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I found him in his study, talking very confidentially to a man of the true Corsican peasant type. "This is Quastana's cousin," said the Prefect to me, in a low tone. "He lives in the little village of Solenzara, just above Porto-Vecchio, and the brigand pays him a visit every Sunday evening to have a game of scopa.
"I am sorry for the Prefecture," he said; "but I have Quastana's cousin, and I won't let him go! He will be tried with some peasants, who are accused of having supplied the brigand with provisions." "But I repeat that this man is really in the service of the Prefecture," I protested. "So much the worse for the Prefecture," said he with a laugh.
One would have imagined that he meant to stop us going farther along the road. "Here, Bruccio, Bruccio!" cried my guide; then, leaning towards me, he said: "That's Quastana's dog. A ferocious animal. He has no equal for keeping watch." Turning to the dog again, he called out: "That's all right, old fellow! Do you take us for policemen?"
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