to teach me."

Some days went by, and Colomba never mentioned the name of Barricini.
She lavished care and attention on her brother, and often talked to him
about Miss Nevil. Orso made her read French and Italian books, and was
constantly being surprised either by the correctness and good sense of
her comments, or by her utter ignorance on the most ordinary subjects.

One morning, after breakfast, Colomba left the room for a moment, and
instead of returning as usual, with a book and some sheets of paper,
reappeared with her _mezzaro_ on her head. The expression of her
countenance was even more serious than it generally was.

"Brother," she said, "I want you to come out with me."

"Where do you want me to go with you?" said Orso, holding out his arm.

"I don't want your arm, brother, but take your gun and your
cartridge-pouch. A man should never go abroad without his arms."

"So be it. I must follow the fashion. Where are we going?"

Colomba, without answering, drew her _mezzaro_ closer about her head,
called the watch-dog, and went out followed by her brother. Striding
swiftly out of the village, she turned into a sunken road that wound
among the vineyards, sending on the dog, to whom she made some gesture,
which he seemed to understand, in front of her. He instantly began to
run zigzag fashion, through the vines, first on one side and then on
the other, always keeping within about fifty paces of his mistress, and
occasionally stopping in the middle of the road and wagging his tail.
He seemed to perform his duties as a scout in the most perfect fashion
imaginable.

"If Muschetto begins to bark, brother," said Colomba, "cock your gun,
and stand still."

Half a mile beyond the village, after making many detours, Colomba
stopped short, just where there was a bend in the road. On that spot
there rose a little pyramid of branches, some of them green, some
withered, heaped about three feet high. Above them rose the top of
a wooden cross, painted black. In several of the Corsican cantons,
especially those among the mountains, a very ancient custom, connected,
it may be with some pagan superstition, constrains every passer-by to
cast either a stone or a branch on the spot whereon a man has died a
violent death. For years and years--as long as the memory of his tragic
fate endures--this strange offering goes on accumulating from day to
day.

This is called the dead man's _pile_--his "_mucchio_."

Colomba stopped be