After a hasty conclave, the two herdsmen concluded their wisest plan was to throw the dead pig into a bog, and this project they carefully executed, after each had duly carved himself several slices out of the body of this innocent victim of the feud between the Barricini and the della Rebbia.

CHAPTER XVII

Once rid of his unruly escort, Orso proceeded calmly on his way, far more absorbed by the prospective pleasure of seeing Miss Nevil than stirred by any fear of coming across his enemies.

“The lawsuit I must bring against these Barricini villains,” he mused, “will necessitate my going down to Bastia.  Why should I not go there with Miss Nevil?  And once at Bastia, why shouldn’t we all go together to the springs of Orezza?”

Suddenly his childish recollections of that picturesque spot rose up before him.  He fancied himself on the verdant lawn that spreads beneath the ancient chestnut-trees.  On the lustrous green sward, studded with blue flowers like eyes that smiled upon him, he saw Miss Lydia seated at his side.  She had taken off her hat, and her fair hair, softer and finer than any silk, shone like gold in the sunlight that glinted through the foliage.  Her clear blue eyes looked to him bluer than the sky itself.  With her cheek resting on one hand, she was listening thoughtfully to the words of love he poured tremblingly into her ear.  She wore the muslin gown in which she had been dressed that last day at Ajaccio.  From beneath its folds peeped out a tiny foot, shod with black satin.  Orso told himself that he would be happy indeed if he might dare to kiss that little foot—­but one of Miss Lydia’s hands was bare and held a daisy.  He took the daisy from her, and Lydia’s hand pressed his, and then he kissed the daisy, and then he kissed her hand, and yet she did not chide him . . . and all these thoughts prevented him from paying any attention to the road he was travelling, and meanwhile he trotted steadily onward.  For the second time, in his fancy, he was about to kiss Miss Nevil’s snow-white hand, when, as his horse stopped short, he very nearly kissed its head, in stern reality.  Little Chilina had barred his way, and seized his bridle.

“Where are you going to, Ors’ Anton’?” she said.  “Don’t you know your enemy is close by?”

“My enemy!” cried Orso, furious at being interrupted at such a delightful moment.  “Where is he?”

“Orlanduccio is close by, he’s waiting for you!  Go back, go back!”

“Ho!  Ho!  So he’s waiting for me!  Did you see him?”

“Yes, Ors’ Anton’!  I was lying down in the heather when he passed by.  He was looking round everywhere through his glass.”

“And which way did he go?”

“He went down there.  Just where you were going!”

“Thank you!”

“Ors’ Anton’, hadn’t you better wait for my uncle?  He must be here soon—­and with him you would be safe.”