It was long before Orso fell asleep, and as a consequence he woke late—late for a Corsican, at all events. When he left his bed, the first object that struck his gaze was the house of his enemies, and the archere with which they had furnished it. He went downstairs and asked for his sister.  
“She is in the kitchen, melting bullets,” answered Saveria, the woman-servant.
 
So he could not take a step without being pursued by the image of war.
 
He found Colomba sitting on a stool, surrounded by freshly cast bullets, and cutting up strips of lead.
 
“What the devil are you doing?” inquired her brother.
 
“You had no bullets for the colonel’s gun,” she answered, in her soft voice. “I found I had a mould for that calibre, and you shall have four-and-twenty cartridges² to-day, brother.”
 
“I don’t need them, thank God!”
 
“You mustn’t be taken at a disadvantage, Ors’ Anton’. You have forgotten your country, and the people who are about you.”
 
“If I had forgotten, you would soon have reminded me. Tell me, did not a big trunk arrive here some days ago?”
 
“Yes, brother. Shall I take it up to your room?”
 
“You take it up! Why, you’d never be strong enough even to lift it! . . . Is there no man about who can do it?”
 
“I’m not so weak as you think!” said Colomba, turning up her sleeves, and displaying a pair of round white arms, perfect in shape, but looking more than ordinarily strong. “Here, Saveria,” said she to the servant; “come and help me!”
 
She was already lifting the trunk alone, when Orso came hastily to her assistance.
 
“There is something for you in this trunk, my dear Colomba,” said he. “You must excuse the modesty³ of my gifts. A lieutenant⁴ on half-pay hasn’t a very well-lined purse!”
 
As he spoke⁵, he opened the trunk, and took out of it a few gowns, a shawl, and some other things likely to be useful to a young girl.
 
“What beautiful things!” cried Colomba. “I’ll put them away at once, for fear they should be spoiled. I’ll keep them for my wedding,” she added, with a sad smile, “for I am in mourning now!”
 
And she kissed her brother’s hand.
 
“It looks affected⁶, my dear sister, to wear your mourning for so long.”
 
“I have sworn an oath,” said Colomba resolutely⁷, “I’ll not take off my mourning. . . .” And her eyes were riveted⁸ on the Barricini mansion⁹.
 
“Until your wedding day?” said Orso, trying to avoid the end of her sentence.
 
“I shall never marry any man,” said Colomba, “unless he has done three things . . .” And her eyes still rested gloomily on the house of the enemy.
 
“You are so pretty, Colomba, that I wonder you are not married already! Come, you must tell me about your suitors. And besides, I’m sure to hear their serenades. They must be good ones to please a great voceratrice like you.”
 
“Who would seek the hand of a poor orphan¹⁰ girl? . . . And then, the man for whom I would change my mourning-dress will have to make the women over there put on mourning!”
 
“This is becoming a perfect mania,” said Orso to himself. But to avoid discussion he said nothing at all.
 
“Brother,” said Colomba caressingly¹¹, “I have something to give you, too. The clothes you are wearing are much too grand for this country. Your fine cloth frock-coat would be in tatters in two days, if you wore it in the maquis. You must keep it for the time when Miss Nevil comes.”
 
Then, opening a cupboard, she took out a complete hunting dress.
 
“I’ve made you a velvet¹² jacket, and here’s a cap, such as our smart young men wear. I embroidered¹³ it for you, ever so long ago. Will you try them on?” And she made him put on a loose green velvet jacket, with a huge pocket at the back. On his head she set a pointed¹⁴ black velvet cap, embroidered with jet and silk of the same colour, and finished with a sort of tassel¹⁵.
 
“Here is our father’s carchera”[*] she said. “His stiletto is in the pocket of the jacket. I’ll fetch you his pistol.”
 
     [*] Carchera, a belt for cartridges. A pistol is worn
     fastened to the left side of it.
“I look like a brigand¹⁶ at the Ambigu-Comique,” said Orso, as he looked at himself in the little glass Saveria was holding up for him.
 
“Indeed, you look first-rate, dressed like that, Ors’ Anton’,” said the old servant, “and the smartest pinsuto[*] in Bocognano or Bastelica is not braver.”
 
     [*] Pinsuto, the name given to men who wear the pointed cap,
     barreta pinsuta.
Orso wore his new clothes at breakfast, and during that meal he told his sister that his trunk contained a certain number of books, that he was going to send to France and Italy for others, and intended she should study a great deal.
 
“For it really is disgraceful, Colomba,” he added, “that a grown-up girl like you should still be ignorant of things that children on the mainland know as soon as they are weaned.”
 
“You are right, brother,” said Colomba. “I know my own shortcomings quite well, and I shall be too glad to learn—especially if you are kind enough to teach me.”
 
Some days went by, and Colomba never mentioned the name of Barricini. She lavished¹⁷ care and attention on her brother, and often talked to him about Miss Nevil. Orso made her read French and Italian books, and was constantly being surprised either by the correctness and good sense of her comments, or by her utter ignorance on the most ordinary subjects.
 
One morning, after breakfast, Colomba left the room for a moment, and instead of returning as usual, with a book and some sheets of paper, reappeared with her mezzaro on her head. The expression of her countenance¹⁸ was even more serious than it generally was.
 
“Brother,” she said, “I want you to come out with me.”
 
“Where do you want me to go with you?” said Orso, holding out his arm.
 
“I don’t want your arm, brother, but take your gun and your cartridge¹-pouch. A man should never go abroad without his arms.”
 
“So be it. I must follow the fashion. Where are we going?”
 
Colomba, without answering, drew her mezzaro closer about her head, called the watch-dog, and went out followed by her brother. Striding swiftly out of the village, she turned into a sunken road that wound among the vineyards, sending on the dog, to whom she made some gesture, which he seemed to understand, in front of her. He instantly began to run zigzag¹⁹ fashion, through the vines, first on one side and then on the other, always keeping within about fifty paces of his mistress, and occasionally stopping in the middle of the road and wagging his tail. He seemed to perform his duties as a scout²⁰ in the most perfect fashion imaginable.
 
“If Muschetto begins to bark, brother,” said Colomba, “cock your gun, and stand still.”
 
Half a mile beyond the village, after making many detours²¹, Colomba stopped short, just where there was a bend in the road. On that spot there rose a little pyramid of branches, some of them green, some withered²², heaped about three feet high. Above them rose the top of a wooden cross, painted black. In several of the Corsican cantons, especially those among the mountains, a very ancient custom, connected, it may be with some pagan superstition²³, constrains²⁴ every passer-by to cast either a stone or a branch on the spot whereon a man has died a violent death. For years and years—as long as the memory of his tragic²⁵ fate endures—this strange offering goes on accumulating from day to day.
 
This is called the dead man’s pile—his “mucchio.”
 
Colomba stopped before the heap of foliage²⁶, broke off an arbutus branch, and cast it on the pile.
 
“Orso,” she said, “this is where your father died. Let us pray for his soul!”
 
And she knelt down. Orso instantly followed her example. At that moment the village church-bell tolled²⁷ slowly for a man who had died during the preceding night. Orso burst into tears.
 
After a few minutes Colomba rose. Her eyes were dry, but her face was eager. She hastily crossed herself with her thumb, after the fashion generally adopted by her companions, to seal any solemn oath, then, hurrying her brother with her, she took her way back to the village. They re-entered their house in silence. Orso went up to his room. A moment afterward²⁸ Colomba followed him, carrying a small casket which she set upon the table. Opening it, she drew out a shirt, covered with great stains of blood.
 
“Here is your father’s shirt, Orso!”
 
And she threw it across his knees. “Here is the lead that killed him!” And she laid two blackened bullets on the shirt.
 
“Orso! Brother!” she cried, throwing herself into his arms and clasping him desperately²⁹ to her. “Orso, you will avenge³⁰ him!”
 
In a sort of frenzy³¹ she kissed him, then kissed the shirt and the bullets, and went out of the room, leaving her brother sitting on his chair, as if he had been turned to stone. For some time Orso sat motionless, not daring to put the terrible relics³² away. At last, with an effort, he laid them back in their box, rushed to the opposite end of his room, and threw himself on his bed, with his face turned to the wall, and his head buried in his pillow, as though he were trying to shut out the sight of some ghost. His sister’s last words rang unceasingly in his ears, like the words of an oracle³³, fatal, inevitable³⁴, calling out to him for blood, and for innocent blood! I shall not attempt to depict³⁵ the unhappy young man’s sensations, which were as confused as those that overwhelm a madman’s brain. For a long time he lay in the same position, without daring to turn his head. At last he got up, closed the lid of the casket, and rushed headlong out of the house, into the open country, moving aimlessly forward, whither he knew not.
 
By degrees, the fresh air did him good. He grew calmer, and began to consider his position, and his means of escape from it, with some composure. He did not, as my readers already know, suspect the Barricini of the murder, but he did accuse them of having forged Agostini’s letter, and this letter, he believed, at any rate, had brought about his father’s death. He felt it was impossible to prosecute³⁶ them for the forgery³⁷. Now and then, when the prejudices or the instincts of his race assailed³⁹ him, and suggested an easy vengeance—a shot fired at the corner of some path—the thought of his brother-officers, of Parisian drawing-rooms, and above all, of Miss Nevil, made him shrink from them in horror. Then his mind dwelt on his sister’s reproaches, and all the Corsican within him justified⁴⁰ her appeal, and even intensified⁴¹ its bitterness. One hope alone remained to him, in this battle between his conscience and his prejudices—the hope that, on some pretext⁴² or other, he might pick a quarrel with one of the lawyer’s sons, and fight a duel⁴³ with him. The idea of killing⁴⁴ the young man, either by a bullet or a sword-thrust reconciled his French and Corsican ideas. This expedient⁴⁵ adopted, he began to meditate⁴⁶ means for its execution, and was feeling relieved already of a heavy burden, when other and gentler thoughts contributed still further to calm his feverish⁴⁷ agitation⁴⁸. Cicero, in his despair at the death of his daughter Tullia, forgot his sorrow when he mused⁴⁹ over all the fine things he might say about it. Mr. Shandy consoled himself by discourses⁵⁰ of the same nature for the loss of his son. Orso cooled his blood by thinking that he would depict his state of mind to Miss Nevil, and that such a picture could not fail to interest that fair lady deeply.
 
He was drawing near the village, from which he had unconsciously travelled a considerable distance, when he heard the voice of a little girl, who probably believed herself to be quite alone, singing in a path that ran along the edge of the maquis. It was one of those slow, monotonous⁵¹ airs consecrated⁵² to funeral dirges⁵³, and the child was singing the words:
 
     “And when my son shall see again the dwelling⁵⁴ of his father,
     Give him that murdered father’s cross; show him my shirt blood-
     spattered.”
 
“What’s that you’re singing, child?” said Orso, in an angry voice, as he suddenly appeared before her.
 
“Is that you, Ors’ Anton’?” exclaimed the child, ra............