Sir John Constantine: Memoirs of His Adventures At Home and Abroad and Particularly in the Island of Corsica: Beginning with the Year 1756Quiller-Couch, Arthur
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Sir John Constantine: Memoirs of His Adventures At Home and Abroad and Particularly in the Island of Corsica: Beginning with the Year 1756
Quiller-Couch, Arthur
Corsica (France) -- Fiction
"Then hooly, hooly rase she up,
And hooly she came nigh him,
And when she drew the curtain by--
'Young man, I think you're dyin'.'"
_Barbara Allan's Cruelty_.
Evening fell, of a sudden filling the great hollow with purple
shadows. As the stars came out the Corsicans on the slope to my left
lit a fire of brushwood and busied themselves around it, cooking
their supper. They were no ordinary bandits, then; or at least had
no fear to betray their whereabouts, since on the landward side on so
clear a night the glow would be visible for many miles.
I watched them at their preparations. Their dark figures moved
between me and the flames as they set up a tall tripod of pine poles
and hung their cauldron from the centre of it, upon a brandice.
The princess had withdrawn to her cave and did not reappear until
Stephanu, who seemed to be head-cook, announced that supper was
ready, whereupon she came and took her seat with the rest in a ring
around the fire. Marc'antonio brought me my share of seethed kid's
flesh with a capful of chestnuts roasted in the embers; a flask of
wine too, and a small pail of goat's milk with a pannikin, for Nat.
The fare might not be palatable, but plainly they did not intend us
to starve.
Marc'antonio made no answer when I thanked him, but returned to his
seat in the ring, where from the beginning of the meal--as at a
signal--his companions had engaged in a furious and general dispute.
So at least it sounded, and so shrill at times were their contending
voices, and so fierce their gesticulations, that for some minutes I
fully expected to see them turn to other business the knives with
which they attacked their meal.
The Princess sat listening, speaking very seldom. Once only in a
general hush the firelight showed me that her lips were moving, and I
caught the low tone of her voice, but not the words. Not once did
she look in my direction, and yet I guessed that she was speaking of
me: for the words "ostagiu," "Inglese," and the name "Giuseppe" or
"Griuse"--of the man I had shot--had recurred over and over in their
jabber, and recurred when she ceased and it broke forth again.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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