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As we approached it, however, I saw it to be a dwelling-house, and that it had windows, though these were shuttered, and the shutters painted a light stone colour; and I had scarcely made this discovery when one of them jetted out a sudden puff of smoke and a bullet sang over my head.

The roan, which had fallen to a walk–so steep was the pitch of ground immediately beneath the house–halted at once as if puzzled; and you may guess if his dismay exceeded mine. But I reasoned from his behaviour on the road that this must be his home, and the folks behind the window shutters must recognise him. So standing high in my stirrups I waved a hand and pointed at him, at the same time shouting “Amico! Amico!”

There was no answer. The windows still stared down upon us blankly, but to my relief the shot was not repeated. “Amico! Amico!” I shouted again, and, alighting, led the horse towards the door.

It was opened cautiously and held a little ajar–just wide enough to give me a glimpse of a black-bearded face.

“Who are you?” a voice demanded in harsh Corsican.

“A friend,” I answered, “and unarmed: and see, I have brought you back your horse!”

The man called to someone within the house: then addressed me again. “Yes, it is indeed Nello. But how come you by him?”

“That is a long story,” said I. “Be so good as either to step out or to open and admit me to your hospitality, that we may talk in comfort.”

“To the house, O stranger, I have not the slightest intention of admitting you, seeing that the windows are stuffed with mattresses, and there is no light within–no, not so much as would show your face. And even less intention have I of stepping outside, since, without calling you a liar, I greatly suspect you are here to lead me into ambush.”

“Oho!” said I, as a light broke on me. “Is this vendetta?”

“It is vendetta, and has been vendetta any day since the Saturday before last, when old Stephanu Ceccaldi swindled me out of that very horse from which you have alighted: and it fills me with wonder to see him here.”

“My tale will not lessen your wonder,” said I, “when you learn how I came by him. But as touching this Stephanu Ceccaldi?”

“As we hear, they were to have buried him last night at moonrise: for a week had not passed before my knife found him–the knife of me, Marcantonio Dezio. All night the voceri of the Ceccalde’s women-folk have been sounding across the hills.”

“Agreeable sir, I have later news of him. The Ceccalde (let us doubt not) did their best. They mounted him upon Nello here, the innocent cause of their affliction. They waked him with dirges which–now you come to mention them–were melancholy enough to drive a cat to suicide. They tied him upright, and rode him forth to the burial. But it would seem that Nello, here, is a true son of your clan: he cannot bear a Ceccaldi on top of him. For I met him scouring the hills with the corpse on his back, having given leg-bail to all his escort.”

The Corsican has a heart, if you only know where to find it. Forgetting his dread of an ambush, or disregarding it in the violence of his emotion, Marcantonio flung wide the door, stepped forth, and casting both arms about the horse’s neck and mane, caressed him passionately and even with tears.

“O Nello! O brave spirit! O true son of the Dezii!”

He called forth his family, and they came trooping through the doorway–an old man, two old women, a middle-aged matron whom I took for Marcantonio’s wife, three stalwart girls, a stunted lad of about fourteen and four smaller and very dirty children. Their movements were dignified–even an infant Corsican rarely forgets his gravity–but they surrounded Nello one and all, and embraced him, and fed him on lumps of sugar. (Sugar, I may say, is a luxury in Corsica, and scarce at that.) They wept upon his mane and called him their little hero. They shook their fists towards that quarter, across the valley, in which I supposed the Ceccalde to reside. They chanted a song over the little beast while he munched his sugar with an air of conscious worth. And in short I imagined myself to be wholly forgotten in their delight at recovering him, until Marcantonio swung round suddenly and asked me to name a price for him.