Meanwhile Orso was riding along beside his sister. At first the speed at
which their horses moved prevented all conversation, but when the hills
grew so steep that they were obliged to go at a foot’s pace, they
began to exchange a few words about the friends from whom they had just
parted. Colomba spoke with admiration of Miss Nevil’s beauty, of her
golden hair, and charming ways. Then she asked whether the colonel
was really as rich as he appeared, and whether Miss Lydia was his only
child.
“She would be a good match,” said she. “Her father seems to have a great
liking for you----”
And as Orso made no response, she added: “Our family was rich, in days
gone by. It is still one of the most respected in the island. All these
_signori_ about us are bastards. The only noble blood left is in the
families of the corporals, and as you know, Orso, your ancestors were
the chief corporals in the island. You know our family came from beyond
the hills, and it was the civil wars that forced us over to this side.
If I were you, Orso, I shouldn’t hesitate--I should ask Colonel Nevil
for his daughter’s hand.” Orso shrugged his shoulders. “With her
fortune, you might buy the Falsetta woods, and the vineyards below ours.
I would build a fine stone house, and add a story to the old tower in
which Sambucuccio killed so many Moors in the days of Count Henry, _il
bel Missere_.”
“Colomba, you’re talking nonsense,” said Orso, cantering forward.
“You are a man, Ors’ Anton’, and of course you know what you ought to
do better than any woman. But I should very much like to know what
objection that Englishman could have to the marriage. Are there any
corporals in England?”
After a somewhat lengthy ride, spent in talking in this fashion, the
brother and sister reached a little village, not far from Bocognano,
where they halted to dine and sleep at a friend’s house. They were
welcomed with a hospitality which must be experienced before it can be
appreciated. The next morning, their host, who had stood godfather to a
child to whom Madame della Rebbia had been godmother, accompanied them a
league beyond his house.
“Do you see those woods and thickets?” said he to Orso, just as they
were parting. “A man who had met with a misfortune might live there
peacefully for ten years, and no gendarme or soldier would ever come to
look for him. The woods run into the Vizzavona forest, and anybody who
had friends at Bocognano or in the neighbourhood would want for nothing.
That’s a good gun you have there. It must carry a long way. Blood of the
Madonna! What calibre! You might kill better game than boars with it!”
Orso answered, coldly, that his gun was of English make, and carried
“the lead” a long distance. The friends embraced, and took their
different ways.
Our travellers were drawing quite close to Pietranera, when, at the
entrance of a little gorge, through which they had to pass, they beheld
seven or eight men, armed with guns, some sitting on stones, others
lying on the grass, others standing up, and seemingly on the lookout.
Their horses were grazing a little way off. Colomba looked at them for
a moment, through a spy-glass which she took out of one of the large
leathern pockets all Corsicans wear when on a journey.
“Those are our men!” she cried, with a well-pleased air. “Pieruccio had
done his errand well!”
“What men?” inquired Orso.
“Our herdsmen,” she replied. “I sent Pieruccio off yesterday evening
to call the good fellows together, so that they may attend you home. It
would not do for you to enter Pietranera without an escort, and besides,
you must know the Barricini are capable of anything!”
“Colomba,” said Orso, and his tone was severe, “I have asked you,
over and over again, not to mention the Barricini and your groundless
suspicions to me. I shall certainly not make myself ridiculous by riding
home with all these loafers behind me, and I am very angry with you for
having sent for them without telling me.”
“Brother, you have forgotten the ways of your own country. It is my
business to protect you, when your own imprudence exposes you to danger.
It was my duty to do what I have done.”
Just at that moment the herdsmen, who had caught sight of them, hastened
to their horses, and galloped down the hill to meet them.
“Evvviva Ors’ Anton’!” shouted a brawny, white-bearded old fellow,
wrapped, despite the heat, in a hooded cloak of Corsican cloth, thicker
than the skins of his own goats. “The image of his father, only taller
and stronger! What a splendid gun! There’ll be talk about that gun, Ors’
Anton’!”
“Evvviva Ors’ Anton’!” chorused the herdsmen. “We were sure you’d come
back, at last!”
“Ah! Ors’ Anton’!” cried a tall fellow, with a skin tanned brick red.
“How happy your father would be, if he were here to welcome you! The
dear, good man! You would have seen him now, if he would have listened
to me--if he would have let me settle Guidice’s business! . . . But he
wouldn’t listen to me, poor fellow! He knows I was right, now!”
“Well, well!” said the old man. “Guidice will lose nothing by waiting.”
“Evvviva Ors’ Anton’!” And the reports of a dozen guns capped the
plaudit.
Very much put out, Orso sat in the midst of the group of mounted men,
all talking at once, and crowding round to shake hands with him. For
some time he could not make himself heard. At last, with the air he put
on when he used to reprimand the men of his company, or send one of them
to the guard-room, he said:
“I thank you, friends, for the affection you show for me, and for that
which you felt for my father! But I do not want advice from any of you,
and you must not offer it. I know my own duty.”
“He’s right! He’s right!” cried the herdsmen. “You know you may reckon
on us!”
“Yes, I do reckon on you. But at this moment I need no help, and no
personal danger threatens me. Now face round at once, and be off with
you to your goats. I know my way to Pietranera, and I want no guides.”
“Fear nothing, Ors’ Anton’,” said the old man. “They would never dare
to show their noses to-day. The mouse runs back to its hole when the
tom-cat comes out!”
“Tom-cat yourself, old gray-beard!” said Orso. “What’s your name?”
“What! don’t you remember me, Ors’ Anton’? I who have so often taken
you up behind me on that biting mule of mine! You don’t remember Polo
Griffo? I’m an honest fellow, though, and with the della Rebbia, body
and soul. Say but the word, and when that big gun of yours speaks, this
old musket of mine, as old as its master, shall not be dumb. Be sure of
that, Ors’ Anton’!”
“Well, well! But be off with you now, in the devil’s name, and let us go
on our way!”
At last the herdsmen departed, trotting rapidly off toward the village,
but they stopped every here and there, at all the highest spots on the
road, as though they were looking out for some hidden ambuscade, always
keeping near enough to Orso and his sister to be able to come to their
assistance if necessary. And old Polo Griffo said to his comrades:
“I understand him! I understand him! He’ll not say what he means to do,
but he’ll do it! He’s the born image of his father. Ah! you may say you
have no spite against any one, my boy! But you’ve made your vow to Saint
Nega.[*] Bravo! I wouldn’t give a fig for the mayor’s hide--there won’t
be the makings of a wineskin in it before the month is out!”
[*] This saint is not mentioned in the calendar. To make a
vow to Saint Nega means to deny everything deliberately.
Preceded by this troop of skirmishers, the last descendant of the della
Rebbia entered the village, and proceeded to the old mansion of
his forefathers, the corporals. The Rebbianites, who had long been
leaderless, had gathered to welcome him, and those dwellers in the
village who observed a neutral line of conduct all came to their
doorsteps to see him pass by. The adherents of the Barricini remained
inside their houses, and peeped out of the slits in their shutters.
The village of Pietranera is very irregularly built, like most Corsican
villages--for indeed, to see a street, the traveller must betake
himself to Cargese, which was built by Monsieur de Marboeuf. The houses,
scattered irregularly about, without the least attempt at orderly
arrangement, cover the top of a small plateau, or rather of a ridge of
the mountain. Toward the centre of the village stands a great evergreen
oak, and close beside it may be seen a granite trough, into which
the water of a neighbouring spring is conveyed by a wooden pipe. This
monument of public utility was constructed at the common expense of the
della Rebbia and Barricini families. But the man who imagined this to
be a sign of former friendship between the two families would be sorely
mistaken. On the contrary, it is the outcome of their mutual jealousy.
Once upon a time, Colonel della Rebbia sent a small sum of money to
the Municipal Council of his commune to help to provide a fountain.
The lawyer Barricini hastened to forward a similar gift, and to this
generous strife Pietranera owes its water supply. Round about the
evergreen oak and the fountain there is a clear space, known as “the
Square,” on which the local idlers gather every night. Sometimes they
play at cards, and once a year, in Carnival-time, they dance. At the two
ends of the square stands two edifices, of greater height than breadth,
built of a mixture of granite and schist. These are the _Towers_ of
the two opposing families, the Barricini and the della Rebbia. Their
architecture is exactly alike, their height is similar, and it is quite
evident that the rivalry of the two families has never been absolutely
decided by any stroke of fortune in favor of either.
It may perhaps be well to explain what should be understood by this
word, “Tower.” It is a square building, some forty feet in height, which
in any other country would be simply described as a pigeon-house. A
narrow entrance-door, eight feet above the level of the ground, is
reached by a very steep flight of steps. Above the door is a window,
in front of which runs a sort of balcony, the floor of which is pierced
with openings, like a machicolation, through which the inhabitants may
destroy an unwelcome visitor without any danger to themselves. Between
the window and the door are two escutcheons, roughly carved. One of
these bears what was originally a Genoese cross, now so battered that
nobody but an antiquary could recognise it. On the other are chiselled
the arms of the family to whom the Tower belongs. If the reader will
complete this scheme of decoration by imagining several bullet marks on
the escutcheons and on the window frames, he will have a fair idea of
a Corsican mansion, dating from the middle ages. I had forgotten to add
that the dwelling-house adjoins the tower, and is frequently connected
with it by some interior passage.
The della Rebbia house and tower stand on the northern side of the
square at Pietranera. The Barricini house and tower are on the southern
side. Since the colonel’s wife had been buried, no member of either
family had ever been seen on any side of the square, save that assigned
by tacit agreement to its own party. Orso was about to ride past the
mayor’s house when his sister checked him, and suggested his turning
down a lane that would take them to their own dwelling without crossing
the square at all.
“Why should we go out of our way?” said Orso. “Doesn’t the square belong
to everybody?” and he rode on.
“Brave heart!” murmured Colomba. “. . . My father! you will be avenged!”
When they reached the square, Colomba put herself between her brother
and the Barricini mansion, and her eyes never left her enemy’s windows.
She noticed that they had been lately barricaded and provided with
_archere_. _Archere_ is the name given to narrow openings like
loopholes, made between the big logs of wood used to close up the
lower parts of the windows. When an onslaught is expected, this sort of
barricade is used, and from behind the logs the attacked party can fire
at its assailants with ease and safety.
“The cowards!” said Colomba. “Look, brother, they have begun to protect
themselves! They have put up barricades! But some day or other they’ll
have to come out.”
Orso’s presence on the southern side of the square made a great
sensation at Pietranera, and was taken to be a proof of boldness
savouring of temerity. It was subject of endless comment on the part of
the neutrals, when they gathered around the evergreen oak, that night.
“It is a good thing,” they said, “that Barricini’s sons are not back
yet, for they are not so patient as the lawyer, and very likely they
would not have let their enemy set his foot on their ground without
making him pay for his bravado.”
“Remember what I am telling you, neighbour,” said an old man, the
village oracle. “I watched Colomba’s face to-day. She had some idea in
her head. I smell powder in the air. Before long, butcher’s meat will be
cheap in Pietranera!”