A few minutes later, six men in brown uniform with yellow facings commanded by an adjutant halted in front of Mateo’s door. This adjutant was distantly related to the Falcones. (It is well known that in Corsica degrees of kinship are followed out much farther than elsewhere.) His name was Tiodoro Gamba; he was an active officer, greatly feared by the bandits, several of whom he had already run to earth. “Good-day, my young cousin,” he said to Fortunato, walking to where he lay; “how you’ve grown! Did you see a man pass by just now?” “Oh! I ain’t as tall as you yet, cousin,” replied the child, with a stupid expression. “That will come. But tell me, didn’t you see a man pass?” “Didn’t I see a man pass?” “Yes, a man with a black velvet pointed cap and a red and yellow embroidered jacket?” “A man in a pointed cap and a red and yellow embroidered jacket?” “Yes; answer at once, and don’t repeat my questions.” “Monsieur le curé passed our door this morning, on his horse Piero. He asked me how papa was and I told him----” “Ah! you little scamp, you are playing sly! Tell me quick which way Gianetto went; for he’s the man we’re looking for, and I am certain he took this path.” “Who knows?” “Who knows? I know that you saw him.” “Does a fellow see people pass when he’s asleep?” “You weren’t asleep, good-for-nothing; the shots woke you.” “Do you think, cousin, that your guns make such a great noise? My father’s carbine makes a lot more.” “May the devil take you, you infernal rascal! I am perfectly sure you saw Gianetto. Perhaps you have hidden him even. Come, boys; go into the house, and see if our man isn’t there. He was only going on one foot, and he knows too much, the villain, to try to get to the _maquis_ at that gait. Besides, the marks of blood stopped here.” “What will papa say?” queried Fortunato, with a mocking laugh. “What will he say when he knows that you went into his house when he was away?” “You good-for-nothing!” said Adjutant Gamba, taking him by the ear, “do you know that it rests with me to make you change your tune? Perhaps, if I give you twenty blows or so with the flat of my sabre, you will conclude to speak.” But Fortunato continued to laugh sneeringly. “My father is Mateo Falcone!” he said with emphasis. “Do you know, you little scamp, that I can take you to Corte or to Bastia? I’ll make you sleep in a dungeon, on straw, with irons on your feet, and I’ll have you guillotined, if you don’t tell me where Gianetto Sanpiero is.” The child laughed heartily at this absurd threat. “My father’s Mateo Falcone,” he repeated. “Adjutant,” said one of the voltigeurs in an undertone, “let us not get into a row with Mateo.”