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 Provencal
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 cafes 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.

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