“Where am I?” asked Hugh.
“About five miles up in the mountains behind Vizzavona. Later in the year hunting parties come and my place is always full. Now there is no one. I am indeed glad to see you. But I waste time. I must prepare you some supper. You must be ravenous.”
“I am rather.”
“Ah, my poor monsieur! And I have no meat in the house. What a misfortune. All I can offer you is fish, fresh mountain trout. Come, you shall see. I will catch them fresh from the water.”
He lit a pine torch at the fire, and taking a scoop-net in his hand, led the way to the back of the house where Hugh heard the roar of the stream.
“In the dark you cannot see,” said Martini; “but it is really very picturesque here. The back of my house is level with the face of rock that falls to the stream. It forms a very deep pool that I call my fish-pond. I stock it against the time when I have many guests. At the upper end is a small waterfall, and at the lower I have a grill so that the fish cannot escape. You can hear the roar of my waterfall. I love it. It is something alive in the deadness and silence of the forest. In the night I awake and hear its friendly roar. I have been a sailor, monsieur, and it reminds me of the sea. In the morning I strip and stand under it. I brace myself and let it crash down on me; it beats and stings. In the coldest weather it is only pleasantly bitter, a hearty tonic.... Now, if monsieur will wait here, I will descend the rock and get some fish.”
As Hugh looked down, he thought how strange and wild was the scene. The old man bent over the water and the flare of his torch revealed the mysterious depths of the pool, and the white curtain of the waterfall. Overhead was the harsh foliage of the pines. The inn-keeper scooped round in the coppery eddy of the water, and presently climbed back up the face of the rock. In his net two silvery trout were leaping and gasping.
“There! I have already supped; but I expect you can manage both.”
2.
Hugh always remembered that evening before the glorious fire. He smoked old Pascal’s tobacco, and listened to his yarns. The inn-keeper had voyaged far, and could talk of many lands, but always he brought the conversation back to Corsica.