“I wonder when, precisely, the world began to regard it as a crime to kill an Englishman?”

The parchment on the bones of his face wrinkled into a sort of smile.  His greatest friend on the Riviera was this pipe-smoking Briton.

Then suddenly, with a nimble gesture that one would not believe possible in the aged, he stripped back his sleeve and exhibited a long, curiously twisted scar, as though a bullet had plowed along the arm.

“Alas, monsieur,” he said, “I myself live in the most primitive condition of society!  I pay a tribute for life . . . .  Ah! no, monsieur; it is not to the Camorra that I pay.  It is quite unromantic.  I think my secretary carries it in his books as a pension to an indigent relative.”

He turned to the American

“Believe me, monsieur, my estates in Salerno are not what they were; the olive trees are old and all drains on my income are a burden — even this gratuity.  I thought I should be rid of it; but, alas, the extraordinary conception of justice in your country!”

He broke the cigarette in his fingers, and flung the pieces over the terrace.

“In the great range of mountains,” he began, “slashing across the American states and beautifully named the Alleghanies, there is a vast measure of coal beds.  It is thither that the emigrants from Southern Europe journey.  They mine out the coal, sometimes descending into the earth through pits, or what in your language are called shafts, and sometimes following the stratum of the coal bed into the hill.

“This underworld, monsieur — this, sunless world, built underneath the mountains, is a section of Europe slipped under the American Republic.  The language spoken there is not English.  The men laboring in those buried communities cry out sparate when they are about to shoot down the coal with powder.  It is Italy under there.  There is a river called the Monongahela in those mountains.  It is an Indian name.”

He paused.

“And so, monsieur, what happened along it doubtless reminded me of Cooper’s story — Bough of Oak and the case of Corporal Flint.”

He took another cigarette out of a box on the table, but he did not light it.

“In one of the little mining villages along this river with the enchanting name there was a man physically like the people of the Iliad; and with that, monsieur, he had a certain cast of mind not unHellenic.  He was tall, weighed two hundred and forty pounds, lean as a gladiator, and in the vigor of golden youth.

“There were no wars to journey after and no adventures; but there was danger and adventure here.  This land was full of cockle, winnowed out of Italy, Austria and the whole south of Europe.  It took courage and the iron hand of the state to keep the peace.  Here was a life of danger; and this Ionian — big, powerful, muscled like the heroes of the Circus Maximus — entered this perilous service.