Once rid of his unruly escort, Orso proceeded calmly on his way, far
more absorbed by the prospective pleasure of seeing Miss Nevil than
stirred by any fear of coming across his enemies.
“The lawsuit I must bring against these Barricini villains,” he mused,
“will necessitate my going down to Bastia. Why should I not go there
with Miss Nevil? And once at Bastia, why shouldn’t we all go together to
the springs of Orezza?”
Suddenly his childish recollections of that picturesque spot rose up
before him. He fancied himself on the verdant lawn that spreads beneath
the ancient chestnut-trees. On the lustrous green sward, studded with
blue flowers like eyes that smiled upon him, he saw Miss Lydia seated at
his side. She had taken off her hat, and her fair hair, softer and finer
than any silk, shone like gold in the sunlight that glinted through the
foliage. Her clear blue eyes looked to him bluer than the sky itself.
With her cheek resting on one hand, she was listening thoughtfully
to the words of love he poured tremblingly into her ear. She wore the
muslin gown in which she had been dressed that last day at Ajaccio. From
beneath its folds peeped out a tiny foot, shod with black satin. Orso
told himself that he would be happy indeed if he might dare to kiss that
little foot--but one of Miss Lydia’s hands was bare and held a daisy.
He took the daisy from her, and Lydia’s hand pressed his, and then he
kissed the daisy, and then he kissed her hand, and yet she did not
chide him . . . and all these thoughts prevented him from paying
any attention to the road he was travelling, and meanwhile he trotted
steadily onward. For the second time, in his fancy, he was about to kiss
Miss Nevil’s snow-white hand, when, as his horse stopped short, he very
nearly kissed its head, in stern reality. Little Chilina had barred his
way, and seized his bridle.
“Where are you going to, Ors’ Anton’?” she said. “Don’t you know your
enemy is close by?”
“My enemy!” cried Orso, furious at being interrupted at such a
delightful moment. “Where is he?”
“Orlanduccio is close by, he’s waiting for you! Go back, go back!”
“Ho! Ho! So he’s waiting for me! Did you see him?”
“Yes, Ors’ Anton’! I was lying down in the heather when he passed by. He
was looking round everywhere through his glass.”
“And which way did he go?”
“He went down there. Just where you were going!”
“Thank you!”
“Ors’ Anton’, hadn’t you better wait for my uncle? He must be here
soon--and with him you would be safe.”
“Don’t be frightened, Chili. I don’t need your uncle.”
“If you would let me, I would go in front of you.”
“No, thanks! No, thanks!”
And Orso, spurring his horse, rode rapidly in the direction to which the
little girl had pointed.
His first impulse had been one of blind fury, and he had told himself
that fortune was offering him an excellent opportunity of punishing the
coward who had avenged the blow he had received by mutilating a horse.
But as he moved onward the thought of his promise to the prefect, and,
above all, his fear of missing Miss Nevil’s visit, altered his feelings,
and made him almost wish he might not come upon Orlanduccio. Soon,
however, the memory of his father, the indignity offered to his own
horse, and the threats of the Barricini, stirred his rage afresh, and
incited him to seek his foe, and to provoke and force him to a fight.
Thus tossed by conflicting feelings, he continued his progress, though
now he carefully scrutinized every thicket and hedge, and sometimes even
pulled up his horse to listen to the vague sounds to be heard in any
open country. Ten minutes after he had left little Chilina (it was then
about nine o’clock in the morning) he found himself on the edge of an
exceedingly steep declivity. The road, or rather the very slight path,
which he was following, ran through a _maquis_ that had been lately
burned. The ground was covered with whitish ashes, and here and there
some shrubs, and a few big trees, blackened by the flames, and entirely
stripped of their leaves, still stood erect--though life had long since
departed out of them. The sight of a burned _maquis_ is enough to make a
man fancy he has been transported into midwinter in some northern clime,
and the contrast between the barrenness of the ground over which the
flames have passed, with the luxuriant vegetation round about it,
heightens this appearance of sadness and desolation. But at that moment
the only thing that struck Orso in this particular landscape was one
point--an important one, it is true, in his present circumstances. The
bareness of the ground rendered any kind of ambush impossible, and the
man who has reason to fear that at any moment he may see a gun-barrel
thrust out of a thicket straight at his own chest, looks on a stretch
of smooth ground, with nothing on it to intercept his view, as a kind
of oasis. After this burned _maquis_ came a number of cultivated fields,
inclosed, according to the fashion of that country, with breast-high
walls, built of dry stones. The path ran between these fields,
producing, from a distance, the effect of a thick wood.
The steepness of the declivity made it necessary for Orso to dismount.
He was walking quickly down the hill, which was slippery with ashes
(he had thrown the bridle on his horse’s neck), and was hardly
five-and-twenty paces from one of these stone fences, when, just in
front of him, on the right-hand side of the road, he perceived first
of all the barrel of a gun, and then a head, rising over the top of the
wall. The gun was levelled, and he recognised Orlanduccio, just ready
to fire. Orso swiftly prepared for self-defence, and the two men, taking
deliberate aim, stared at each other for several seconds, with that
thrill of emotion which the bravest must feel when he knows he must
either deal death or endure it.
“Vile coward!” shouted Orso.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when he saw the flash of
Orlanduccio’s gun, and almost at the same instant a second shot rang out
on his left from the other side of the path, fired by a man whom he had
not noticed, and who was aiming at him from behind another wall. Both
bullets struck him. The first, Orlanduccio’s, passed through his left
arm, which Orso had turned toward him as he aimed. The second shot
struck him in the chest, and tore his coat, but coming in contact with
the blade of his dagger, it luckily flattened against it, and only
inflicted a trifling bruise. Orso’s left arm fell helpless at his side,
and the barrel of his gun dropped for a moment, but he raised it at
once, and aiming his weapon with his right hand only, he fired at
Orlanduccio. His enemy’s head, which was only exposed to the level of
the eyes, disappeared behind the wall. Then Orso, swinging round to the
left, fired the second barrel at a man in a cloud of smoke whom he could
hardly see. This face likewise disappeared. The four shots had followed
each other with incredible swiftness; no trained soldiers ever fired
their volleys in quicker succession. After Orso’s last shot a great
silence fell. The smoke from his weapon rose slowly up into the sky.
There was not a movement, not the slightest sound from behind the wall.
But for the pain in his arm, he could have fancied the men on whom he
had just fired had been phantoms of his own imagination.
Fully expecting a second volley, Orso moved a few steps, to place
himself behind one of the burned trees that still stood upright in
the _maquis_. Thus sheltered, he put his gun between his knees,
and hurriedly reloaded it. Meanwhile his left arm began to hurt him
horribly, and felt as if it were being dragged down by a huge weight.
What had become of his adversaries? He could not understand. If they had
taken to flight, if they had been wounded, he would certainly have heard
some noise, some stir among the leaves. Were they dead, then? Or, what
was far more likely, were they not waiting behind their wall for a
chance of shooting at him again. In his uncertainty, and feeling his
strength fast failing him, he knelt down on his right knee, rested
his wounded arm upon the other, and took advantage of a branch that
protruded from the trunk of the burned tree to support his gun. With his
finger on the trigger, his eye fixed on the wall, and his ear strained
to catch the slightest sound, he knelt there, motionless, for several
minutes, which seemed to him a century. At last, behind him, in the far
distance, he heard a faint shout, and very soon a dog flew like an arrow
down the slope, and stopped short, close to him, wagging its tail.
It was Brusco, the comrade and follower of the bandits--the herald,
doubtless, of his master’s approach. Never was any honest man more
impatiently awaited. With his muzzle in the air, and turned toward the
nearest fence, the dog sniffed anxiously. Suddenly he gave vent to a low
growl, sprang at a bound over the wall, and almost instantly reappeared
upon its crest, whence he gazed steadily at Orso with eyes that spoke
surprise as clearly as a dog’s may do it. Then he sniffed again, this
time toward the other inclosure, the wall of which he also crossed.
Within a second he was back on the top of that, with the same air of
astonishment and alarm, and straightway he bounded into the thicket with
his tail between his legs, still gazing at Orso, and retiring from him
slowly, and sideways, until he had put some distance between them. Then
off he started again, tearing up the slope almost as fast as he had
come down it, to meet a man, who, in spite of its steepness, was rapidly
descending.
“Help, Brando!” shouted Orso, as soon as he thought he was within
hearing.
“Hallo! Ors’ Anton’! are you wounded?” inquired Brandolaccio, as he ran
up panting. “Is it in your body or your limbs?”
“In the arm.”
“The arm--oh, that’s nothing! And the other fellow?”
“I think I hit him.”
Brandolaccio ran after the dog to the nearest field and leaned over to
look at the other side of the wall, then pulling off his cap--
“Signor Orlanduccio, I salute you!” said he, then turning toward Orso,
he bowed to him, also, gravely.
“That,” he remarked, “is what I call a man who has been properly done
for.”
“Is he still alive?” asked Orso, who could hardly breathe.
“Oh! he wouldn’t wish it! he’d be too much vexed about the bullet you
put into his eye! Holy Madonna! What a hole! That’s a good gun, upon my
soul! what a weight! That spatters a man’s brains for you! Hark ye, Ors’
Anton’! when I heard the first _piff, piff_, says I to myself: ‘Dash it,
they’re murdering my lieutenant!’ Then I heard _boum, boum_. ‘Ha, ha!’
says I, ‘that’s the English gun beginning to talk--he’s firing back.’
But what on earth do you want with me, Brusco?”
The dog guided him to the other field.
“Upon my word,” cried Brandolaccio, utterly astonished, “a right and
left, that’s what it is! Deuce take it! Clear enough, powder must be
dear, for you don’t waste it!”
“What do you mean, for God’s sake?” asked Orso.
“Come, sir, don’t try to humbug me; you bring down the dame, and then
you want somebody to pick it up for you. Well! there’s one man who’ll
have a queer dessert to-day, and that’s Lawyer Barricini!--you want
butcher’s meat, do you? Well, here you have it. Now, who the devil will
be the heir?”
“What! is Vincentello dead too?”
“Dead as mutton. _Salute a noi!_ The good point about you is that you
don’t let them suffer. Just come over and look at Vincentello; he’s
kneeling here with his head against the wall, as if he were asleep. You
may say he sleeps like lead, this time, poor devil.”
Orso turned his head in horror.
“Are you certain he’s dead?”
“You’re like Sampiero Corso, who never had to fire more than once. Look
at it there, in his chest, on the left--just where Vincileone was hit at
Waterloo. I’ll wager that bullet isn’t far from his heart--a right and
left! Ah! I’ll never talk about shooting again. Two with two shots, and
bullets at that! The two brothers! If he’d had a third shot he’d have
killed their papa. Better luck next time. What a shot! Ors’ Anton’! And
to think that an honest poor chap like me will never get the chance of a
right and a left two gendarmes!”
As he talked the bandit was scanning Orso’s arm, and splitting up his
sleeve with his dagger.
“This is nothing,” said he. “But this coat of yours will give Signorina
Colomba work to do. Ha! what’s this I see? this gash upon your chest?
Nothing went in there, surely? No! you wouldn’t be so brisk as you are!
Come, try to move your finger. Do you feel my teeth when I bite your
little finger? Not very well? Never mind! It won’t be much. Let me take
your handkerchief and your neckcloth. Well, your coat’s spoilt, anyhow!
What the devil did you make yourself so smart for? Were you going to
a wedding? There! drink a drop of wine. Why on earth don’t you carry a
flask? Does any Corsican ever go out without a flask?”
Then again he broke off the dressing of the wound to exclaim:
“A right and left! Both of them stone dead! How the Padre will laugh! A
right and left! Oh, here’s that little dawdle Chilina at last!”
Orso made no reply--he was as pale as death and shaking in every limb.
“Chili!” shouted Brandolaccio, “go and look behind that wall!”
The child, using both hands and feet, scrambled onto the wall, and the
moment she caught sight of Orlanduccio’s corpse she crossed herself.
“That’s nothing,” proceeded the bandit; “go and look farther on, over
there!”
The child crossed herself again.
“Was it you, uncle?” she asked timidly.
“Me! Don’t you know I’ve turned into a useless old fellow! This, Chili,
is the signor’s work; offer him your compliments.”
“The signorina will be greatly rejoiced,” said Chilina, “and she will be
very much grieved to know you are wounded, Ors’ Anton’.”
“Now then, Ors’ Anton’,” said the bandit, when he had finished binding
up the wound. “Chilina, here, has caught your horse. You must get on
his back, and come with me to the Stazzona _maquis_. It would be a sly
fellow who’d lay his hand on you there. When we get to the Cross of
Santa Christina, you’ll have to dismount. You’ll give over your horse to
Chilina, who’ll go off and warn the signorina. You can say anything to
the child, Ors’ Anton’. She would let herself be cut in pieces rather
than betray her friends,” and then, fondly, he turned to the little
girl, “That’s it, you little hussy; a ban on you, a curse on you--you
jade!” For Brandolaccio, who was superstitious, like most bandits,
feared he might cast a spell on a child if he blessed it or praised it,
seeing it is a well-known fact that the mysterious powers that rule the
_Annocchiatura_[*] have a vile habit of fulfilling our wishes in the
very opposite sense to that we give them.
[*] _Annocchiatura_, an involuntary spell cast either by the
eye or by spoken words.
“Where am I to go, Brando?” queried Orso in a faint voice.
“Faith! you must choose; either to jail or to the _maquis_. But no della
Rebbia knows the path that leads him to the jail. To the _maquis_, Ors’
Anton’.”
“Farewell, then, to all my hopes!” exclaimed the wounded man, sadly.
“Your hopes? Deuce take it! Did you hope to do any better with a
double-barrelled gun? How on earth did the fellows contrive to hit you?
The rascals must have been as hard to kill as cats.”
“They fired first,” said Orso.
“True, true; I’d forgotten that!--_piff, piff--boum, boum_! A right and
left, and only one hand! If any man can do better, I’ll go hang myself.
Come! now you’re safely mounted! Before we start, just give a glance
at your work. It isn’t civil to leave one’s company without saying
good-bye.”
Orso spurred his horse. He would not have looked at the two poor
wretches he had just destroyed, for anything on earth.
“Hark ye, Ors’ Anton’,” quoth the bandit, as he caught hold of the
horse’s bridle, “shall I tell you the truth? Well, no offence to you!
I’m sorry for those poor young fellows! You’ll pardon me, I hope; so
good-looking, so strong, so young. Orlanduccio, I’ve shot with him
so often! Only four days ago he gave me a bundle of cigars, and
Vincentello--he was always so cheery. Of course you’ve only done what
you had to do, and indeed the shot was such a splendid one, nobody could
regret it. But I, you see, had nothing to do with your vengeance. I know
you’re perfectly in the right. When one has an enemy one must get rid of
him. But the Barricini were an old family. Here’s another of them wiped
out, and by a right and left too! It’s striking.”
As he thus spoke his funeral oration over the Barricini, Brandolaccio
hastily guided Orso, Chilina, and Brusco, the dog, toward the Stazzona
_maquis_.