his own country, and described it well.  Corsica, which he had left when young, to go first to college, and then to the Ecole militaire, had remained in his imagination surrounded with poetic associations.  When he talked of its mountains, its forests, and the quaint customs of its inhabitants he grew eager and animated.  As may be imagined, the word vengeance occurred more than once in the stories he told—­for it is impossible to speak of the Corsicans without either attacking or justifying their proverbial passion.  Orso somewhat surprised Miss Nevil by his general condemnation of the undying hatreds nursed by his fellow-countrymen.  As regarded the peasants, however, he endeavoured to excuse them, and claimed that the vendetta is the poor man’s duel.  “So true is this,” he said, “that no assassination takes place till a formal challenge has been delivered.  ‘Be on your guard yourself, I am on mine!’ are the sacramental words exchanged, from time immemorial, between two enemies, before they begin to lie in wait for each other.  There are more assassinations among us,” he added, “than anywhere else.  But you will never discover an ignoble cause for any of these crimes.  We have many murderers, it is true, but not a single thief.”

When he spoke about vengeance and murder Miss Lydia looked at him closely, but she could not detect the slightest trace of emotion on his features.  As she had made up her mind, however, that he possessed sufficient strength of mind to be able to hide his thoughts from every eye (her own, of course, excepted), she continued in her firm belief that Colonel della Rebbia’s shade would not have to wait long for the atonement it claimed.

The schooner was already within sight of Corsica.  The captain pointed out the principal features of the coast, and, though all of these were absolutely unknown to Miss Lydia, she found a certain pleasure in hearing their names; nothing is more tiresome than an anonymous landscape.  From time to time the colonel’s telescope revealed to her the form of some islander clad in brown cloth, armed with a long gun, bestriding a small horse, and galloping down steep slopes.  In each of these Miss Lydia believed she beheld either a brigand or a son going forth to avenge his father’s death.  But Orso always declared it was some peaceful denizen of a neighbouring village travelling on business, and that he carried a gun less from necessity than because it was the fashion, just as no dandy ever takes a walk without an elegant cane.  Though a gun is a less noble and poetic weapon than a stiletto, Miss Lydia thought it much more stylish for a man than any cane, and she remembered that all Lord Byron’s heroes died by a bullet, and not by the classic poniard.