eorge of England, or that it might go
a-begging as the patriots were left to discover their weakness.
I understand that, on the chance of this, two or three claimants had begun
to look up their titles; and at this juncture our own Most Catholic King
bethought him that once upon a time the island had actually been granted
to Aragon by a certain Pope Boniface--with what right nobody could tell;
but a very little right might suffice to admit Spain's hand into the lucky
bag. In brief, my business was to reach the island, find Paoli (already
by shabby treatment incensed against the English, as Godoy assured me),
and sound him on my master's chances. Among the islanders I could pass
myself off as a British agent, and some likely falsehood would have to
serve me if by ill-luck I fell foul of the British soldiery. The King,
who--saving his majesty--had turned the least bit childish in his old age,
actually clapped his hands once or twice while his Minister gave me my
instructions, which he did with a face as wooden as a grenadier's.
I would give something, even at this distance of time, to know what
Godoy's real thoughts were. Likely enough he and the Queen had invented
this toy to amuse the husband they were both deceiving. Or Godoy may have
wanted my information for his own purpose, to sell it to the French,
with whom--though our armies were fighting them--he had begun to
treat in private for the peace and the alliance which soon followed,
and still move good Spaniards to spit at the mention of his name.
But, whatever the farce was, he played it solemnly, and I took his
instructions respectfully, as became me.

No: my mission was never meant to succeed: and if in my later
professional pride I now think shame of it--if to this day I wince at the
remembrance of Corsica--the shame comes simply from this, that I began my
career as a scout by losing my way like any schoolboy. But, after all,
even genius must make a beginning; and I was fated to make mine in the
Corsican _macchia_.

Do you know it? If not--that is to say, if you have never visited
Corsica--I despair of giving you any conception of it. But if chance has
ever carried you near its coast, you will have wondered--as I did when an
innocent-looking felucca from Barcelona brought me off the Gulf of Porto--
at an extraordinary verdure spreading up the mountains and cut short only
by the snows on their summits. You ask what this verdure may be, of which
you have n