hem! You were there, Antoine, _mon
camarade_! you have not forgotten the day?"

"And never shall," responded Antoine, the most ruffianly-looking of the
whole party. "A day or two like that would bring these vile Corsicans
to their senses. `Give them plenty of bayonet,' say I. And if you want
real sport, do as I did: chase the mothers until they drop, then bayonet
their children first, and themselves afterwards. But do not bayonet the
mothers _too_ soon, or you rob yourself of half your amusement."

"Good! ah, ah! _very_ good indeed!" laughed the wretches.

"But say, Baptiste, _mon cher_, who is this Corsican of whom you were
speaking?"

"He is called Count Lorenzo Paoli," responded Baptiste. "He has a fine
place away yonder among the hills, which, it is said, would make those
rich who could have the plundering of it. And, moreover, he has a
daughter--ah! but she is simply divine," and the brute smacked his lips
in a way which made me long to spring at his throat. "_Le cher
Guiseppe_--is he not delightful?--says that this boy Englishman has
papers which are thought to be for this rascally Count, and if it be so,
_ma foi_! but there will be rare doings at the chateau before long."

It may be imagined what were my feelings on hearing this.

How fervently I blessed the lucky inspiration which prompted me to
conceal my bag, and how much more imperative now became the necessity
that I should effect my escape without delay, not only for my own sake,
but in order also that I might recover possession of those compromising
papers, and warn the Count of the fearful danger which threatened him.

There was much more conversation of the kind recorded above, but I will
not revolt the reader's feelings by repeating it; what I have already
given is intended merely to convey an idea of the unparalleled
ruffianism and brutality which characterised the soldiery of the
Republic at that period.

The way, which was being enlivened with such delectable converse, led
back through the forest which I had already traversed, only we were now
passing along the road, such as it was. It consisted simply of a path
of varying width, but nowhere very wide, cleared through the trees, the
undergrowth of the forest forming a sort of hedge on either side of the
way. The branches met overhead, veiling the path in semi-obscurity, and
so completely intercepting all but an occasional ray of the sun that the
ground appeared to be in a perpetual