“You shall have some supper here. Has your uncle any bread left?”
“Very little, signorina. But what he is most short of is powder. Now the chestnuts are in, the only other thing he wants is powder.”
“I will give you a loaf for him, and some powder, too. Tell him to use it sparingly—it is very dear.”
“Colomba,” said Orso in French, “on whom are you bestowing your charity?”
“On a poor bandit belonging to this village,” replied Colomba in the same language. “This little girl is his niece.”
“It strikes me you might place your gifts better. Why should you send powder to a ruffian who will use it to commit crimes? But for the deplorable weakness every one here seems to have for the bandits, they would have disappeared out of Corsica long ago.”
“The worst men in our country are not those who are ‘in the country.’”
“Give them bread, if it so please you. But I will not have you supply them with ammunition.”
“Brother,” said Colomba, in a serious voice, “you are master here, and everything in this house belongs to you. But I warn you that I will give this little girl my mezzaro, so that she may sell it; rather than refuse powder to a bandit. Refuse to give him powder! I might just as well make him over to the gendarmes! What has he to protect him against them, except his cartridges?”
All this while the little girl was ravenously devouring a bit of bread, and carefully watching Colomba and her brother, turn about, trying to read the meaning of what they were saying in their eyes.