"Well, well," said Castriconi, "that's no more than death, anyhow; and it's better than being killed in your bed by a fever, with your heirs snivelhng more or less honestly all round you. To men who are accustomed to the open air like us, there's nothing so good as to die 'in your shoes,' as the village folk say."
"I should like to see you get out of this country," said Orso, "and lead a quieter life. For instance, why shouldn't you settle in Sardinia, as several of your comrades have done? I could make the matter easy for you."
"In Sardinia!" cried Brandolaccio. "Istos Sardos! Devil take them and their lingo! We couldn't live in such bad company."
"Sardinia's a country without resources," added the theologian. "For my part, I despise the Sardinians. They keep mounted men to hunt their bandits. That's a stigma on both the bandits and the country.[1] Out upon Sardinia, say I! The thing that astounds me, Signor della Rebbia, is that you, who are a man of taste and understanding, should not have taken to our life in the mâquis, after having once tried it, as you did."
- ↑ I owe this criticism of Sardinia to an ex-bandit of my acquaintance, and he alone must bear the responsibility of it. He means that bandits who let themselves be caught by horse soldiers are idiots, and that soldiers who try to catch bandits on horseback have very little chance of getting at them.
