there is always a certain solemnity about a departure, even when the separation is only to be a short one. orso and his sister were to start very early in the morning, and he had taken his leave of miss lydia the night before—for he had no hope that she would disturb her indolent habits on his account. their farewells had been cold and grave. since that conversation on the sea-shore, miss lydia had been afraid she had perhaps shown too strong an interest in orso, and on the other hand, her jests, and more especially her careless tone, lay heavy on orso’s heart. at one moment he had thought the young englishwoman’s manner betrayed a budding feeling of affection, but now, put out of countenance by her jests, he told himself she only looked on him as a mere acquaintance, who would be soon forgotten. great, therefore, was his surprise, next morning, when, as he sat at coffee with the colonel, he saw miss lydia come into the room, followed by his sister. she had risen at five o’clock, and for an englishwoman, and especially for miss nevil, the effort was so great that it could not but give him some cause for vanity.

“i am so sorry you should have disturbed yourself so early,” said orso. “no doubt my sister woke you up in spite of my injunctions, and you must hate us heartily! perhaps you wish i was hanged already!”

“no,” said miss lydia, very low and in italian, evidently so that her father might not hear her, “but you were somewhat sulky with me yesterday, because of my innocent jokes, and i would not have you carry away an unpleasant recollection of your humble servant. what terrible people you are, you corsicans! well, good-bye! we shall meet soon, i hope.”

and she held out her hand.

a sigh was the only answer orso could find. colomba came to his side, led him into a window, and spoke to him for a moment in an undertone, showing him something she held under her mezzaro.

“mademoiselle,” said orso to miss nevil, “my sister is anxious to give you a very odd present, but we corsicans have not much to offer—except our affection—which time never wipes out. my sister tells me you have looked with some curiosity at this dagger. it is an ancient possession in our family. it probably hung, once upon a time, at the belt of one of those corporals, to whom i owe the honour of your acquaintance. colomba thinks it so precious that she has asked my leave to give it to you, and i hardly know if i ought to grant it, for i am afraid you’ll laugh at us!”

“the dagger is beautiful,” said miss lydia. “but it is a family weapon, i can not accept it!”

“it’s not my father’s dagger,” exclaimed colomba eagerly; “it was given to one of mother’s ancestors by king theodore. if the signorina will accept it, she will give us great pleasure.”

“come, miss lydia,” said orso, “don’t scorn a king’s dagger!”

to a collector, relics of king theodore are infinitely more precious than those of the most powerful of monarchs. the temptation was a strong one, and already miss lydia could see the effect the weapon would produce laid out on a lacquered table in her room at st. james’s place.

“but,” said she, taking the dagger with the hesitating air of one who longs to accept, and casting one of her most delightful smiles on colomba, “dear signorina colomba . . . i can not . . . i should not dare to let you depart thus, unarmed.”

“my brother is with me,” said colomba proudly, “and we have the good gun your father has given us. orso, have you put a bullet in it?”

miss nevil kept the dagger, and to avert the danger consequent on giving instruments that cut or pierce to a friend, colomba insisted on receiving a soldo in payment.

a start had to be made at last. yet once again orso pressed miss nevil’s hand, colomba kissed her, and then held up her rosy lips to the colonel, who was enchanted with this corsican politeness. from the window of the drawing-room miss lydia watched the brother and sister mount their horses. colomba’s eyes shone with a malignant joy which she had never remarked in them before. the sight of this tall strong creature, with her fanatical ideas of savage honour, pride written on her forehead, and curled in a sardonic smile upon her lips, carrying off the young man with his weapons, as though on some death-dealing errand, recalled orso’s fears to her, and she fancied she beheld his evil genius dragging him to his ruin. orso, who was already in the saddle, raised his head and caught sight of her. either because he had guessed her thought, or desired to send her a last farewell, he took the egyptian ring, which he had hung upon a ribbon, and carried it to his lips. blushing, miss lydia stepped back from the window, then returning to it almost at once, she saw the two corsicans cantering their little ponies rapidly toward the mountains. half an hour later the colonel showed them to her, through his glasses, riding along the end of the bay, and she noticed that orso constantly turned his head toward the town. at last he disappeared behind the marshes, the site of which is now filled by a flourishing nursery garden.

miss lydia glanced at herself in the glass, and thought she looked pale.

“what must that young man think of me,” said she, “and what did i think of him? and why did i think about him? . . . a travelling acquaintance! . . . what have i come to corsica for? . . . oh! i don’t care for him! . . . no! no! and besides the thing is impossible . . . and colomba . . . fancy me sister-in-law to a voceratrice, who wears a big dagger!”

and she noticed she was still holding king theodore’s dagger in her hand. she tossed it on to her toilette table. “colomba, in london, dancing at almacks! . . . good heavens! what a lion[*] that would be, to show off! . . . perhaps she’d make a great sensation! . . . he loves me, i’m certain of it! he is the hero of a novel, and i have interrupted his adventurous career. . . . but did he really long to avenge his father in true corsican fashion? . . . he was something between a conrad and a dandy . . . i’ve turned him into nothing but a dandy! . . . and a dandy with a corsican tailor! . . .”

[*] at this period this name was used in england for people

who were the fashion because they had something

extraordinary about them.

she threw herself on her bed, and tried to sleep—but that proved an impossibility, and i will not undertake to continue her soliloquy, during which she declared, more than a hundred times over, that signor della rebbia had not been, was not, and never should be, anything to her.