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A third howl now rung on our ears, but this time so near, that I could not
forbear shuddering, although I knew the cause of it perfectly well.

In fact, at a turn of the path, I discovered at about twenty yards from us, a
heap of white stones, forming a pyramid four or five feet in height. It was the
mucchio; Diamante was sitting at the foot of this strange monument, his neck
stretched and his mouth wide open.

Lucien picked up a stone, and lifting his cap, approached the mucchio.

I followed his example, imitating him as closely as possible.

When we reached the pyramid, he broke off a branch from a holm-oak, and threw
on the heap first the stone, and then the branch, making with his thumb that
rapid sign of the cross, a habit as truly Corsican as any, and which Napoleon
himself made unintentionally, under certain terrible circumstances. I imitated
him to the last.

We then continued our journey, silent and pensive. Diamante remained behind.

In about ten minutes after, we heard this dismal howl for the last time, for
almost immediately Diamante, with his head and tail hanging down, joined us
again and renewed his duties as watchdog and hunter.

Meanwhile, as we continued to advance, just as Lucien had told me, the path
became more and more steep. I put my gun over my shoulder, seeing that I should
soon be in need of my two hands. As to my guide and companion, he continued to
walk with the same ease as before, and seemed hardly to notice the difficulties
of the road.

After some minutes, climbing up the rocks, assisted by roots and bushes, we
reached a kind of platform, overhung by some walls, in ruins; these were the
ruins of the Chateau of Vincentello d’Istria, the end of our journey.

In about five minutes more of steep and still more difficult climbing than at
first, Lucien, standing on the upper terrace, gave me his hand and pulled me up.

“Very well—very well indeed,” said he, “you succeed tolerably well for a
Parisian.”

“That is because the Parisian you have just assisted to make his last stride,
has made some excursions of this kind before now.”

“Yes,” said Lucien smiling, “I was told that near Paris they have a sort of
hill which they call Montmartre.”

“Just so. But besides Montmartre, which I don’t despise, I have ascended some
other mountains, which are called the Righi, the Faulhorn, the Gemmi, Vesuvius,
Strombolo, and Mount Etna.”

“Well, now you are going to laugh at me, for not having ascended any other
mountains than our Monte-Rotondo. At all events, here we are; four hundred years
ago my forefathers would have opened their doors and bade you enter their
castle; now, their offspring shows you this little breach, and bids you welcome
to these ruins.”

“This chateau has belonged to your family, then, ever since the death of
Vincentello d’Istria?” began I again, resuming the conversation where we had
left off.

“No; but before he was born, this was the residence of our common ancestor,
the celebrated Savilia, widow of Lucien de Franchi.”

“Is there not in Fillipini’s work a terrible history given of this woman?”

“Yes. If it was daylight you could also see from here the ruins of the
Chateau of Valle, where in former times the Lord of Guidice lived; he was as
much hated as Savilia was beloved, and was as ugly as she was beautiful. He fell
in love with her, but as she repulsed his advances he sent her a message that if
in a given time she would not accept him for a husband, he would carry her off
by force. Savilia appeared to give way, and invited Guidice to a dinner party.
Forgetting, in the excess of his joy, that this flattering result had been
obtained by threatening the woman he loved, he waited upon her at the appointed
time, accompanied by only a few followers. As they entered, the gates were
closed behind them, and a few minutes after, Guidice was a prisoner in the
dungeons of Savilia’s castle.”

I advanced a few steps, and found myself in a sort of square yard. The moon
shone through the crevices made by time, throwing long stripes of light upon the
ground, nearly covered with rubbish. All the rest of the ruin remained in the
deepest obscurity, shaded by remnants of the old walls. Lucien looked at his
watch.