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De Vasselot's horse was small and wiry part Arab, part mountain pony and attended to his own affairs with the careful and surprising intelligence possessed by horses, mules, and donkeys that are born and bred to mountain roads. After Murato the track had descended sharply, only to mount again to the heights dividing the watersheds of the Bevinco and the Golo.
And, of course, in time they met up there on the road from Pruneta to Murato. The clouds were down, and the gregale was blowing cold and showery. It is when the gregale blows that the clouds seem to whisper as they crowd through the narrow places up among the peaks, and there was no other sound while these two men crept round each other among the rocks, like two cats upon a roof.
The colonel had already recognized this man as of Olmeta one of those, perhaps, who had stood smoking on the "Place" there when Pietro Andrei crawled towards the fountain and failed to reach it. "I am going to Olmeta," said the man, "and you also, perhaps." "No; I am exercising my horse, as you see. I shall turn to the left at the cross-roads, and go towards Murato.
Murato was asleep a silent group of stone-roofed houses, one of which, however, had seen the birth of a man notorious enough in his day Fieschi, the would-be assassin of Louis Philippe. Every village in this island has, it would seem, the odour of blood.
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