To return to the book. As long as he lived, Jethro looked back to the joy
of the monumental task of mastering its contents. In his mind, Napoleon
became a rough Yankee general; of the cities, villages, and fortress he
formed as accurate a picture as a resident of Venice from Marco Polo's
account of Tartary. Jethro had learned to read, after a fashion, to
write, add, multiply, and divide. He knew that George Washington and
certain barefooted companions had forced a proud Britain to her knees,
and much of the warring in the book took color from Captain Timothy
Prescott's stories of General Stark and his campaigns, heard at Jonah
Winch's store. What Paris looked like, or Berlin, or the Hospice of St.
Bernard--though imaged by a winter Coniston--troubled Jethro not at all;
the thing that stuck in his mind was that Napoleon--for a considerable
time, at least--compelled men to do his bidding. Constitutions crumble
before the Strong. Not that Jethro philosophized about constitutions.
Existing conditions presented themselves, and it occurred to him that
there were crevices in the town system, and ways into power through the
crevices for men clever enough to find them.

A week later, and in these same great woods on the way to Brampton,
Cynthia overtook him once more. It was characteristic of him that he
plunged at once into the subject uppermost in his mind.

"Not a very big place, this Corsica--not a very big place."

"A little island in the Mediterranean," said Cynthia.

"Hum. Country folks, the Bonapartes--country folks?"

Cynthia laughed.