ave seen him."

"Can any one see who passes when they are asleep?"

"You were not asleep, rascal; the shooting woke you up."

"Then you believe, cousin, that your guns make so much noise? My father's
carbine has the advantage of them."

"The devil take you, you cursed little scapegrace! I am certain that you
have seen Gianetto. Perhaps, even, you have hidden him. Come, comrades, go
into the house and see if our man is there. He could only go on one foot,
and the knave has too much good sense to try to reach the maquis limping
like that. Moreover, the bloody tracks stop here."

"And what will papa say?" asked Fortunato with a sneer; "what will he say
if he knows that his house has been entered while he was away?"

"You rascal!" said the Adjutant, taking him by the ear, "do you know that
it only remains for me to make you change your tone? Perhaps you will
speak differently after I have given you twenty blows with the flat of my
sword."

Fortunato continued to sneer.

"My father is Mateo Falcone," said he with emphasis.

"You little scamp, you know very well that I can carry you off to Corte or
to Bastia. I will make you lie in a dungeon, on straw, with your feet in
shackles, and I will have you guillotined if you don't tell me where
Gianetto is."

The child burst out laughing at this ridiculous menace. He repeated:

"My father is Mateo Falcone."

"Adjutant," said one of the soldiers in a low voice, "let us have no
quarrels with Mateo."

Gamba appeared evidently embarrassed. He spoke in an undertone with the
soldiers who had already visited the house. This was not a very long
operation, for the cabin of a Corsican consists only of a single square
room, furnished with a table, some benches, chests, housekeeping utensils
and those of the chase. In the meantime, little Fortunato petted his cat
and seemed to take a wicked enjoyment in the confusion of the soldiers and
of his cousin.

One of the men approached the pile of hay. He saw the cat, and gave the
pile a careless thrust with his bayonet, shrugging his shoulders as if he
felt that his precaution was ridiculous. Nothing moved; the boy's face
betrayed not the slightest emotion.

The Adjutant and his troop were cursing their luck. Already they were
looking in the direction of the plain, as if disposed to return by the way
they had come, when their chief, convinced that menaces would produce no
impression on Falcone's son, determined to make a last effort,