you find matters in your mountain home?  Is your North Tower still in its old place?  Are there any ghosts about it?  I ask all these questions because my father remembers you have promised him buck and boar and moufflon—­is that the right name for those strange creatures?  We intend to crave your hospitality on our way to Bastia, where we are to embark, and I trust the della Rebbia Castle, which you declare is so old and tumble-down, will not fall in upon our heads!  Though the prefect is so pleasant that subjects of conversation are never lacking to us—­I flatter myself, by the way, that I have turned his head—­we have been talking about your worshipful self.  The legal people at Bastia have sent him certain confessions, made by a rascal they have under lock and key, which are calculated to destroy your last remaining suspicions.  The enmity which sometimes alarmed me for you must therefore end at once.  You have no idea what a pleasure this has been to me!  When you started hence with the fair voceratrice, with your gun in hand, and your brow lowering, you struck me as being more Corsican than ever—­too Corsican indeed! Basta! I write you this long letter because I am dull.  The prefect, alas! is going away.  We will send you a message when we start for your mountains, and I shall take the liberty of writing to Signorina Colomba to ask her to give me a bruccio, ma solenne!  Meanwhile, give her my love.  I use her dagger a great deal to cut the leaves of a novel I brought with me.  But the doughty steel revolts against such usage, and tears my book for me, after a most pitiful fashion.  Farewell, sir!  My father sends you ‘his best love.’  Listen to what the prefect says.  He is a sensible man, and is turning out of his way, I believe, on your account.  He is going to lay a foundation-stone at Corte.  I should fancy the ceremony will be very imposing, and I am very sorry not to see it.  A gentleman in an embroidered coat and silk stockings and a white scarf, wielding a trowel—­and a speech!  And at the end of the performance manifold and reiterated shouts of ‘God save the King.’  I say again, sir, it will make you very vain to think I have written you four whole pages, and on that account I give you leave to write me a very long letter.  By the way, I think it very odd of you not to have let me hear of your safe arrival at the Castle of Pietranera!

“LYDIA.

“P.S.—­I beg you will listen to the prefect, and do as he bids you.  We have agreed that this is the course you should pursue, and I shall be very glad if you do it.”

Orso read the letter three or four times over, making endless mental comments each time as he read.  Then he wrote a long answer, which he sent by Saveria’s hand to a man in the village, who was to go down to Ajaccio the very next day.  Already he had almost dismissed the idea of discussing his grievance, true or false, against the Barricini, with his sister.  Miss Lydia’s letter had cast a rose-coloured