I entered a small inn and had something to eat, while waiting for Matteo. Time went on, and the fellow did not put in an appearance; the innkeeper began to look at me suspiciously, and I felt rather uncomfortable. At last there came a knock, and Matteo entered. "He has come to my house," he said, raising his hand to his hat. "Will you follow me there?" We went outside. It was very dark and windy; we stumbled along a stony path for about three miles--a narrow path, full of small stones and overgrown with luxuriant vegetation, which prevented us from going quickly. [Illustration: "'THAT'S MY HOUSE,' SAID MATTEO."] "That's my house," said Matteo, pointing among the bushes to a light which was flickering at a short distance from us. A minute later we were confronted by a big dog, who barked furiously at us. One would have imagined that he meant to stop us going farther along the road. "Here, Bruccio, Bruccio!" cried my guide; then, leaning towards me, he said: "That's Quastana's dog. A ferocious animal. He has no equal for keeping watch." Turning to the dog again, he called out: "That's all right, old fellow! Do you take us for policemen?" The enormous animal quieted down and came and sniffed around our legs. It was a splendid Newfoundland dog, with a thick, white, woolly coat which had obtained for him the name of Bruccio (white cheese). He ran on in front of us to the house, a kind of stone hut, with a large hole in the roof which did duty for both chimney and window. In the centre of the room stood a rough table, around which were several "seats" made of portions of trunks of trees, hacked into shape with a chopper. A torch stuck in a piece of wood gave a flickering light, around which flew a swarm of moths and other insects. At the table sat a man who looked like an Italian or Provençal fisherman, with a shrewd, sunburnt, clean-shaven face. He was leaning over a pack of cards, and was enveloped in a cloud of tobacco smoke. "Cousin Quastana," said Matteo as we went in, "this is a gentleman who is going shooting with me in the morning. He will sleep here to-night, so as to be close to the spot in good time to-morrow." When you have been an outlaw and had to fly for your life, you look with suspicion upon a stranger. Quastana looked me straight in the eyes for a second; then, apparently satisfied, he saluted me and took no further notice of me. Two minutes later the cousins were absorbed in a game of _scopa_. It is astonishing what a mania for card-playing existed in Corsica at that time--and it is probably the same now. The clubs and cafés were watched by the police, for the young men ruined themselves at a game called _bouillotte_. In the villages it was the same; the peasants were mad for a game at cards, and when they had no money they played for their pipes, knives, sheep--anything.