each man must execute his own justice. It has always been so, and it will
be so, so long as there are any Corsicans left. And if there is no man
left, then the women must do it."

She tied her apron tighter, as if about to undertake some hard domestic
duty, and brushed the dust from her black dress.

"Come here," she said, turning to the child, and lapsing into the soft
dialect of the south and east--"come here, thou child of Pietro Andrei."

The child came forward. He was probably two years old, and understood
nothing that was passing.

"See here, you of Olmeta," she said composedly; and, stooping down, she
dipped her finger in the pool of blood that had collected in the dust.
"See here--and here."

As she spoke she hastily smeared the blood over the child's face and
dragged him away from the priest, who had stepped forward.

"No, no," he protested. "Those times are past."

"Past!" said the woman, with a flash of fury. "All the country knows that
your own mother did it to you at Sartene, where you come from."

The abbe made no answer, but, taking the child by the arm, dragged him
gently away from his mother. With his other hand he sought in his pocket
for a handkerchief. But he was a lone man, without a housekeeper, and the
handkerchief was missing. The child looked from one to the other,
laughing uncertainly, with his grimly decorated face.