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“But, one day, the man who was suspected of having committed the murder, was about to get married. St. Lucia did not appear to be moved by this news, but, out of sheer bravado, doubtless, the bridegroom, on his way to the church, passed before the house of the two orphans.

“The brother and the sister, at their window, were eating frijoles, when the young man saw the bridal procession going by. Suddenly he began to tremble, rose to his feet without uttering a word, made the sign of the cross, took the gun which was hanging over the fireplace, and went out.

“When he spoke of this later on, he said: ‘I don’t know what was the matter with me; it was like fire in my blood; I felt that I must do it, that, in spite of everything, I could not resist, and I concealed the gun in a cave on the road to Corte.

“An hour later, he came back, with nothing in his hand, and with his habitual air of sad weariness. His sister believed that there was nothing further in his thoughts.

“But when night fell he disappeared.

“His enemy had, the same evening, to repair to Corte on foot, accompanied by his two groomsmen.

“He was walking along, singing as he went, when St. Lucia stood before him, and looking straight in the murderer’s face, exclaimed: ‘Now is the time!’ and shot him point-blank in the chest.

“One of the men fled; the other stared at, the young man, saying:

“‘What have you done, St. Lucia?’ and he was about to hasten to Corte for help, when St. Lucia said in a stern tone:

“‘If you move another step, I’ll shoot you in the leg.’

“The other, aware of his timidity hitherto, replied: ‘You would not dare to do it!’ and was hurrying off when he fell instantaneously, his thigh shattered by a bullet.

“And St. Lucia, coming over to where he lay, said:

“‘I am going to look at your wound; if it is not serious, I’ll leave you there; if it is mortal I’ll finish you off.”

“He inspected the wound, considered it mortal, and slowly reloading his gun, told the wounded man to say a prayer, and shot him through the head.

“Next day he was in the mountains.

“And do you know what this St. Lucia did after this?

“All his family were arrested by the gendarmes. His uncle, the cure, who was suspected of having incited him to this deed of vengeance, was himself put in prison, and accused by the dead man’s relatives. But he escaped, took a gun in his turn, and went to join his nephew in the brush.

“Next, St. Lucia killed, one after the other, his uncle’s accusers, and tore out their eyes to teach the others never to state what they had seen with their eyes.

“He killed all the relatives, all the connections of his enemy’s family. He slew during his life fourteen gendarmes, burned down the houses of his adversaries, and was, up to the day of his death, the most terrible of all the bandits whose memory we have preserved.”

The sun disappeared behind Monte Cinto and the tall shadow of the granite mountain went to sleep on the granite of the valley. We quickened our pace in order to reach before night the little village of Albertaccio, nothing but a pile of stones welded into the stone flanks of a wild gorge. And I said as I thought of the bandit:

“What a terrible custom your vendetta is!”

My companion answered with an air of resignation:

“What would you have? A man must do his duty!”