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“Eh?” said I. “What–for Nello? Surely, after what has happened, you can hardly bring yourself to part with him?”

“Hardly, indeed. O stranger, it will tear my heart! But where am I to bestow him? The Ceccalde will be here presently; beyond doubt they are already climbing the pass. And for you also it will be awkward if they catch you here.”

I had not thought of this danger. “The valley below will be barred then?” I asked.

“Undoubtedly.”

“I might perhaps stay and lend you some help.”

“This is the Dezii’s private quarrel,” he assured me with dignity. “But never fear for us, O stranger. We will give them as good as they bring.”

“I am bound for Corte,” said I.

“By following the track up to the bocca you will come in sight of the high-road. But you will never reach it without Nello’s help, seeing that my private affairs hinder me from accompanying you. Now concerning this horse, he is one in a thousand: you might indeed say that he is worth his weight in gold.”

“At all events,” said I smiling, “he is a ticklish horse to pay too little for.”

“A price is a price,” answered Marcantonio gravely. “Old Stephanu Ceccaldi, catching me drunk, thought to pay but half of it, but the residue I took when I was sober. Now, between gentlefolks, what dispute could there be over eighty livres? Eighty livres!–why it is scarce the price of a good mare!”

Well, bating the question of his right to sell the horse, eighty livres was assuredly cheap: and after a moment’s calculation I resolved to close with him and accept the risk rather than by higgling over a point of honesty, which after all concerned his conscience rather than mine, to incur the more unpleasant one of a Ceccaldi bullet. I searched in my wallet and paid the money, while the Dezii with many sobs, mixed a half-pint of wine in a mash and offered this last tribute to the vindicator of their family honour.

So when Nello had fed and I had drunk a cup to their very long life, I mounted and jogged away up the pass. Once or twice I reined up on the ascent for a look back at the plateau. And always the Dezii stood there, straining their eyes after Nello and waving farewells.

On the far side of the ridge my ears were saluted by sounds of irregular musketry in the vale behind; and I knew that the second stage in the Dezio-Ceccaldi vendetta had opened with vigour.

Three days later I had audience with the great Paoli in his rooms in the Convent of Marosaglia. He listened to my message with patience and to the narrative of my adventures with unfeigned interest. At the end he said–

“I think you had best quit Corsica with the least possible delay. And, if I may advise you further, you will follow the road northwards to Bastia, avoiding all short cuts. In any case, avoid the Niolo. I happen to know something of the Ceccalde, and their temper; and, believe me, I am counselling you for the best.”