“Beware of the Batistellis. They are your sworn foes, and seek your life. Be wary and commit no indiscretion. Above all, do not allow yourself to be entrapped. I will see you soon, but I must choose the time and place. Do not leave Corsica until I have seen you. Until then,
“Your loving father,
“Manuel Della Coscia.”
The aged messenger who had brought the letter to Vandemar, and who had the reply in his possession, walked slowly along the main street of Ajaccio, accosting no one, looking neither to the right nor left. When he reached the Batistelli castle, he made his way to the servants’ quarters and asked to see Manassa.
In response to his summons, a man appeared whose white hair and wrinkled skin indicated that he was very old, but whose erect figure and strenuous walk both seemed to deny the imputation. He was a man of great stature, apparently still retaining marked bodily strength. He must have been handsome in his youth, and was still attractive and commanding in appearance.
“I wish to see your master, Pascal Batistelli,” said the messenger.
“He is busy in his library,” was Manassa’s reply. “Come again some other time.”
“Lean down and I will tell you something.”
Manassa complied. A smile, fiendish in its nature, went over his face. He nodded his head a dozen times, chuckling as he did so.
“Come with me,” he said. “My master will be glad to see you.”
“Who are you?” asked Pascal Batistelli, as Cromillian’s messenger approached the table where he sat.