er.

(_To be continued._)

QUASTANA, THE BRIGAND

FROM THE FRENCH OF ALFONSE DAUDET

I.

Misadventures? Well, if I were an author by profession, I could make a
pretty big book of the administrative mishaps which befell me during the
three years I spent in Corsica as legal adviser to the French
Prefecture. Here is one which will probably amuse you:--

I had just entered upon my duties at Ajaccio. One morning I was at the
club, reading the papers which had just arrived from Paris, when the
Prefect's man-servant brought me a note, hastily written in pencil:
"Come at once; I want you. We have got the brigand, Quastana." I uttered
an exclamation of joy, and went off as fast as I could to the
Prefecture. I must tell you that, under the Empire, the arrest of a
Corsican _banditto_ was looked upon as a brilliant exploit, and meant
promotion, especially if you threw a certain dash of romance about it in
your official report.

Unfortunately brigands had become scarce. The people were getting more
civilized and the _vendetta_ was dying out. If by chance a man did kill
another in a row, or do something which made it advisable for him to
keep clear of the police, he generally bolted to Sardinia instead of
turning brigand. This was not to our liking; for no brigand, no
promotion. However, our Prefect had succeeded in finding one; he was an
old rascal, Quastana by name, who, to avenge the murder of his brother,
had killed goodness knows how many people. He had been pursued with
vigour, but had escaped, and after a time the hue and cry had subsided
and he had been forgotten. Fifteen years had passed, and the man had
lived in seclusion; but our Prefect, having heard of the affair and
obtained a clue to his whereabouts, endeavoured to capture him, with no
more success than his predecessor. We were beginning to despair of our
promotion; you can, therefore, imagine how pleased I was to receive the
note from my chief.

I found him in his study, talking very confidentially to a man of the
true Corsican peasant type.

"This is Quastana's cousin," said the Prefect to me, in a low tone. "He
lives in the little village of Solenzara, just above Porto-Vecchio, and
the brigand pays him a visit every Sunday evening to have a game of
_scopa_. Now, it seems that these two had some words the other Sunday,
and this fellow has determined to have revenge; so he proposes to hand
his cousin over to justice, and, between you and me, I beli