“I arrived then at the capital and found Count Ugo willing enough, though by no means eager, for the honour.  He was, in fact, a mild-mannered gentleman of no great force of character, and frequently interrupted our conference to talk of a bowel-complaint which obviously meant more to him than all the internal complications of Europe:  and next to his bowel-complaint—­but some way after—­he prized his popularity, which ever seemed more important than his country’s welfare:  or belike he confused the two.  He was at great pains to impress me with the sacrifices he had made for Corsica—­ which in the past had been real enough:  but he had come to regard them chiefly as matter for public speaking, or excuse for public bowing and lifting of the hat.  You know the sort of man, I dare say.  To pass that view of life, at his age, is the last test of greatness.

“Still, the notion of being crowned King of Corsica tickled his vanity, and would have tickled it more had he begotten a son to succeed him.  It opened new prospects of driving through crowds and bowing and lifting his hat:  and he turned pardonably sulky when the two Paolis treated my proposals with suspicion.  They had an immense respect for England as the leader of the free peoples:  but they wanted to know why in Tuscany I had not taken their Count Rivarola into my confidence.  In fact they were in communication with their plenipotentiary already, and half way towards another plan, of which very excusably they allowed me to guess nothing.

“The upshot was that my interference threw Count Ugo into a pet with them.  He only wanted them to press him; was angry at not being pressed; yet believed that they would repent in time.  Meanwhile he persuaded me to ride back with him to one of his estates, a palace above the valley of the Taravo.

“I know not why, but ever the vow of Jephthah comes to my mind as I remember how we rode up the valley to Count Ugo’s house in the hour before sunset.  ’And behold, his daughter came out to meet him with timbrels and with dances, and she was his only child.’  He had made no vow and was incapable, poor man, of keeping any so heroic; and she came out with no timbrel or dance, but soberly enough in her sad-coloured dress of the people.  Yet she came out while we rode a good mile off, and waited for us as we climbed the last slope, and she was his only child.

“How shall I tell you of her?  She helped my purpose nothing, for at first she was vehemently opposed to her father’s consenting to be king.  Her politics she derived in part from the reading of Plutarch’s Lives and in part from her own simplicity.  They were childish, utterly:  yet they put me to shame, for they glowed with the purest love of her country.  She has walked on fiery ploughshares since then; she has trodden the furnace, and her beautiful bare feet are seared since they trod the cool vintage with me on the slopes above the Taravo. . . .  Priske, open the first of those