It was a lovely night. The moonlight was dancing on the waves, the ship glided¹ smoothly² on before a gentle breeze. Miss Lydia was not sleepy, and nothing but the presence of an unpoetical person had prevented her from enjoying those emotions which every human being possessing a touch of poetry must experience at sea by moonlight. When she felt sure the young lieutenant⁴ must be sound asleep, like the prosaic⁵ creature he was, she got up, took her cloak, woke her maid, and went on deck. Nobody was to be seen except the sailor at the helm, who was singing a sort of dirge⁶ in the Corsican dialect, to some wild and monotonous⁷ tune⁸. In the silence of the night this strange music had its charm. Unluckily Miss Lydia did not understand perfectly⁹ what the sailor was singing. Amid a good deal that was commonplace, a passionate¹⁰ line would occasionally excite her liveliest curiosity. But just at the most important moment some words of patois¹¹ would occur, the sense of which utterly¹² escaped her. Yet she did make out that the subject was connected with a murder. Curses against the assassin, threats of vengeance¹⁴, praise of the dead were all mingled¹⁵ confusedly. She remembered some of the lines. I will endeavour to translate them here.  
. . . “Neither cannon¹⁶ nor bayonets . . . Brought pallor to his brow. . . As serene¹⁷ on the battlefield . . . as a summer sky. He was the falcon¹⁸—the eagle’s friend . . . Honey of the sand to his friends . . . To his enemies, a tempestuous¹⁹ sea. . . . . . . Prouder than the sun . . . gentler than the moon . . . He for whom the enemies of France . . . never waited . . . Murderers in his own land . . . struck him from behind . . . As Vittolo slew²⁰ Sampiero Corso . . . Never would they have dared to look him in The face . . . Set up on the wall Before my bed . . . my well-earned cross of honour . . . red is its ribbon . . . redder is my shirt! . . . For my son, my son in a far country . . . keep my cross and my blood-stained shirt! . . .
 
“. . . He will see two holes in it . . . For each hole a hole in another shirt! . . . But will that accomplish the vengeance? . . . I must have the hand that fired, the eye that aimed . . . the heart that planned!” . . .
 
Suddenly the sailor stopped short.
 
“Why don’t you go on, my good man?” inquired Miss Nevil.
 
The sailor, with a jerk of his head, pointed²¹ to a figure appearing through the main hatchway of the schooner²²: it was Orso, coming up to enjoy the moonlight. “Pray finish your song,” said Miss Lydia. “It interests me greatly!”
 
The sailor leaned toward her, and said, in a very low tone, “I don’t give the rimbecco to anybody!”
 
“The what?”
 
The sailor, without replying, began to whistle.
 
“I have caught you admiring our Mediterranean²³, Miss Nevil,” said Orso, coming toward her. “You must allow you never see a moon like this anywhere else!”
 
“I was not looking at it, I was altogether occupied in studying Corsican. That sailor, who has been singing a most tragic²⁴ dirge, stopped short at the most interesting point.”
 
The sailor bent²⁵ down, as if to see the compass more clearly, and tugged²⁶ sharply at Miss Nevil’s fur cloak. It was quite evident his lament²⁷ could not be sung before Lieutenant Orso.
 
“What were you singing, Paolo France?” said Orso. “Was it a ballata or a vocero? Mademoiselle understands you, and would like to hear the end.”
 
“I have forgotten it, Ors’ Anton’,” said the sailor.
 
And instantly he began a hymn²⁸ to the Virgin²⁹, at the top of his voice.
 
Miss Lydia listened absent-mindedly to the hymn, and did not press the singer any further—though she was quite resolved, in her own mind, to find out the meaning of the riddle³⁰ later. But her maid, who, being a Florentine, could not understand the Corsican dialect any better than her mistress, was as eager as Miss Lydia for information, and, turning to Orso, before the English lady could warn her by a nudge, she said: “Captain what does giving the rimbecco mean?”
 
“The rimbecco!” said Orso. “Why, it’s the most deadly insult that can be offered to a Corsican. It means reproaching him with not having avenged³¹ his wrong. Who mentioned the rimbecco to you?”
 
“Yesterday, at Marseilles,” replied Miss Lydia hurriedly, “the captain of the schooner used the word.”
 
“And whom was he talking about?” inquired Orso eagerly.
 
“Oh, he was telling us some odd story about the time—yes, I think it was about Vannina d’Ornano.”
 
“I suppose, mademoiselle, that Vannina’s death has not inspired you with any great love for our national hero, the brave Sampiero?”
 
“But do you think his conduct was so very heroic?”
 
“The excuse for his crime lies in the savage³³ customs of the period. And then Sampiero was waging deadly war against the Genoese. What confidence could his fellow-countrymen have felt in him if he had not punished his wife, who tried to treat with Genoa?”
 
“Vannina,” said the sailor, “had started off without her husband’s leave. Sampiero did quite right to wring³⁴ her neck!”
 
“But,” said Miss Lydia, “it was to save her husband, it was out of love for him, that she was going to ask his pardon from the Genoese.”
 
“To ask his pardon was to degrade him!” exclaimed Orso.
 
“And then to kill her himself!” said Miss Lydia. “What a monster he must have been!”
 
“You know she begged as a favour that she might die by his hand. What about Othello, mademoiselle, do you look on him, too, as a monster?”
 
“There is a difference; he was jealous. Sampiero was only vain!”
 
“And after all is not jealousy³⁵ a kind of vanity? It is the vanity of love; will you not excuse it on account of its motive³⁶?”
 
Miss Lydia looked at him with an air of great dignity, and turning to the sailor, inquired when the schooner would reach port.
 
“The day after to-morrow,” said he, “if the wind holds.”
 
“I wish Ajaccio were in sight already, for I am sick of this ship.” She rose, took her maid’s arm, and walked a few paces on the deck. Orso stood motionless beside the helm, not knowing whether he had better walk beside her, or end a conversation which seemed displeasing³⁷ to her.
 
“Blood of the Madonna, what a handsome girl!” said the sailor. “If every flea³⁸ in my bed were like her, I shouldn’t complain of their biting me!”
 
Miss Lydia may possibly have overheard this artless praise of her beauty and been startled by it; for she went below almost immediately. Shortly after Orso also retired³⁹. As soon as he had left the deck the maid reappeared, and, having cross-questioned the sailor, carried back the following information to her mistress. The ballata which had been broken off on Orso’s appearance had been composed on the occasion of the death of his father, Colonel della Rebbia, who had been murdered two years previously⁴⁰. The sailor had no doubt at all that Orso was coming back to Corsica per fare la vendetta⁴¹, such was his expression, and he affirmed that before long there would be fresh meat to be seen in the village of Pietranera. This national expression, being interpreted, meant that Signor Orso proposed to murder two or three individuals suspected of having assassinated⁴³ his father—individuals who had, indeed, been prosecuted⁴⁴ on that account, but had come out of the trial as white as snow, for they were hand and glove with the judges, lawyers, prefect, and gendarmes⁴⁵.
 
“There is no justice in Corsica,” added the sailor, “and I put much more faith in a good gun than in a judge of the Royal Court. If a man has an enemy he must choose one of the three S’s.” (A national expression meaning schioppetto, stiletto, strada—that is, gun, dagger⁴⁶, or flight.)
 
These interesting pieces of information wrought⁴⁷ a notable change in Miss Lydia’s manner and feeling with regard to Lieutenant della Rebbia. From that moment he became a person of importance in the romantic Englishwoman’s eyes.
 
His careless air, his frank and good humour, which had at first impressed her so unfavourably, now seemed to her an additional merit, as being proofs of the deep dissimulation⁴⁸ of a strong nature, which will not allow any inner feeling to appear upon the surface. Orso seemed to her a sort of Fieschi, who hid mighty⁴⁹ designs under an appearance of frivolity⁵⁰, and, though it is less noble to kill a few rascals⁵¹ than to free one’s country, still a fine deed of vengeance is a fine thing, and besides, women are rather glad to find their hero is not a politician. Then Miss Nevil remarked for the first time that the young lieutenant had large eyes, white teeth, an elegant figure, that he was well-educated, and possessed⁵² the habits of good society. During the following day she talked to him frequently, and found his conversation interesting. He was asked many questions about his own country, and described it well. Corsica, which he had left when young, to go first to college, and then to the Ecole militaire, had remained in his imagination surrounded with poetic³ associations. When he talked of its mountains, its forests, and the quaint⁵³ customs of its inhabitants he grew eager and animated⁵⁴. As may be imagined, the word vengeance occurred more than once in the stories he told—for it is impossible to speak of the Corsicans without either attacking or justifying⁵⁵ their proverbial passion. Orso somewhat surprised Miss Nevil by his general condemnation⁵⁶ of the undying hatreds⁵⁷ nursed by his fellow-countrymen. As regarded the peasants, however, he endeavoured to excuse them, and claimed that the vendetta is the poor man’s duel⁵⁸. “So true is this,” he said, “that no assassination⁵⁹ takes place till a formal challenge has been delivered. ‘Be on your guard yourself, I am on mine!’ are the sacramental words exchanged, from time immemorial, between two enemies, before they begin to lie in wait for each other. There are more assassinations⁶⁰ among us,” he added, “than anywhere else. But you will never discover an ignoble⁶¹ cause for any of these crimes. We have many murderers, it is true, but not a single thief.”
 
When he spoke⁶² about vengeance and murder Miss Lydia looked at him closely, but she could not detect the slightest trace of emotion on his features. As she had made up her mind, however, that he possessed sufficient strength of mind to be able to hide his thoughts from every eye (her own, of course, excepted), she continued in her firm belief that Colonel della Rebbia’s shade would not have to wait long for the atonement it claimed.
 
The schooner was already within sight of Corsica. The captain pointed out the principal features of the coast, and, though all of these were absolutely unknown to Miss Lydia, she found a certain pleasure in hearing their names; nothing is more tiresome⁶³ than an anonymous⁶⁴ landscape. From time to time the colonel’s telescope revealed to her the form of some islander clad in brown cloth, armed with a long gun, bestriding a small horse, and galloping⁶⁵ down steep slopes. In each of these Miss Lydia believed she beheld⁶⁶ either a brigand⁶⁷ or a son going forth⁶⁸ to avenge³² his father’s death. But Orso always declared it was some peaceful denizen⁶⁹ of a neighbouring village travelling on business, and that he carried a gun less from necessity than because it was the fashion, just as no dandy ever takes a walk without an elegant cane⁷⁰. Though a gun is a less noble and poetic weapon than a stiletto, Miss Lydia thought it much more stylish⁷¹ for a man than any cane, and she remembered that all Lord Byron’s heroes died by a bullet, and not by the classic poniard.
 
After three days’ sailing, the ship reached Les Sanguinaires (The Bloody⁷² Islands), and the magnificent panorama⁷³ of the Gulf⁷⁴ of Ajaccio was unrolled before our travellers’ eyes. It is compared, with justice, to the Bay of Naples, and just as the schooner was entering the harbour a burning maquis, which covered the Punta di Girato, brought back memories of Vesuvius and heightened the resemblance. To make it quite complete, Naples should be seen after one of Attila’s armies had devastated⁷⁵ its suburbs—for round Ajaccio everything looks dead and deserted⁷⁶. Instead of the handsome buildings observable on every side from Castellamare to Cape¹³ Misena, nothing is to be seen in the neighbourhood of the Gulf of Ajaccio but gloomy maquis with bare mountains rising behind them. Not a villa⁴², not a dwelling⁷⁷ of any kind—only here and there, on the heights about the town, a few isolated⁷⁸ white structures stand out against a background of green. These are mortuary chapels⁷⁹ or family tombs. Everything in this landscape is gravely and sadly beautiful.
 
The appearance of the town, at that period especially, deepened the impression caused by the loneliness of its surroundings. There was no stir in the streets, where only a few listless idlers—always the same—were to be seen; no women at all, except an odd peasant come in to sell her produce; no loud talk, laughter, and singing, as in the Italian towns. Sometimes, under the shade of a tree on the public promenade⁸⁰, a dozen armed peasants will play at cards or watch each other play; they never shout or wrangle⁸¹; if they get hot over the game, pistol shots ring out, and this always before the utterance⁸² of any threat. The Corsican is grave and silent by nature. In the evening, a few persons come out to enjoy the cool air, but the promenaders on the Corso are nearly all of them foreigners; the islanders stay in front of their own doors; each one seems on the watch, like a falcon over its nest.