"Pianu, pianu; we will grow strong, and get our hand in by little and little. At first there will be the blackbirds and the foxes—"
"You shoot foxes in Corsica?" I asked.
Marc'antonio stared at me. "And why not, cavalier? You would not have us run after them and despatch them with the stiletto!"
I endeavoured to explain to him the craft and mystery of fox-hunting as practised in England. He shook his head over it, greatly bewildered.
"It seems a long ceremony for one little fox," was his criticism.
"But if we did it with less ritual the foxes would disappear out of the country," I answered him.
"And why not?"
This naturally led me into a discourse on preserving game and on our
English game laws, which, I regret to say, gravelled him utterly.
"A peace of God for foxes and partridges! Why, what do you allow, then, for a man?"
I explained that we did not shoot men in England. His jaw dropped.