across his dusty knee so that it looked old and travel-stained at once.
Then, with the letter in his hand, he put spurs to his horse and galloped
after the horseman in front of him. The man turned almost at once in his
saddle, as if care rode behind him there.

"Hi! mon ami," cried the colonel, holding the letter high above his head.
"You have, I imagine, dropped this letter?" he added, as he approached
the other, who now awaited him.

"Where? No; but I have dropped no letter. Where was it? On the road?"

"Down there," answered the colonel, pointing back with his whip, and
handing over the letter with a final air as if it were no affair of his.

"Perucca," read the man, slowly, in the manner of one having small
dealings with pens and paper, "Mattei Perucca--at Olmeta."

"Ah," said the colonel, lighting a cigarette. He had apparently not
troubled to read the address on the envelope.

In such a thinly populated country as Corsica, faces are of higher import
than in crowded cities, where types are mingled and individuality soon
fades. The colonel had already recognized this man as of Olmeta--one of
those, perhaps, who had stood smoking on the "Place" there when Pietro
Andrei crawled towards the fountain and failed to reach it.

"I am going to Olmeta," said the man, "and you also, perhaps."

"No; I am exercising my horse, as you see. I shall turn to the left at
the cross-roads, and go towards Murato. I may come round by Olmeta