and his whole body
was trembling feverishly.

--He's got a pountoura, his comrades miserably informed me.

This was what they called a stitch in the side, pleurisy. I had never
witnessed a more miserable sight. There was an overwhelming, leaden
sky, the boat had water cascading everywhere, the luckless, fevered man
was wrapped in an old rubber coat which glistened like a seal's skin.
The cold, the wind, and the jolting of the waves, soon made his
condition worse. He became delirious; something had to be done.

After doing all we could, and as evening was approaching, we put into a
small, silent, lifeless port, only animated by circling seagulls. The
beach was shut in by steep-sided, high rocks, impassable scrub and
sombre, unseasonably green shrubs. Nearby, close to the sea there was a
custom's post, housed in a small white building with grey shutters. It
was given a rather sinister air, this official outpost, numbered like
the cap on a uniform, by its position, in the middle of such a deserted
spot. We took the ailing Palombo down to it, though it was a despairing
sanctuary for a sick man. We found the custom's man eating by the
fireside with his wife and children. Everybody had a gaunt and
jaundiced look, and they were pop-eyed and feverish. The young mother,
suckling a baby, shivered as she spoke to us.

--It's a terrible post, the Inspector barely whispered to me. We have
to replace our Customs' men here every two years. The marsh fever eats
them away....

Nevertheless, the main thing was to get hold of a doctor. There wasn't
one this side of Sartene, many kilometres away. What could we do? Our
mariners were done and could do no more, and it was too far to send one
of the children. Then the woman, leaning outdoors, called:

--Cecco!...Cecco!

And in came a large, well-built chap, a typical specimen of a poacher
or Corsican bandit, with his brown wool cap and his goatskin sailors
jacket. I had already noticed him, as we disembarked; he was sitting in
front of the door chewing his red pipe, with a rifle between his legs.
He made off as we came near; I don't know why. Perhaps he thought we
had gendarmes with us. When he entered, the Customs' woman blushed.

--He's my cousin, she told us. There's no danger that this one will get
lost in the Corsican scrub.

Then, she whispered something to him, indicating the sick man. The man
bent forward but said nothing. Then he left, whistled his dog, and was
gone, leapin