He sat for a long time motionless, with his head on his hand, thinking over the scenes of the last fortnight of his life.  He saw, with alarm, how every one seemed to be watching what would be his behaviour to the Barricini.  Already he began to perceive that the opinion of Pietranera was beginning to be the opinion of all the world to him.  He would have to avenge himself, or be taken for a coward!  But on whom was he to take vengeance?  He could not believe the Barricini to be guilty of murder.  They were his family enemies, certainly, but only the vulgar prejudice of his fellow-countrymen could accuse them of being murderers.  Sometimes he would look at Miss Nevil’s talisman, and whisper the motto “Life is a battle!” over to himself.  At last, in a resolute voice, he said, “I will win it!” Strong in that thought, he rose to his feet, took up the lamp, and was just going up to his room, when he heard a knock at the door of the house.  It was a very unusual hour for any visitor to appear.  Colomba instantly made her appearance, followed by the woman who acted as their servant.

“It’s nothing!” she said, hurrying to the door.

Yet before she opened it she inquired who knocked.  A gentle voice answered, “It is I.”

Instantly the wooden bar across the door was withdrawn, and Colomba reappeared in the dining-room, followed by a little ragged, bare-footed girl of about ten years old, her head bound with a shabby kerchief, from which escaped long locks of hair, as black as the raven’s wing.  The child was thin and pale, her skin was sunburnt, but her eyes shone with intelligence.  When she saw Orso she stopped shyly, and courtesied to him, peasant fashion—­then she said something in an undertone to Colomba, and gave her a freshly killed pheasant.

“Thanks, Chili,” said Colomba.  “Thank your uncle for me.  Is he well?”

“Very well, signorina, at your service.  I couldn’t come sooner because he was late.  I waited for him in the maquis for three hours.”

“And you’ve had no supper?”

“Why no, signorina!  I’ve not had time.”

“You shall have some supper here.  Has your uncle any bread left?”

“Very little, signorina.  But what he is most short of is powder.  Now the chestnuts are in, the only other thing he wants is powder.”

“I will give you a loaf for him, and some powder, too.  Tell him to use it sparingly—­it is very dear.”

“Colomba,” said Orso in French, “on whom are you bestowing your charity?”

“On a poor bandit belonging to this village,” replied Colomba in the same language.  “This little girl is his niece.”

“It strikes me you might place your gifts better.  Why should you send powder to a ruffian who will use it to commit crimes?  But for the deplorable weakness every one here seems to have for the bandits, they would have disappeared out of Corsica long ago.”

“The worst men in our country are not those who are ‘in the country.’”