THE ISLE OF UNREST ***
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THE ISLE OF UNREST
BY HENRY SETON MERRIMAN
GOING TO THE WARS
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast, and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly.
True: a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore; I could not love thee, dear, so much Lov'd I not honour more.
I. THE MOVING FINGER II. CHEZ CLÉMENT III. A BY-PATH IV. A TOSS-UP V. IN THE RUE DU CHERCHE-MIDI VI. NEIGHBOURS VII. JOURNEY'S END VIII. AT VASSELOT IX. THE PROMISED LAND X. THUS FAR XI. BY SURPRISE XII. A SUMMONS XIII. WAR XIV. GOSSIP XV. WAR XVI. A MASTERFUL MAN XVII. WITHOUT DRUM OR TRUMPET XVIII. A WOMAN OF ACTION XIX. THE SEARCH XX. WOUNDED XXI. FOR FRANCE XXII. IN THE MACQUIS XXIII. AN UNDERSTANDING XXIV. "CE QUE FEMME VEUT" XXV. ON THE GREAT ROAD XXVI. THE END OF THE JOURNEY XXVII. THE ABBÉ'S SALAD XXVIII. GOLD XXIX. A BALANCED ACCOUNT XXX. THE BEGINNING AND THE END
THE ISLE OF UNREST
THE MOVING FINGER.
"The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all thy piety nor wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it."
The afternoon sun was lowering towards a heavy bank of clouds hanging still and sullen over the Mediterranean. A mistral was blowing. The last yellow rays shone fiercely upon the towering coast of Corsica, and the windows of the village of Olmeta glittered like gold.
There are two Olmetas in Corsica, both in the north, both on the west coast, both perched high like an eagle's nest, both looking down upon those lashed waters of the Mediterranean, which are not the waters that poets sing of, for they are as often white as they are blue; they are seldom glassy except in the height of summer and sailors tell that they are as treacherous as any waters of the earth. Neither aneroid nor weather-wisdom may, as a matter of fact, tell when a mistral will arise, how it will blow, how veer, how drop and rise, and drop again. For it will blow one day beneath a cloudless sky, lashing the whole sea white like milk, and blow harder to-morrow under racing clouds.
The great chestnut trees in and around Olmeta groaned and strained in the grip of their lifelong foe. The small door, the tiny windows, of every house were rigorously closed. The whole place had a wind-swept air despite the heavy foliage. Even the roads, and notably the broad "Place," had been swept clean and dustless. And in the middle of the "Place," between the fountain and the church steps, a man lay dead upon his face.
It is as well to state here, once for all, that we are dealing with Olmeta-di-Tuda, and not that other Olmeta--the virtuous, di Capocorso, in fact, which would shudder at the thought of a dead man lying on its "Place," before the windows of the very Mairie, under the shadow of the church. For Cap Corse is the good boy of Corsica, where men think sorrowfully of the wilder communes to the south, and raise their eyebrows at the very mention of Corte and Sartene--where, at all events, the women have for husbands, men--and not degenerate Pisan vine-snippers.
It was not so long ago either. For the man might have been alive to-day, though he would have been old and bent no doubt; for he was a thick-set man, and must have been strong. He had, indeed, carried his lead up from the road that runs by the Guadelle river. Was he not to be traced all the way up the short cut through the olive terraces by one bloody footprint at regular intervals? You could track his passage across the "Place," towards the fountain of which he had fallen short like a poisoned rat that tries to reach water and fails.