days French officers possessed no other clothes than their uniform—and produced a letter. He examined it, crumpled it between his fingers, and rubbed it across his dusty knee so that it looked old and travel-stained at once. Then, with the letter in his hand, he put spurs to his horse and galloped after the horseman in front of him. The man turned almost at once in his saddle, as if care rode behind him there.
“Hi! mon ami,” cried the colonel, holding the letter high above his head. “You have, I imagine, dropped this letter?” he added, as he approached the other, who now awaited him.
“Where? No; but I have dropped no letter. Where was it? On the road?”
“Down there,” answered the colonel, pointing back with his whip, and handing over the letter with a final air as if it were no affair of his.
“Perucca,” read the man, slowly, in the manner of one having small dealings with pens and paper, “Mattei Perucca—at Olmeta.”
“Ah,” said the colonel, lighting a cigarette. He had apparently not troubled to read the address on the envelope.
In such a thinly populated country as Corsica, faces are of higher import than in crowded cities, where types are mingled and individuality soon fades. The colonel had already recognized this man as of Olmeta—one of those, perhaps, who had stood smoking on the “Place” there when Pietro Andrei crawled towards the fountain and failed to reach it.
“I am going to Olmeta,” said the man, “and you also, perhaps.”
“No; I am exercising my horse, as you see. I shall turn to the left at the cross-roads, and go towards Murato. I may come round by Olmeta later—if I lose my way.”
The man smiled grimly. In Corsica men rarely laugh.
“You will not do that. You know this country too well for that. You are the officer connected with the railway. I have seen you looking through your instruments at the earth, in the mountains, in the rocks, and down in the plains—everywhere.”
“It is my work,” answered the colonel, tapping with his whip the gold lace on his sleeve. “One
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