“Sir John and I, left alone downstairs, took what we called a siesta, each in his chair, and Sir John’s chair by the shaded window.  For my part, I was glad enough for forty winks, and could have enlisted among the Seven Sleepers after those cruel four days in the mountains.  So, with Sir John’s permission, I dozed off; and sat up, by-and-by—­awake all of a sudden at the sound of my master’s stirring—­to see him at the window with his gun half-lifted to his shoulder, and away up the road a squad of Genoese soldiers marching down to relieve guard.

“With that there came a yell from the loft overhead.  I sprang up, rubbing my eyes, and, between rubbing ’em, saw Sir John lower his gun and stand back a pace.  The next instant—­thud, thud!—­over the eaves upon the roadway dropped Fett and Badcock and picked themselves up as if to burst in through the window.  No good!  A second later that ram was on top of them.

“How he had contrived to climb up the ladder and butt the pair over the roof, there’s no telling.  But there he was; and gathering up his legs from the fall as quick as lightning he headed them off from the house and up the road.  There was no violence.  So far as one could tell from the clouds of dust, he never hurt ’em once, but through the dust we could see the Genoese staring as he nursed the pair up the road straight into their arms.  The queer part of it,” wound up Billy, reflectively, “was that, after the first moment, Sir John had never the chance of a shot.  You may doubt me, gentlemen, but Sir John is a shot in a thousand, and, what with the dust and the confusion, there was never a chance without risk to human life.  The Genoese giving back, in less than half a minute the road was clear.”

“But what happened?” asked my uncle.

“Well, sir, this here Corsica being an island, it follows that they must have stopped somewhere.  But where there’s no telling.”

“You never saw them again.”

“Never,” said Billy, solemnly; and, having asked and received permission to light his pipe, resumed the tale.

“There being now no reason to loiter in Calenzana, we left the town next morning and rode along the hill tracks to Muro, when again we struck the high road running northward to the coast.  Sir John had sold Mr. Badcock’s mule to our hosts in Calenzana, and here in Muro he parted with our pair also, reck’nin’ it safer to travel the next stage on foot; since by all accounts we were about to skirt the Genoese outposts to the east of Calvi.  The Corsicans, to be sure, held and patrolled the high road (by reason that every week-day a train of waggons travelled along it with material for the new town a-building on the seashore, at Isola Rossa), yet not so as to guarantee it safe for a couple of chance riders.  Also Sir John had no mind to be stopped a dozen times and questioned by the Corsican patrols.  We kept, therefore, along the hills to the east of the road; and on our way, having halted and slept a night in an olive orchard about five miles from the coast, we woke up a little after daylight to the sound of heavy guns firing.