“I like her very much,” answered Miss Nevil. “Better than you,” she added, with a smile; “for she is a true Corsican, and you are rather too civilized a savage!” “Too civilized! Well, in spite of myself, I feel that I am growing a savage again, since I have set my foot on the island! A thousand horrid thoughts disturb and torment me, and I wanted to talk with you a little before I plunge into my desert!” “You must be brave, monsieur! Look at your sister’s resignation; she sets you an example!” “Ah! do not be deceived! Do not believe in her resignation. She has not said a word to me as yet, but every look of hers tells me what she expects of me.” “What does she expect of you, then?” “Oh, nothing! Except that I should try whether your father’s gun will kill a man as surely as it kills a partridge.” “What an idea! You can actually believe that, when you have just acknowledged that she has said nothing to you yet? It really is too dreadful of you!” “If her thoughts were not fixed on vengeance, she would have spoken to me at once about our father; she has never done it. She would have mentioned the names of those she considers--wrongly, I know--to be his murderers. But no; not a word! That is because we Corsicans, you see, are a cunning race. My sister realizes that she does not hold me completely in her power, and she does not choose to startle me while I may still escape her. Once she has led me to the edge of the precipice, and once I turn giddy there, she will thrust me into the abyss.” Then Orso gave Miss Nevil some details of his father’s death, and recounted the principal proofs which had culminated in his belief that Agostini was the assassin. “Nothing,” he added, “has been able to convince Colomba. I saw that by her last letter. She has sworn the Barricini shall die, and--you see, Miss Nevil, what confidence I have in you!--they would not be alive now, perhaps, if one of the prejudices for which her uncivilized education must be the excuse had not convinced her that the execution of this vengeance belongs to me, as head of her family, and that my honour depends upon it!” “Really and truly, Monsieur della Rebbia!” said Miss Nevil, “you slander your sister!” “No. As you have said it yourself, she is a Corsican; she thinks as they all think. Do you know why I was so sad yesterday?” “No. But for some time past you have been subject to these fits of sadness. You were much pleasanter in the earlier days of our acquaintance.” “Yesterday, on the contrary, I was more cheery and happy than I generally am. I had seen how kind, how indulgent, you were to my sister. The colonel and I were coming home in a boat. Do you know what one of the boatmen said to me in his infernal _patois_? ‘You’ve killed a deal of game, Ors’ Anton’, but you’ll find Orlanduccio Barricini a better shot than you!’” “Well, what was there so very dreadful in that remark? Are you so very much set upon being considered a skilful sportsman?”