Passion twisted his mouth; his tongue stammered with the
gush of his abuse; but he was lying, and knew that he was lying, for
his eyes would meet neither hers nor mine. Only after drawing breath
did he for a moment look straight at her, and then it was to demand;
"And who, pray, has driven me to this? What has made Corsica so
bitter to me that in weariness I am here to resign it? You, my
sister--you, and what is known of you. . . . Why can I do nothing with
the patriots? Why were there no recruits? Why, when I negotiated,
did the Paolists listen as to a child and smile politely and show me
their doors? Again, because of you, O my sister!--because there is
not a household in Corsica but has heard whisperings of you, and of
Brussels, and of the house in Brussels where you were sought and
found. Blood of the Colonne!--and now the blood of the Colonne takes
an English lover to warm it! Blood of--"
With one hand I caught him by the throat, with the other by the
girdle, and flung him clean across the table into the corner,
oversetting the lantern, but not extinguishing the light, for the
Commandant caught it up deftly.
Pages:
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474