It is a natural characteristic of some people, when they have nothing else to do, to think of the present or to look forward to the future; but a Corsican, when he has time for contemplation, always reverts to the past. When he recalls it, he does not dwell upon its pleasant features, but, if possible, fastens his thoughts upon some real or imaginary wrong which he fancies his ancestors or his friends have suffered.
An American Indian, when contemplating an attack upon his enemies, precedes active hostilities by singing a war song, and the Corsican unconsciously resembles him by singing, or rather chanting, a recital of past wrongs or injuries, followed by a unique vocal declaration of his intention to secure reparation or execute vengeance for such acts.
The Corsicans are strong partisans. They not only take part in the feuds with which their own families are connected, but embrace the causes of other families to which they are not related, but to which, for some reason or other, they become attached.
Paoli sat upon a log, his hands tightly clasped together, gazing up at the sky through a rift in the branches of the trees. There was a wild look in his eye, such as might be seen in those of some religious devotee. Suddenly, as though under the influence of some magic power or spell, he found voice. The words of his chant, or vocero, as it is called by the Corsicans, certainly boded no good fortune to a person named Vandemar, who was referred to therein:
“Place on the wall before my bed my cross of honour well gained. To my sons, my sons in a far country, convey my cross and bloody vest. He, my first-born, will see the rents—for each rent, a rent in another shirt, a wound in another’s heart! Vengeance! The hour of vengeance is nigh! Make ready his bed in the valley of skulls. He comes, the last of his race, but he comes to his couch with a stain on his shroud, only to die. The vendetta, the spirit of vendetta is awake; it has slept too long. Blood for blood! The noble house of Batistelli no longer shall bear the dread reproach of rimbeccare. The stain shall now be washed away in blood. Vandemar Della Coscia must die!”
Cromillian’s attention had been attracted by the first words of the chant and he listened intently to the improvisatore. When Paoli ceased, he turned and approached him:
“Thy heart rebukes thee whilst thou singest. There are whispers of other orgies than those thou hast sung. I, too, can improvise. Now listen, Paoli, and remember that I never chant the ancient gabble of old women and silly girls. I will make my own songs and, better still, I will make them come true, every word true. Listen, and be sure that you do not forget.
“The noble young Vandemar returns, returns to his native mountains, to the home of his childhood, to the friends who have waited so long to embrace him. But no sooner do his feet touch the shores, the green banks of his early home, than the hungry vultures are on his track eager to drink the red blood in his veins. But the eagle will turn to defend his life. He will not die. The death song will resound for his enemies, the vengeful tribe of the Batistellis. Even this clown, this fool Paoli, will change the tone of his song, ere long! Ere long!!”
Paoli took his chief’s words pleasantly. “Hold on!” he cried. “Don’t you know that they have an adage among the French: ‘Never hit a man when he is down’?” As he said this, he arose:
“I am, as you well know, a descendant of the great Paoli, at whose name all Corsica thrilled, a just man, and the most distinguished general in the world.”