“My dear Mr. De Vinne:“I am very sorry to hear of the sudden death of your brother, and you have my deepest sympathy in your affliction. I came here with Mrs. Glynne, the wife of Mr. Clarence Glynne, the son of my guardian. You have, no doubt, heard that our little craft was run downin the Channel by a large vessel. By God’s providence we escaped. The vessel was under orders to proceed at once to Marseilles, and we could not land until they reached there. We arrived safely in Paris and I have been the guest of Countess Mont d’Oro. She has invited me to go with her to her estate in Corsica and we shall leave to-morrow. She says that a letter addressed to Alfieri, near Ajaccio, Corsica, will not fail of delivery.“Your friend,“Bertha Renville.”
“My dear Mr. De Vinne:
“I am very sorry to hear of the sudden death of your brother, and you have my deepest sympathy in your affliction. I came here with Mrs. Glynne, the wife of Mr. Clarence Glynne, the son of my guardian. You have, no doubt, heard that our little craft was run downin the Channel by a large vessel. By God’s providence we escaped. The vessel was under orders to proceed at once to Marseilles, and we could not land until they reached there. We arrived safely in Paris and I have been the guest of Countess Mont d’Oro. She has invited me to go with her to her estate in Corsica and we shall leave to-morrow. She says that a letter addressed to Alfieri, near Ajaccio, Corsica, will not fail of delivery.
“Your friend,“Bertha Renville.”
“Ha!” said the Count. “A very fortunate find. So they have gone to Corsica. Well, I have as much right to visit Corsica as they have and I think I will go. Vivienne says that she does not love me and that if I make love to anybody else our engagement is off; but I don’t believe it will turn out that way. Corsican women are all jealous. If she finds that I am flirting with some one else, she will probably begin to love me a little, and if I keep up the affair, in time she may become madly infatuated. By St. Christopher, what fun it will be, and how my honoured mother will enjoy it.”
The next day there was a violent storm of wind and rain. The Count did not venture out. “I will get ready for my visit to Corsica,” he said to himself. About noon he was summoned by Timothée, who said a gentleman wished to see him in the library.
The visitor was a stout man with a full, round face, made even fuller and rounder by a thick beard.
“I wish to see the Countess Mont d’Oro.”
“I regret to say, sir, that she is absent from the city. I am Count Mont d’Oro, her son.”
“Is Miss Renville here?” was the next inquiry.
“She has been my mother’s guest—they have gone together.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” said the stout man. “I am Mr. Thomas Glynne, of Buckholme, in Berkshire. I am the young lady’s guardian. She ran away from home with the intention, I think, of marrying a chance acquaintance—an unworthy young man—and I have come to Paris to take her home with me as I have a right to do, under the law.”
“Who is this unworthy young man?” asked the Count.
“His name is De Vinne.”
“I judge,” said the Count, “from something I have heard, that she is in love with him. I know that she writes to him and that she was expecting him here before she left Paris.”
“Shall I presume too much upon your kindness,” said Mr. Glynne, “if I ask you where my ward has gone?”
The Count did not answer the question. “You say, Mr. Glynne, that your ward and this young man were but chance acquaintances; why is he so anxious to marry her—because she is beautiful, because she is rich, or both?”
Mr. Glynne thought that the truth might improve his position. “She has a large fortune in her own right—forty thousand pounds in our money; about a million francs in yours.”
The Count gave a long, low whistle. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but that would make a fine dowry.”
“If Mr. De Vinne comes to Paris, I presume you will tell him where my ward has gone?”
“Well, really, I do not think I shall,” said the Count. “The information came into my possession in rather a peculiar manner and I must protect the person who gave it to me. You will be surprised, sir, at something I am going to tell you. I have met Miss Renville and I have fallen in love with her myself. I did not know at the time that she was wealthy, but that makes littledifference to me; in fact, no difference at all, for I have money enough of my own and would marry her without a dowry as soon as with one. Who has charge of her fortune?”
“I have,” answered Mr. Glynne.
“And no doubt you would like to keep it.” The Count smiled as he uttered the words. The smile was contagious and one flickered across Mr. Glynne’s fat, round face.
“I should not be human,” he replied, “if I would not.”
“Well,” said the Count, “two heads are better than one. I will make a bargain with you. If you will give your consent to my marrying your ward, and will help me to bring about that happy event, I will take her without a dowry and you may keep the money. Is it a bargain?”
“I must confess that such a course of action would be very agreeable to me.”
“Well, I shan’t tell you,” said the Count, “where your ward is. I will take you with me, if you will go. I will leave you in a place several miles distant from where I know she is living, and you must remain there until I have had time to prosecute my suit. At the critical moment I shall call upon you for your assistance. Is that plan satisfactory to you?”
“Perfectly,” said Mr. Glynne.
“If Mr. De Vinne comes to Paris,” said the Count, “he will find it difficult to ascertain your ward’s whereabouts. We shall leave for our destination to-morrow morning; in the meantime I shall be pleased to have you as my guest.”
The next day the allies started upon their journey, one influenced by thoughts of love, the other by thoughts of gold.
It is an old saying that the devil leaves his followers half-way. Even the most astute of men will do somefoolish thing that upsets his plans. Count Mont d’Oro was no exception to the rule.
Jacques, the coachman, had told the truth. He was devoted to the Countess and she trusted him implicitly. No sooner was Jacques certain that the Count had left the house than he made his way to his master’s rooms. He ransacked them from one end to the other. “He would not take it with him,” he soliloquised. “Perhaps he destroyed it. I have looked over carefully everything that came from his room, but it was not there. He has had no fire and he could not have burned it. Ah! I have not looked into that,” he exclaimed, as he espied a square wooden box on the top of a chiffonier. In a moment it was in his possession. It was locked, but Jacques had brought a screw-driver with him for possible use, and the cover was soon wrenched off. It was full of letters.
“He read my letter,” said Jacques, “I will read his.” There were daintily written and perfumed epistles, love letters from ladies of thehaut ton, both married and single, who now wished, no doubt, that their missives were back in their own hands or burned. Jacques threw them aside one after another. “Bah!” he exclaimed, “what a miserable flirt he is. I am so sorry he caught me and found out where that beautiful young lady is gone; but the Countess will protect her.” Suddenly he gave a cry of delight. At the bottom of the box was the letter for which he had been searching.
As fate willed it, on the afternoon of the same day, Mr. Jack De Vinne, heir to the Earldom of Noxton, presented himself at the residence of Countess Mont d’Oro in Paris. He had been to Buckholme, had seen Clarence, and learned from his wife that Mr. Thomas Glynne had gone to Paris in search of his ward.
“He is gone to bring her back,” said Jennie. “I do not know whether English law holds in France or not, but they say possession is nine points of the law, and Iam sure the Countess will not give her up if there is any way of keeping her.”
It so happened that it was the French Jacques who admitted the English Jack.
The Countess’s faithful servitor placed the letter in the hands of the one for whom it was intended, explaining, as best he could, how it came to be opened.
“The Count and a big, stout man went away this very morning. They may have gone to Corsica, but I do not know.”
Jack felt sure that they had, and the next morning he was on his way thither.
Ifone could rise in the air like a bird and look down upon the island of Corsica, he might think that he saw before him the petrified skeleton of some great marine monster. From north to south, through the centre of the island, runs a ridge of mountains resembling a spinal column, while upon either side of this central ridge branch a number of shorter parallel ridges bearing a close resemblance to the ribs of such an animal. In each of these valleys, near the central ridge, are the sources of small rivers which run east or west, as the case may be, into the Mediterranean Sea. The banks are composed of alluvial soil, and, for that reason, near the sea the rivers widen out, covering large areas of land which become marshes, full, at certain seasons of the year, of pestilential vapours, the cause of disease and death among the inhabitants. The sides of the mountains and the borders of the adjacent ravines are covered by dense masses of shrubbery and groves or forests of trees. In Australia, the outlaw, fleeing from justice, takes refuge in “the bush,” from which circumstance he has derived the characteristic name of “bushranger.” On the other hand, the Corsican outlaws or banditti take refuge, when pursued by the officers of the law, in themaquis, which, in the Corsican vernacular, has the same meaning as the Australian “bush.”
In one of the deepest of the ravines on the western side of the central ridge of mountains which traverses the island of Corsica, a band of some twenty men wasassembled. They were nondescript in appearance, each being dressed after a fashion of his own, although there was one point of resemblance between them, for each was armed with a rifle, had a pair of pistols in his belt, and a closer examination would have revealed a stiletto hidden away beneath the folds of his shirt or jacket. They were what they appeared to be—Corsican banditti or, in other words, outlaws—men wanted by the police—chiefly for murder.
And yet they were different from the usual banditti which infest Corsica, as a closer acquaintance with their leader will soon determine. He was a man of gigantic stature and the possessor of great physical strength. He was seated apart from the members of his band in company with his lieutenant, a man much smaller in size, but muscular and agile, as a natural result of a continual outdoor life.
The leader was called Cromillian. No one of his band supposed that this was his real name, but he offered no explanation and none was asked. He had suddenly appeared in Corsica, gathered a band of trusted followers, and for a year had carried on a peculiar system of brigandage. As the plan followed by him supplied his adherents with the means of subsistence, they ventured no criticism of his peculiar manner of doing business, although they often wondered among themselves as to what the final outcome of it would be.
The lieutenant’s name was Paoli, and, although next in command to Cromillian, he had no clearer idea of his leader’s ultimate object than had the other members of the band. The wild, roving life suited him and he was content to remain where he was, for he had long ago forfeited his rights as a law-abiding citizen and was a marked man in the eyes of the emissaries of the law.
It is a natural characteristic of some people, when they have nothing else to do, to think of the presentor to look forward to the future; but a Corsican, when he has time for contemplation, always reverts to the past. When he recalls it, he does not dwell upon its pleasant features, but, if possible, fastens his thoughts upon some real or imaginary wrong which he fancies his ancestors or his friends have suffered.
An American Indian, when contemplating an attack upon his enemies, precedes active hostilities by singing a war song, and the Corsican unconsciously resembles him by singing, or rather chanting, a recital of past wrongs or injuries, followed by a unique vocal declaration of his intention to secure reparation or execute vengeance for such acts.
The Corsicans are strong partisans. They not only take part in the feuds with which their own families are connected, but embrace the causes of other families to which they are not related, but to which, for some reason or other, they become attached.
Paoli sat upon a log, his hands tightly clasped together, gazing up at the sky through a rift in the branches of the trees. There was a wild look in his eye, such as might be seen in those of some religious devotee. Suddenly, as though under the influence of some magic power or spell, he found voice. The words of his chant, orvocero, as it is called by the Corsicans, certainly boded no good fortune to a person named Vandemar, who was referred to therein:
“Place on the wall before my bed my cross of honour well gained. To my sons, my sons in a far country, convey my cross and bloody vest. He, my first-born, will see the rents—for each rent, a rent in another shirt, a wound in another’s heart! Vengeance! The hour of vengeance is nigh! Make ready his bed in the valley of skulls. He comes, the last of his race, but he comes to his couch with a stain on his shroud, only to die. The vendetta, the spirit of vendetta is awake; it has slept too long. Blood for blood! The noble house of Batistelli no longer shall bear the dread reproach ofrimbeccare. The stain shall now be washed away in blood. Vandemar Della Coscia must die!”
Cromillian’s attention had been attracted by the first words of the chant and he listened intently to theimprovisatore. When Paoli ceased, he turned and approached him:
“Thy heart rebukes thee whilst thou singest. There are whispers of other orgies than those thou hast sung. I, too, can improvise. Now listen, Paoli, and remember that I never chant the ancient gabble of old women and silly girls. I will make my own songs and, better still, I will make them come true, every word true. Listen, and be sure that you do not forget.
“The noble young Vandemar returns, returns to his native mountains, to the home of his childhood, to the friends who have waited so long to embrace him. But no sooner do his feet touch the shores, the green banks of his early home, than the hungry vultures are on his track eager to drink the red blood in his veins. But the eagle will turn to defend his life. He will not die. The death song will resound for his enemies, the vengeful tribe of the Batistellis. Even this clown, this fool Paoli, will change the tone of his song, ere long! Ere long!!”
Paoli took his chief’s words pleasantly. “Hold on!” he cried. “Don’t you know that they have an adage among the French: ‘Never hit a man when he is down’?” As he said this, he arose:
“I am, as you well know, a descendant of the great Paoli, at whose name all Corsica thrilled, a just man, and the most distinguished general in the world.”
“It is a great pity,” said Cromillian, sarcastically, “that he is not living, and here to give advice to his kinsman. I know not whether it is an adage, but it is a well-known fact that the sons and grandsons of great men seldom resemble them.”
“Your wits are too much for me,” said Paoli, “but please have the grace to hear me out. It was a maxim of my illustrious ancestor that every citizen should constitute himself a soldier and defend his rights by force of arms. Not to avenge wrongs committed against one’s own blood or that of his friends, has always been deemed by the Corsicans to denote a coward. I am a true son of Corsica and, for that, you call me a clown, a fool. If you and I were not sworn friends, there might be cause for a coolness between us. Heed this now, and say whether I was right or wrong.
“My dearest friend, Antonio Marcelli, had a beautiful sister, Vinetta. A man from Bastia, named Ossa d’Oria, came to Ajaccio. He was young and handsome, and reputed to be a single man. Young Vinetta was misled by him and, to conceal her shame, committed suicide. I wrote to Antonio, but he was down sick with a fever and unable to return to Corsica. I made my friend’s cause my own and went to Bastia. I found that I was to be deprived of a sweet revenge, for the scoundrel had been drowned while bathing. His father was dead and he had no brothers or near relatives. But he had a wife. What was I to do?”
“That was embarrassing,” Cromillian remarked. “What did you do?”
“This was one of the cases,” answered Paoli, “where the flint of your gun must serve you. I put a ball through the head of the wife. That is what I call good old Corsican justice. Then I took to the mountains, and here I am, a jolly bandit like yourself.”
Cromillian turned upon him, savagely: “You call that justice? I call it murder! Cold-blooded murder!! This savage custom of vengeance executed upon relatives for wrongs committed by an ancestor, the lives of sons sacrificed for fancied wrongs alleged against fathers, has been the curse and blight of Corsica for the last five hundred years. The vendetta, that hydra-headed monster, strikes its fangs deep into the heart of every Corsican child before it is able to lisp its own name. Mothers lull their babies to sleep crooning the death song, nurses inflame their young imaginations with frightful stories of blood, revenge, and death. It has grown with their growth, strengthened with their strength, until to-day we stand before the world distinguished only as being the most savage, the most barbarous people upon the face of this fair earth.”
“Do they say that of us?” asked Paoli.
“Listen!” said Cromillian, “I read in an old newspaper when I was in France that if the island of Corsica could vomit forth all the blood which has been poured out upon its soil, in the course of time, in the vendetta and on the field of battle, it would overwhelm its cities and villages, drown its people, and crimson the sea from its shores to Genoa. Six hundred and sixty-six thousand slain by the hand of the assassin alone! Dost like the picture?”
“Well,” said Paoli, “what are we going to do about it? We take up life where our fathers left it.”
“There is going to be a change, a reformation!” cried Cromillian. “I, with my single arm, with the help of God, will commence the work. There will, necessarily, be much bloodshed at first—there always has been in every case where great evils were to be overcome. My life will be sacrificed, but it will be in a good and merciful cause, and when I shall have done my work, some other man will take it up just where I leave it, and so it will go on until your children’s children and mine may be able to look a civilised man in the face.”
“Are you in earnest?” asked Paoli. “Do you mean it?”
“Mean it!” cried Cromillian. “Why did I leave a comfortable home in England, where I lived like a gentleman, to come here and turn bandit? Was it toplunder, to rob, to execute vengeance? Answer me, Paoli. Why am I a voluntary outlaw, destined to know no other home on earth but that which the clefts in the rocks and mountains or themaquisafford me? Say, is it to rob, think you?”
“No, no, not that, surely!” cried Paoli. “I have been with you for a year and I know that you have only taken from the rich in order to give to the poor. I know you have so frightened several who had declared the vendetta and were on the tracks of their would-be victims that they have given up the pursuit. I have seen what you have done, although I could not understand your method. But what is to be our next work, if it is not an impertinent question?”
Cromillian eyed his interrogator closely: “Well,” he said finally, “you have, undoubtedly, heard the rumour that Vandemar Della Coscia is to visit his native land, which he has not seen since he was a child.”
“Yes, I know that,” said Paoli, “and I know that the Batistellis will declare the vendetta against him if he dares to come. Now, my father was a friend of Conrad Batistelli, and I am a friend of the brothers, Pascal and Julien. I gave my word to my father on his death-bed that I would be true to the Batistellis, and their cause is my cause. If Pascal and Julien declare that Vandemar must die, I shall aid them. If I do not, I shall be false to the oath given to my father.”
“You can do as you please,” replied Cromillian, “but, from what I have told you, you know that I shall consider it my duty to protect Vandemar from the Batistellis, and from you. Besides, how do you know that Manuel Della Coscia killed Conrad Batistelli?”
“Why, there can be no doubt of it!” cried Paoli. “Was not Conrad found in his own field, stabbed to the heart by a stiletto, upon the handle of which were found the initials of Manuel Della Coscia? And did he not confess his guilt by fleeing from the island, taking hislittle son with him? I cannot understand why Vandemar can have the temerity to return to Corsica when the case against his father and himself is so strong. He simply invites the doom which surely awaits him.”
“I do not think he comes for any such reason,” said Cromillian. “I think the result of his visit will be to show that his father was innocent of that crime and that the Batistellis have no cause for enmity against him.”
“He will have no time to prove that,” answered Paoli. “As soon as the Batistelli brothers know that he is in Corsica, his death will be but a question of a few hours.”
“But supposing they do not know him?” said Cromillian. “Supposing they do not recognise him?”
“I am sure that I should know him,” replied Paoli. “I knew his father well, and the sons of Corsicans too closely resemble their fathers to render his recognition improbable.”
“I am not a rich man, as you know,” said Cromillian, “but I’ll wager ten louis d’or, Paoli, that, if you saw Vandemar Della Coscia, you would not know him.”
“But if I do,” cried Paoli, “and I point him out to the Batistellis, do I get the ten louis d’or?”
“If you point him out to me first,” said Cromillian, “you will get the ten louis d’or. If you point him out to anybody else, what you will get will be determined hereafter. Is it a wager?” he asked.
“It is,” cried Paoli, and the men shook hands.
Paoli could not refrain from referring again to the vendetta between the Batistellis and the Della Coscias.
“The Batistellis are rich and powerful,” he began, “and who is there so bold as to think of contending against them?”
“I dare!” cried Cromillian. “I will shed every drop of my blood to prevent such diabolical injustice.”
“But not with your single arm?” questioned Paoli. “None could be found rash enough to join you in so mad a scheme.”
“Yes, one will,” answered Cromillian, “one who is trusty and true—my Protector!”
“Your Protector?” Paoli asked, inquiringly.
“There is my Protector,” said Cromillian, pointing to his gun, “a double-barrelled orator who preaches the gospel right into a man every time. Of what use are the tongues of a hundred missionaries? When the gospel is preached in Corsica to-day, it must spring from the muzzle of a gun or the point of a stiletto; it must be forced into the people with leaden balls or shining steel. Come to my heart, faithful guardian!” As he spoke, he embraced his weapon with fervour: “Thou wilt be true to poor Corsica, and to me, defender of the right, protector of the innocent, friend of the poor, merciful to the just, who smiteth only to bless. Dear Goddess, I love thee! Swear that thou wilt be true to me; speak, let me hear thy voice.” Raising his weapon, he discharged both barrels. Then he continued: “Sweeter to my ears is thy voice than the cooing of doves.”
On the evening of the same day, and at about the same hour at which the colloquy had taken place between Cromillian and his lieutenant, Countess Mont d’Oro and Bertha had come to what was called, by the inhabitants of Alfieri, Mont d’Oro Castle.
It is usually dispiriting to arrive late in the afternoon at a house with which you have previously been unacquainted. The glorious morning sun is needed to bring out local beauties and points of interest which escape the attention when day is waning. Besides, Bertha was weary and nervous. The passage from Marseilles to Ajaccio had been made upon a sailing vessel, the accommodations of which were far from palatial. To add to their discomfiture, a storm had overtaken them and the qualms of seasickness had been added to their other troubles. Again, the ride from Ajaccio to Altieri had been made in a tumble-down vehicle over a rough road, and the Countess declared that every bone in her body was aching when she reached home. To this remark Bertha silently assented, for she said to herself that if the Countess felt any worse than she did, she must be miserable indeed.
There being no actual head to the household during the Countess’s absence, it was in a most disordered condition at the time of their arrival, and considerable time passed before the energetic orders of the mistress secured a semblance of household unity and led to the preparation of a supper for the weary travellers.
Bertha retired early to her room. It was comfortable, even cosey, being located upon the third floor in one of those towers which are characteristic features of Corsican architecture. It was with a feeling of great relief that Bertha threw herself upon the couch; but she could not sleep. After a long period of wakefulness and tossing, she arose and went to the latticed window. The moon was shining brightly. She opened the lattice and looked out upon the beautiful grounds which surrounded the castle.
Suddenly, she started back. A high hedge divided the grounds belonging to the Mont d’Oro estate from that adjoining, but, from her elevated position, she commanded a full view of the grounds of the neighboring estate. The house was fully as imposing as that of Countess Mont d’Oro; in fact, more so, for while the Mont d’Oro mansion was built of wood, the one upon which she was now gazing was constructed of stone and seemed, as it was, a much more substantial building.
But it was not the building which had attracted her attention, although it presented an imposing appearance, lighted by the moon, with the portions in shadowaccentuating the sharp contrasts. No, what caught her eye and riveted her attention was the figure of a young girl dressed in white, who, standing in the moonlight, looked like some spirit rather than a human being. Bertha partially closed the lattice, leaving only a narrow space through which she could watch the strange figure, which stood motionless. She could not see the girl’s face, for it was turned in the opposite direction and her dark hair, which was unfastened, shrouded even the side of her face from view.
It seemed a long time to Bertha that she sat there and watched the motionless figure. Suddenly, the sound of a voice fell upon her ear. She listened and, although she could not understand the words, she knew by the melody and the manner in which the song was sung that it was a boisterous drinking song. The voice came nearer, and soon the figure of a man entered the grounds where the young girl stood. At sight of him, she started forward with a glad cry which was distinctly audible to Bertha. Had she been waiting for a lover? The figure in white approached the man and threw her arms about his neck, but, to Bertha’s surprise, the man repelled her advances, pushing her away from him with such violence that she fell to the ground.
Bertha started to her feet, full of indignation. It seemed as though she must go to the assistance of the young girl who had been so cruelly treated. She quickly realised the impossibility of such an action on her part and, resuming her seat, watched to see what would happen. The young girl rose slowly to her feet and disappeared within a doorway. The man, whoever he was, was evidently so intoxicated as to be unable to maintain a standing position, for, after several efforts to reach the door through which the young girl had gone, he lost his balance and fell prone to the ground. A few minutes later, the girl emerged from the doorway, accompanied by an old man and an old woman, and by their combinedefforts the drunken man was taken into the house, and the door closed behind them.
The next morning, after breakfast, while sitting in the Countess’s boudoir, Bertha could not refrain from giving an account of what she had seen the previous night.
“Oh, that is a common occurrence,” said the Countess. “The girl whom you saw was Vivienne Batistelli. The drunken man was her younger brother, Julien, who is going to the bad very fast, they say. Her elder brother, Pascal, is very correct in his habits, although of a very bitter and revengeful disposition. Julien is a happy-go-lucky sort of fellow, intent upon having a good time. As is often the case, the sister has no love for her elder brother, but bestows it all upon this young profligate. I used to do the same when my son was young.
“For a time, I thought he could do no wrong, no matter how badly he acted, but when he showed such complete disregard for my wishes, when he told me plainly that he intended to do as he pleased, no matter what I said or what I wished, there came a revulsion. Although I am his mother, I am not ashamed to say that instead of loving him, I came to hate the sight of him, and am never happy when he is near me. He is virtually betrothed, with the consent of her brother Pascal, to this Vivienne Batistelli, but that would make no difference to him if he saw another young face that pleased him. He is a consummate flirt, if no worse.
“I sincerely hope that nothing will happen to bring him here to Corsica; but if he does come, he will find that I am mistress of this castle, and that he cannot remain in it, unless with my permission.”
WhenCromillian uttered his fervent invocation to his gun and then discharged both barrels into the air, he may have thought that his lieutenant, Paoli, would have signified his allegiance to the cause, and his endorsement of the sentiments expressed by a similar declaration, and an equally vociferous attestation, but if such a thought was in Cromillian’s mind, he was destined to be disappointed. The lieutenant evinced no surprise at Cromillian’s procedure and said nothing.
Cromillian’s next speech was a marked drop to the commonplace:
“I wonder where Lulie is? She was to bring some food for us to this place. If she does not come, we shall have to share with the others. There is a savoury smell in the air, so I think we shall not go hungry.”
Cromillian’s favourite haunt in the ravine was only about five miles from Alfieri, but this fact was, of course, unknown to the villagers, who seldom came in that direction. A band of four shepherds, however, in search of some stray sheep, was unconsciously within a short distance of Cromillian’s camp at the time he was waiting for the appearance of Lulie.
The search for the sheep was unsuccessful and the shepherds, inwardly cursing their luck, were on their way homeward.
“They are probably at the bottom of the river, or perhaps they have gone up the mountain,” said one of the men.
“Perhaps,” replied another; “but I am inclined tothink that some of Cromillian’s band came across them and we shall never see or hear of them again.”
The second speaker was right. Three of the carcasses were hanging from the limb of a tree where Cromillian’s band was encamped, while the other had given forth the savoury smell which had been noticed by Cromillian.
The second speaker went on: “Corsicans used to be considered brave men, but we might as well call ourselves cowards if we much longer allow this Cromillian and his band to lord it over us, and tell us what we shall do and what we shall not do.”
“What has Cromillian done to you?” asked the first speaker. “Perhaps we have more reason to complain than you have. I do not think I am a coward, but when it comes to dealing with Cromillian, I think discretion is the better part of valour. But what has he done to you?”
“Nothing, yet,” the other replied; “but I suppose my time will come. He knows I have some property and that when a man owes me money I follow it up until I get it. If a man has money or property, Cromillian seems to be his natural enemy. Why, it was only day before yesterday that old Lamont showed me a note he had received from Cromillian. It was short and to the point: ‘Send the Widow Nafilet a bag of flour and a quarter of beef.’ This impudent piece of paper was signed ‘Cromillian.’”
“What did old Lamont do?” asked the first speaker. “Did he tear the letter in pieces and tell Cromillian to go to the devil?”
“Hardly,” was the reply. “He did not tell me what he did, but Jean said that within fifteen minutes after he got the letter, Lamont told him to take the flour and beef over to the widow as soon as possible.”
The first speaker laughed: “Yes, and I think if you had received the letter you would have done just asold Lamont did. I had the honour, about six months ago, to receive a note from Cromillian, commanding me to marry a certain girl who claimed that I had wronged her. Perhaps I had, but that was my business, was it not?”
“Yes, yes, to be sure it was,” said the others. Then one of them asked: “But what did you do?”
“T married her,” was the reply.
There was a general laugh, in which the speaker joined; then the third shepherd said:
“My experience with Cromillian was not a very pleasant one; in fact, I carried about with me, for fully a week, some very uncomfortable reminders. You see for nearly two hundred years there has been a vendetta between my family and that of the Bendelas. The Bendelas have all died out with the exception of the widow, whom you all know, and her little son, who is about ten years old, I think. Less than a month ago I happened to meet him and, having my sheep-staff with me, gave him a good pounding from which I did not suppose he could recover. I left him in the forest, feeling quite sure that he would die there, but as it so happened that rascal Cromillian found him, and the boy told him that I was the one who had struck him. Three days afterwards, as I was coming home from Ajaccio, one dark night, Cromillian and his gang captured me. They took me into themaquis, bound me to a tree, and Cromillian himself gave me thirty sturdy whacks upon the back. Then he dismissed me with the polite admonition that if I touched the boy again he would shoot me at sight.”
“Have you met the boy since?” asked one of the shepherds.
“Oh, yes, often,” was the reply. “About a week ago I called upon the Widow Bendela and told her that I would consider the vendetta closed and that she need have no fear for her boy in the future. He, on hispart, promised that he would bear no ill-will against me or mine.”
“You got off quite easily,” said the fourth shepherd. “Do you see that?” As he spoke, he raised a matted shock of hair from the right side of his head, disclosing the fact that his right ear had been cut off.
“Why, how did that happen?” all three cried in unison.
“Well, you see,” was the reply, “like my friend, I inherited a vendetta. One day I thought I had a remarkably good chance to bring down my enemy. I had come up behind him, and he had no idea of my presence. I am considered a good shot, but I missed it that time. Instead of hitting him in the back of the head, as I intended, the ball struck his right ear and lacerated it so that the greater part of it had to be removed by the surgeon. Somehow or other Cromillian got wind of the affair. Four of his band caught me one day and carried me into themaquis. Cromillian gave me a long lecture on the foolishness and criminality of the vendetta and then told me he would give me something to remember his words by; and he did, for one of the band took his stiletto and cut off my right ear. I have only one good ear now, but I have a good memory and I do not think I shall forget what Cromillian said on that occasion.”
“Ha, who comes here?” cried one of the men. As he spoke a little girl, apparently about ten years of age, and bearing a basket which seemed to be heavily laden, approached them.
“Ah, my little girl,” said one of them, “what’s in your basket?” As he spoke he took it from her and tore off the cloth which covered it. “Cold tongue, venison, bread, butter, cake, chicken pie.”
The shepherds gathered around the basket and looked upon its contents.
“A feast fit for an emperor,” said one.
The little girl began to cry. “I’ll tell uncle if you don’t give me back my basket. He is waiting for me.”
“Who is your uncle, little girl?” was the next question.
“Uncle Cromillian,” said Lulie.
The four men started back, with frightened looks in their faces. “There, we’re only fooling,” said one of them. “See, we have not touched a thing. We were only in play, you know.”
“Just in fun,” said another. “Here, take this,” passing her a small coin.
“Uncle will not allow me to take money,” said Lulie.
“Who has the care of you, little girl?” asked one of the men.
“Uncle Cromillian takes care of mother and me and little brother, since father died. He is not my uncle, but he says I may call him so if I want to, and so I do because he takes care of us.”
“Say, friends,” said the man with one ear, “you have heard of the old feud between the Batistellis and the Della Coscias. There will be blood shed in Alfieri before many days have passed. Let’s find out by this little chick which way the wind blows.”
“No, no, no,” cried the others, “you must not question her. She will tell her uncle.”
“Do you take me for a fool? No, there need be no questions, but, if the matter is talked about before her, do you see, I shall ask her to improvise for our amusement. No doubt she chants like a thrush and may hit the keynote for us. Come here, little girl. Now, I think you can chant aballatafor us, can you not?”
“I have but a poor gift, but if only Chennelly Baptiste were here she would charm you. She is called the very bestvoceratricein the village. That is why she is sent for to attend all the funerals; she has the gift, you know.”
“But surely you can give us a few lines about something that has happened or that is going to happen. No doubt your mother has told you about the old corporals who lived hundreds of years ago and——”
Suddenly, the girl cried: “Oh, I have thought of something! Hark, now:
“The big oak has fallen by the frost and the snow, but its roots shot forth a branch and the branch has become an oak. He now rules his father’s house, the noble house of Della Coscia. There shall no evil come to him, for Heaven will protect him. The wicked Batistellis shall die if they bring any harm to Vandemar!”
“You have sung very prettily, my little girl,” said the shepherd who had asked her to improvise. “We are much obliged to you, but you had better go right along, for Uncle Cromillian is waiting for his dinner.”
The speaker looked after Lulie until she had disappeared from sight; then, turning to the others, he said:
“Ah! I thought so, but we shall see. If I mistake not, we are all partisans of the Batistellis, for surely it is to our interest to be on the side of the most powerful family in this part of Corsica. Now that Count Mont d’Oro is dead there is no one to dispute Pascal Batistelli’s authority in Alfieri.”
“You forget Cromillian,” said one of the shepherds.
“I think that Pascal Batistelli is a match for Cromillian,” was the reply. “If Vandemar Della Coscia dares to set foot in Corsica again, Pascal Batistelli will have his life before Uncle Cromillian has time to interfere. Then we shall all have the laugh on Uncle Cromillian.”
It was fully a fortnight after the departure of Countess Mont d’Oro and Bertha from Paris, that Clarence Glynne received a letter announcing their safe arrival in Corsica. It was written by Bertha and he read it with great interest:
“My Dear Kind Friends, Clarence and Jennie:“It is with a heart overflowing with gratitude that I address you thus, for I seem almost lost in this great world. I have been here only a few days, but have learned in that time that this is a very strange country. Hate, instead of love, seems to be the ruling passion among Corsicans. Countess Mont d’Oro hates her own son, and, so far as I can learn, everybody hates somebody else. But perhaps I ought not to criticise them too severely. Have you had any word from Mr. De Vinne, or from my guardian, your father? I know that you will send me information regarding them as soon as possible, but the suspense in which I live from day to day is dreadful.“The Mont d’Oro estate is beautiful in so far as nature can make it so, and the one that adjoins it, owned by the Batistelli family, is even more lovely. As the story goes, about seventeen years ago, the father, Conrad Batistelli, was assassinated by a man named Manuel Della Coscia. The same day that he was killed his daughter Vivienne was born. When the mother learned of the death of her husband, she became insane and died in that condition, leaving the little girl fatherless and motherless. Everybody calls Manuel Della Coscia a coward for, immediately after killing Conrad Batistelli, he left the island secretly, taking with him his little son Vandemar, who was about six years of age at the time, and they have not been heard from since. Every true-hearted Corsican execrates the name of Della Coscia, for in Corsica when a man kills his enemy he is supposed to be brave enough to remain and give the friends of his enemy a chance to kill him. There is a rumour that Vandemar Della Coscia is soon to return to Corsica, and Countess Mont d’Oro tells me that the Batistelli brothers will kill him at sight if he dares to come. I am not acquainted with the Batistellis, nor do I wish to become so, with the prospect of such aterrible event as the assassination of this young man at their hands.“The Countess tells me that her husband and Pascal Batistelli were very anxious that her son, Count Napier, should wed Vivienne Batistelli; and, according to the custom of the country, they arranged a betrothal, irrespective of the wishes of the young people. The Countess says that Vivienne came to her one day and told her that under no circumstances could she ever marry her son, and it was solely for that reason the Countess induced Count Napier to accompany her to Paris, where, as you know, he is living a wild life. He still considers himself betrothed to Vivienne, but the Countess hopes that he will forget her and not come back to Corsica again.“With love to you both, I am yours, with great affection,“Bertha Renville.”
“My Dear Kind Friends, Clarence and Jennie:
“It is with a heart overflowing with gratitude that I address you thus, for I seem almost lost in this great world. I have been here only a few days, but have learned in that time that this is a very strange country. Hate, instead of love, seems to be the ruling passion among Corsicans. Countess Mont d’Oro hates her own son, and, so far as I can learn, everybody hates somebody else. But perhaps I ought not to criticise them too severely. Have you had any word from Mr. De Vinne, or from my guardian, your father? I know that you will send me information regarding them as soon as possible, but the suspense in which I live from day to day is dreadful.
“The Mont d’Oro estate is beautiful in so far as nature can make it so, and the one that adjoins it, owned by the Batistelli family, is even more lovely. As the story goes, about seventeen years ago, the father, Conrad Batistelli, was assassinated by a man named Manuel Della Coscia. The same day that he was killed his daughter Vivienne was born. When the mother learned of the death of her husband, she became insane and died in that condition, leaving the little girl fatherless and motherless. Everybody calls Manuel Della Coscia a coward for, immediately after killing Conrad Batistelli, he left the island secretly, taking with him his little son Vandemar, who was about six years of age at the time, and they have not been heard from since. Every true-hearted Corsican execrates the name of Della Coscia, for in Corsica when a man kills his enemy he is supposed to be brave enough to remain and give the friends of his enemy a chance to kill him. There is a rumour that Vandemar Della Coscia is soon to return to Corsica, and Countess Mont d’Oro tells me that the Batistelli brothers will kill him at sight if he dares to come. I am not acquainted with the Batistellis, nor do I wish to become so, with the prospect of such aterrible event as the assassination of this young man at their hands.
“The Countess tells me that her husband and Pascal Batistelli were very anxious that her son, Count Napier, should wed Vivienne Batistelli; and, according to the custom of the country, they arranged a betrothal, irrespective of the wishes of the young people. The Countess says that Vivienne came to her one day and told her that under no circumstances could she ever marry her son, and it was solely for that reason the Countess induced Count Napier to accompany her to Paris, where, as you know, he is living a wild life. He still considers himself betrothed to Vivienne, but the Countess hopes that he will forget her and not come back to Corsica again.
“With love to you both, I am yours, with great affection,
“Bertha Renville.”
Thepost-chaises which conveyed Count Mont d’Oro and Thomas Glynne reached Marseilles two days sooner than did the slow-moving vehicle in which Jack De Vinne was a passenger. The Count and his companion were again fortunate in finding a vessel just ready to sail for Ajaccio, while Jack was detained two days after his arrival before he could find a vessel bound for the desired port. For these reasons, the Count and Thomas Glynne reached Corsica some five days sooner than did Jack.
Before their arrival the Count had decided that he would not take his companion to the hotel in Ajaccio. He was so well known in the town that he knew the presence of his foreign-looking companion would be sure to cause comment. Again, what one person in Ajaccio knew, soon everybody knew, and he did not care to have the news of his arrival reach his mother until he was able to present himself in person.
He was acquainted with a Corsican named Savoni, who lived upon a side street quite a distance from the centre of the town. Savoni was a widower with one daughter. His wife had been the victim of a vendetta, and the daughter had come near meeting the same fate as her mother. She had received a severe blow upon the head from which she had never fully recovered. She was able, however, to attend to her household duties and had the reputation of being one of the best cooks in Corsica. Count Mont d’Oro’s life in Paris had made him abon vivant, and he knew by experience that, although the beds in the hotel at Ajaccio were clean and comfortable, the fare was not of a high order of excellence. It was, therefore, to Savoni’s house that he took Thomas Glynne and made arrangements for him to remain there until he should send for him to come to Mont d’Oro Castle.
The second day after his arrival in Corsica, the Count suddenly made his appearance at the home of his mother, to her great astonishment and to the dismay of Bertha Renville. The mother uttered no word of welcome. Her first inquiry was: “What brought you down here without an invitation?”
“I came as most travellers do,” was the reply, “by post-chaise from Paris to Marseilles, by sailing vessel from Marseilles to Ajaccio, and, to show that I am still an able-bodied young man, I came from that town on foot. I am, naturally, somewhat tired and deucedly hungry, and so, if you have no objection, my good mother, I will go down and get a lunch.”
Suiting the action to the word, he bowed to the ladies, who had not yet recovered from their astonishment, and withdrew. For several minutes after the Count’s departure, the ladies said nothing. Then the Countess spoke:
“He won’t tell me what he came for, so I shall have to find it out myself. Have you formed any opinion?” she asked, turning to Bertha.
“Why, certainly not,” said the young girl. “But from what you have told me, I should naturally say that he came to see his mother.”
“As you know that is not the case,” and there was a bitter smile upon the face of the Countess, “it must be that he came to see somebody else.”
Bertha may have divined the Countess’s meaning, but she did not propose to acknowledge it, so she said:
“Such being the case, his object is probably to see Mademoiselle Batistelli, to whom he is betrothed.”
“Perhaps so,” was the reply, “but we shall see,” and, by mutual consent, the subject was dropped.
As the vessel upon which Jack De Vinne was a passenger was approaching the quay, the young man caught sight of Mr. Thomas Glynne. His personal appearance, despite the false beard, was not materially changed, and he recognised him easily.
“Will he know me?” was Jack’s first thought.
Before leaving Paris he had procured a pair of spectacles of coloured glass to wear during the trip from Marseilles to Ajaccio, to shade his eyes from the glare of the sun on the water. He resolved to keep them on as a measure of disguise. He brought his portmanteau from his cabin, but delayed his departure from the vessel until he saw Mr. Glynne turn and walk leisurely towards the town; then Jack landed, keeping some distance behind him. Jack was debating in his mind whether he should go directly to the hotel, even if Mr. Glynne was also a guest there, when he saw the latter turn down a side street.
When Jack reached the hotel, he decided that he would still further conceal his identity by giving an assumed name. His command of the French language was so good that he felt he could easily pass for a native-born Frenchman, so, for the nonce, Jack De Vinne became Andrea Fortier.
The dinner was simple but substantial, and after it was over Jack went to his room to decide upon his future course of action. It filled him with happiness when he reflected that he could not be very far from Bertha Renville. If it had not been for the presence of her guardian he would have at once made inquiries as to where Countess Mont d’Oro lived, and have gone to the house; but the fact that Mr. Glynne was in Corsica showed that he must proceed cautiously in taking the next step. Glynne had no doubt learned that hisniece was in Corsica, and was there upon the same errand as himself. In the afternoon the sky grew overcast, and soon a heavy rain-storm set in; Jack decided that he would postpone making any inquiries until the following morning.
When the bright sun heralded the advent of a new day, it not only gave a warm glow to the face of nature, but lighted up a scene of unwonted activity in the harbour. Riding therein was a great vessel, one of Old England’s invincible frigates, the port-holes indicating that it carried an armament of fully sixty guns, while the floating pennant showed that no less a personage than a British admiral was on board. The vessel was theOsprey, commanded by Admiral Sir Gilbert Enright. Acting under orders from the Admiralty, he had been visiting certain stations in the Mediterranean, Ajaccio being on his list.
The Admiral was accompanied by his only daughter, Helen. Before the departure of theOspreyfrom England, Miss Enright was convalescent after a severe illness. The Admiral had desired that some one else should be placed in command of theOsprey, as he did not wish to leave his daughter, whose health was not fully restored. To his great delight, one of the Admiralty, who was a personal friend, suggested that nothing would do Miss Enright so much good as a sea voyage, and, at his suggestion, permission was given by the Admiralty for the Admiral’s daughter to accompany him on the voyage.
Miss Enright was nearly thirty years of age, tall, thin, sallow, and with but few claims to personal beauty. She was a character, in a way. From her earliest years, Helen Enright had been a student. She loved to learn, and learned to love learning for its own sake. There were no colleges for women in those days, but her father was wealthy and she had been supplied with competent tutors in every line of study that shechose to undertake. She had a passion for mathematics. Her literary recreation was history, and there were few women of her age in England who could solve knotty mathematical problems or pass so severe an examination as she could have done in the history of England and the Continental countries.
The voyage had restored her strength, and she had evinced a desire to become acquainted with the technical details of the vessel which her father commanded, and with the principles of navigation. Her father’s duties were such that he could not devote the required time necessary to give her the desired instruction, so, at her suggestion, for her father usually allowed her to have her own way in everything, one of the officers was detailed to act as her tutor in seamanship. That officer was Lieutenant Victor Duquesne.
Miss Helen, of course, had met him before at the Naval Academy and at her father’s house, and was much pleased at his selection, for he had impressed her as being very handsome, very polite, and very dignified, and although she did not, as a rule, care much for the society of young men, on one occasion she found herself lamenting the fact that he was so young. Victor was but twenty-three. Perhaps the cause of her lamentation was the knowledge that she was seven years older than he, which, to her eminently practical mind, was an insuperable obstacle to an intimacy extending beyond the limits of—friendship.
It was late that morning when Jack arose and gazed out of his window and found that the quay was crowded with the inhabitants of Ajaccio. Jack’s first inclination was to join them. Then he reflected that Mr. Glynne would undoubtedly be there, and he wished to avoid all possibility of recognition until he had seen Bertha. He decided, therefore, to go downstairs and see if he could learn anything about the new arrival and the reason for the appearance of that formidable warship at thatport. He found the landlord in a state of pleasurable excitement.
“What vessel is that in the bay?” inquired Jack.
“That,” answered the landlord, “is the British shipOsprey, commanded by Admiral Enright, and I have been notified that the Admiral, with his daughter and one officer, will dine at the hotel and possibly pass the night here.”
“TheOsprey! Admiral Enright!” exclaimed Jack, excitedly. “Why, that is Victor’s ship. How fortunate!”
“What’s that?” inquired the landlord.
“Nothing,” answered Jack, abruptly. “I was only saying that I think I know one of the officers. What a dunce!” he commented to himself as he walked away, “but then I have been through so much since I parted from Victor, and then to think that my quest of Bertha should bring us both together again in this town! How strange! What a mighty little world this is, after all.”
He could scarcely contain himself, yet he felt that the only plan for him would be to await the arrival of the ship’s officers and ascertain if Victor was aboard. He did not wish to run the risk of meeting Mr. Glynne, so he returned to his room and passed the time in gazing out of the window toward the harbour, and in watching the crowd of people passing to and fro.
Towards noon a boat put off from the warship. Jack eagerly watched the craft as it neared the shore and was lost to his sight. Shortly, the crowd parted and three people were seen coming up the quay. One was a stout gentleman with a very florid face, wearing the undress uniform of a British admiral, while upon one side of him was a young lady, and on the other side was—yes—Victor!
Jack grabbed his hat and ran downstairs, but as he reached the veranda he suddenly, with great restraint, subdued his intense excitement, and as the three visitors approached, Jack stood quietly by the entrance of the hotel, hoping thus to accentuate Victor’s surprise, and at the same time conjuring up in his own mind the effect the meeting would have on his bosom friend. They had just reached the steps when Victor happened to look up and straight into the eyes of Jack!
Victor recoiled, as from a shock, gave another earnest look, then, neglecting all formalities, darted forward with both hands extended. “Jack!” he exclaimed.
“Old fellow,” cried Jack, “thisisa pleasure.”
“Well, well, well!” exclaimed Victor, totally at a loss what else to say, while in his intense gaze was a veritable compound of inquiry, surprise, and delight. At once recollecting himself, he placed his hand on Jack’s shoulder and turned to Admiral Enright. “Admiral Enright, permit me the honour of presenting to you my very closest friend, Mr. John De Vinne.”
“Mr. De Vinne, I am most happy to make your acquaintance,” said the Admiral, grasping Jack warmly by the hand. Then turning to his daughter, he said: “Mr. De Vinne, permit me to present you to my daughter, Miss Helen.”
Miss Enright graciously acknowledged the introduction.
The landlord now appeared and escorted the quartet to the hotel parlour, much to the chagrin of the curious crowd that had gathered outside the door.
After a few generalities had been indulged in, dinner was announced. To Jack was accorded the pleasant duty of escorting Miss Enright to dinner. The Admiral occupied the post of honour at the head of the table, with Victor on his left.
After the conclusion of the meal the Admiral’s daughter excused herself as she wished to rest for a while, and the Admiral also repaired to his room to attend to matters in connection with his visit. This left the young men to their own devices.
“Come right up to my room, Vic,” exclaimed Jack.
Slamming the door behind them, he threw his hat on the bed and motioned Victor to a seat and said: “Now, old boy, I have got you all to myself. How is it the fates have thrown us together?”
“You are the one to explain,” said Victor. “I am here in obedience to my father’s request, as you well know, but when I last saw you, you had as much idea of coming to Ajaccio as you had of visiting Hades.”
“Yes, I know,” exclaimed Jack. “You are right, but much has happened since we parted, which you should understand. I am now heir to the Earldom of Noxton.” He then, at length, made Victor acquainted with the death and burial of his brother, the escape of Bertha from her guardian and her flight to Corsica. “I arrived here but yesterday,” he concluded, “and to-morrow I shall search her out. Your father lives here, I believe,” he said.
“I don’t know,” answered Victor. “When I arrived at Malta I received a letter from my father forwarded to me from the Admiralty, which requested me to announce my arrival here in a note which I was to address to one Cromillian, my father saying that this man Cromillian was a friend of his and would see that the message reached him. I am in a quandary as to just what to do. I must leave early in the morning, commissioned by the Admiral to present a letter of introduction to Monsieur Batistelli. This will take a couple of days, for which I am very sorry, as I should like to send this letter to Cromillian at the earliest possible moment.”
“I’ll tell you,” said Jack. “You write the letter, Vic, and I will undertake to deliver it in the morning, and at the same time, possibly, I can secure information as to the whereabouts of Countess Mont d’Oro and, consequently, Bertha.”
“And will you do this?” cried Lieutenant Duquesne.
“What the ancient Pylades did for the ancient Orestes the modern Pylades will do for you,” answered Jack warmly.
“Thank you, my dear friend,” cried Lieutenant Duquesne, as he grasped Jack by the hand, “I can think of no service which would be more highly appreciated by me.”
The two friends, as may be imagined, found plenty of topics on which to converse, and before they parted that night Lieutenant Duquesne wrote his note and placed it in an envelope with the name Cromillian on the outside. “I have more time now,” he said, “than I shall have in the morning.”
They then bade each other good-night and Victor went to his room.
Jack was greatly excited by the course of events and sat down by the window. It was a bright, moonlight night. He felt that he must do something to quiet his mental agitation. He put on his hat and walked out of the hotel, scarcely noticing what course he was taking. He walked on until he found himself upon the quay. The great hull of theOspreyloomed up before him, the bright rays of the moon lighting up the vessel as if it were noonday.
He glanced downward and saw his full-length shadow projected upon the rough planks of the quay. The thought came to him that he did not wish to stand out in such bold relief, and he quickly sought a part of the quay where the shadows were almost impenetrable.
Hardly had he done so, when he heard the plashing of oars. In a moment, he saw a boat containing two men approaching the quay. When they reached the wharf, they stood for several minutes without speaking, but looking intently at the British frigate. Jack was not more than ten feet from them and, when they did speak, every word uttered was overheard by him.
“Just like those Englishman,” one of them said. “Ifthey know anything, they won’t tell you, and if they don’t, they can’t tell you, so you learn nothing either way. I did my best to find out from that sentry whether Lieutenant Duquesne was on board, but not a word could I get out of him; only to come to-morrow, between eleven and twelve. But we can’t go to-morrow, for Cromillian told me that he had some important work on hand which would take us away to the south for a week.”
“I don’t see that we can do any more,” said the other man, “except to tell him that we can’t find out anything. He is a just man, is Cromillian, and he won’t blame us if we have done all that we can do.”
“I would go up to the hotel,” said the first speaker, “and see if this Lieutenant is there, but the landlord knows me, and so do all the servants, and, if I ask for the Lieutenant, they would immediately surmise that he was connected in some way with Cromillian, and the Captain, you know, cautioned us both to do nothing that would show that he knew the Lieutenant or anything about him.”
Jack waited to hear no more. The Fates had been kind. Here was his opportunity. Without stopping to think how reckless his conduct was, he stepped forward from his dark retreat and placed a hand on each of the speakers. Quick as lightning, they stepped back and pulling out their stilettos, stood facing him. Then Jack realised his narrow escape, for a Corsican usually strikes first and asks for explanations afterwards.
“Put up your weapons,” he said, in the mildest tone he could assume, although his voice was agitated. “I overheard what you said, but I am a friend.”
“You will have to prove that before we believe it,” said one of the men, and they still held their stilettos in position for ready use.
“I am a friend of Lieutenant Duquesne, the manwhom you seek, and also have a letter from him which he has asked me to take to the man whose name is Cromillian. Here, look at this and you will see that I have spoken the truth.”
He took the letter from his pocket and showed it to the men.
“Is that all right?” asked one of the men, turning to the other. “You know I cannot read.”
The second man took the letter and scanned it closely.
“Yes,” he said, “that’s the name on the letter—Cromillian. What do you want us to do? To take the letter to Cromillian?”
“No,” said Jack, “I gave my word to Lieutenant Duquesne that I would deliver it to Cromillian myself. What better proof can you have of my good faith than my willingness to go with you?”
“That’s so,” said one of the men, and the other one nodded his assent. They sheathed their stilettos.
“When can you go?” asked one of them.
“At once,” replied Jack.
“Come along then,” was the command. “Are you good for a six-mile tramp over a rough road?”
“I have walked a much longer distance than that over worse roads than I have seen here,” was Jack’s reply.
“Come along then,” said one of the men. “Here, take your letter.”
Jack put it in his coat pocket and prepared to follow the men, but they had their ideas as to the precise manner in which the journey should be performed. Each of the men took one of Jack’s arms within his own, and thus, half captive and half supported, Jack began his march.
As they walked on, he felt somewhat elated at the course which events had taken, but his feelings of satisfaction would have given place to others of a different nature if he could have looked behind him and seen thefigure which came stealthily forward from out a shadow as dense as that which had enfolded Jack, and not more than twenty feet from where the latter had stood.
Thomas Glynne kept the trio in sight. They were not likely to look back unless he approached them too closely, and it was easy for him to look forward.
“I never should have known him,” said Glynne to himself. “He seems changed somehow, but when he spoke I recognised his voice at once. My young man, I do not know what you are up to and the man they call Cromillian, but you evidently do not know what you are up to any more than I do. It is a good maxim, when you find a trail to follow it and trust to luck for the result. I shall probably get back to town before the Count sends for me to go to the house. I am sure he is a rascal at heart; but, if I can’t keep her from marrying Mr. Jack De Vinne I’ll know the reason why.”
The next morning, Lieutenant Duquesne went to Jack’s room and knocked. There being no response to repeated summonses of like nature, he tried the latch, and the door yielded. He looked in, and started back in astonishment. The bed had not been slept in, yet there was evidence that the occupant intended to return, for his portmanteau was open and several articles which he had taken from it were upon the table. Lieutenant Duquesne was much excited on making this discovery. He at once sought the landlord:
“Did my friend, Mr. Fortier, tell you last night, before he went out, that he was to be gone for any length of time?”
“Gone?” queried the publican. “Has he gone?”
“I do not know where he has gone or how long he intends to stay,” said the Lieutenant, a little nettled, “but he did not sleep in his room last night, which looks as though he intended to return.”
“Well,” said the landlord, “the room is his for a week, and he can come back when he gets ready. Hepaid me in advance. If he doesn’t come back when his time is up, I shall lock up his effects and charge him for storage until I get my money,” said the landlord.
“No doubt but you will do that,” said the Lieutenant, “but I am a little anxious to know what has become of him. Do you know when he went out? I hope no harm has come to him.”
“I went to bed early last night,” said the landlord, “but I will ask some of the servants.”
Inquiry failed to find any one who had seen Mr. Fortier leave the hotel, and Lieutenant Duquesne was obliged to content himself with the reflection that possibly the young man had started at once to perform the mission which he had intrusted to him. Once more, he went in search of the landlord:
“If my friend, Mr. Fortier, doesn’t come back at the end of the week, I wish you to lock the door, leaving the articles therein just where he left them. I will be responsible for the rent of the room, at least until our vessel sails.”
“It doesn’t make any difference who pays the bills, so long as I get my money,” said the landlord.
Lieutenant Duquesne ascertained the shortest road which would lead him to the Batistelli castle, and, having secured a saddle-horse, started to perform the mission which Admiral Enright had intrusted to him—the presentation of a letter of introduction which he bore from Lord Colton, the Admiral’s cousin.
Pascal Batistelli received the young man graciously. The head of the house of Batistelli was a man about forty years of age, with a naturally constrained expression and a forbidding manner; but he was well versed in the requirements of polite society, and he probably remembered that, when he had visited London, many years before, in search of Manuel Della Coscia and his son, soon after the death of his father, he had received many attentions and much assistancefrom Lord Colton, to whom he had been introduced by the French ambassador. The time had now come for him to reciprocate the courtesy, and he assured Lieutenant Duquesne that it would give him great pleasure to receive Admiral Enright and his daughter as his guests, and he added, as the thought came to him that this young man might be a suitor, or possibly the accepted lover, of the Admiral’s daughter: