Matteo Falcone is a man of about fifty, with knotted muscles, sinewy arms, broad between the shoulders, light in his movements as a cat, with two large eyes from which strong, piercing rays shine, thin lips, and curly black hair. His fame has spread throughout his homeland — the island of Corsica — for his wondrous power of hitting the mark: whenever he shot, he hit, whether by night or by day. He is pleasant in company and of an easy temper; but if he is wounded or insulted, he is a bitter enemy, full of defiance and might, and he will set aside his very humanity until he has attained his purpose against his adversary...
Matteo Falcone left the birthplace where he was born and raised for the port of Porto-Vecchio in the south of the island, to live there a life of quiet and peace of mind in a humble country house surrounded by a forest of tangled trees and interlacing branches, far from the din and tumult of life. He spent an age of his life tending with his own hands a plot of land and a few flocks of sheep, and from all this he gained wealth that raised him to the rank of the countryside's notables and rich men; and withal he is generous and liberal, open of hand and of face, quick to do good, slow to do evil.
Matteo married Giuseppa when young, and by her was granted three daughters, who all married, and he was able to find help in his daughters' husbands; yet his heart remained sorrowful, grieving that God had not answered him with a boy to carry for him some of the burdens and troubles of life that weighed upon him. Then... then
came the bearer of glad tidings... The days smiled upon him with a child who was the family's sweet hope, its only one, the heir of its name and its wealth... Fortunato. The child grew up the delight of both his father's and his mother's eyes; they watched over him and lavished on him their tenderness and care, and then they set about rearing him to be the equal of his father. He grew up with the signs of courage and comeliness in his eyes, and the marks of strength and vigor in his body...
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On the bright morning of an autumn day — the child being ten years old — the father and his wife set out to see how their sheep were faring. The son wanted to go with them, but the father insisted that he stay by the house to guard it.
The hours slipped by while the child, alone, now stretched himself at ease before the door under the gentle rays of the sun, now delighted in gazing at the lofty trees of the forest and the towering mountains within sight, and now relished the beautiful fancies stirring in his head as he imagined that he would visit the city on Sunday and see his uncle the commandant, and roam through its quarters and behold things he had been denied for an age. The thought took hold of him and he smiled — but a sound robbed him of the pleasure of his fancy and startled him from his place, and he sprang up to see... and he felt as though his heart were being torn out with dread and fear, for what he had heard was the sound
of gunshots, rapid and successive, drawing nearer to him little by little. He cast his gaze all around, and nothing appeared to him but a figure slipping toward him out of the forest, stumbling on his way and laboring in his gait from the effects of pain and fatigue, blood dripping from his thigh.
No wonder — for this was a criminal who had stolen away, while the night lay still, toward the city; the soldiers had closed in on him, and he had yielded and submitted after a struggle; then he found a way out and broke loose, seeking freedom and smashing the prison fetters that awaited him a few steps away, while they were on his trail, unwearied by effort and untouched by fatigue, pursuing him with a hail from their rifles, while he held them off with bullets and flight at one and the same time. He was huge of frame, animal in appearance, wretched in aspect, ragged of clothing, with a thick, untrimmed beard, disheveled and dusty, striking fright and terror into the soul — yet his burdens had left him broken and weak.
Then he came up to the boy and stood before him, asking him to find him a way out: "I am Gianetto Sanpiero. The police are on my trail, and I cannot flee. Shall I not find refuge in your house?" The child turned away from him — at first — and refused him what he asked; so the man began to threaten and menace. But the child could see what pain he was suffering and what exhaustion had come over him, and he leapt away, saying: "Neither can your rifle reach me,