I watched the two men with great interest as they sat opposite each other, silently playing the game. They watched each other's movements, the cards either face downwards upon the table or carefully held so that the opponent might not catch a glimpse of them, and gave an occasional quick glance at their "hand" without losing sight of the other player's face. I was especially interested in watching Quastana. The photograph was a very good one, but it could not reproduce the sunburnt face, the vivacity and agility of movement, surprising in a man of his age, and the hoarse, hollow voice peculiar to those who spend most of their time in solitude. Between two and three hours passed in this way, and I had some difficulty in keeping awake in the stuffy air of the hut and the long stretches of silence broken only by an occasional exclamation: "Seventeen!" "Eighteen!" From time to time I was aroused by a heavy gust of wind, or a dispute between the players. Suddenly there was a savage bark from Bruccio, like a cry of alarm. We all sprang up, and Quastana rushed out of the door, returning an instant afterwards and seizing his gun. With an exclamation of rage he darted out of the door again and was gone. Matteo and I were looking at one another in surprise, when a dozen armed men entered and called upon us to surrender. And in less time than it takes to tell you we were on the ground, bound, and prisoners. In vain I tried to make the gendarmes understand who I was; they would not listen to me. "That's all right; you will have an opportunity of making an explanation when we get to Bastia." [Illustration: "HE DARTED OUT OF THE DOOR AGAIN."] They dragged us to our feet and drove us out with the butt-ends of their carbines. Handcuffed, and pushed about by one and another, we reached the bottom of the slope, where a prison-van was waiting for us--a vile box, without ventilation and full of vermin--into which we were thrown and driven to Bastia, escorted by gendarmes with drawn swords. A nice position for a Government official! III. It was broad daylight when we reached Bastia. The Public Prosecutor, the colonel of the gendarmes, and the governor of the prison were impatiently awaiting us. I never saw a man look more astonished than the corporal in charge of the escort, as, with a triumphant smile, he led me to these gentlemen, and saw them hurry towards me with all sorts of apologies, and take off the handcuffs. "What! Is it _you_?" exclaimed the Public Prosecutor. "Have these idiots really arrested _you_? But how did it come about--what is the meaning of it?" [Illustration: "EXPLANATIONS."]