cantons, especially those among the mountains, a very ancient custom, connected, it may be with some pagan superstition, constrains every passer-by to cast either a stone or a branch on the spot whereon a man has died a violent death.  For years and years—­as long as the memory of his tragic fate endures—­this strange offering goes on accumulating from day to day.