CHAPTER XIV.

THE FOREST OF SORBA.

When at last cold dawn had passed away, and given place to rosy morning, such a view was gleaming in through the little open window as seemed almost to compensate for horrors past.

What mattered it now, in the clear brilliant sunshine, that a monstrous black beetle, overcome by slumber or reflection, was looking down serenely from the wall just above; or that, on lifting a shoe from the floor, two more hopped out merrily?

A pure cone of glistening snow was rising from a belt of pines and chestnut woods from the valley in which stood the inn, and blocking up the little window with a dazzling vicinity of beauty.

The blue sky behind it shone like a sapphire, and everything seemed sparkling in the glorious pure early sunshine; snow girdles above, and dewdrops from green branches below, whilst larks were thrilling the air with their mysterious hidden song:--

"What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

"Like a glowworm golden, In a dell of dew, Scattering, unbeholden, Its aerial hue, Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view.

"What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields or waves or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?"

After an early breakfast we left Bocognano, and proceeded on our way to Ghisoni before nine o'clock.

For two or three hours we followed the Corte route, mounting up the Foce Pass, where before we had descended in the diligence. But two months had made a vast difference in the nature of the views. Where all had been bleak and bare before, pale feathery beeches now hung over gorge and ravine, shading the hot ascent, and chestnuts in full leaf bent above many a foaming cascade as it rushed down the hill-side.

Snow mountains still surrounded us on either side, but rich groves of trees filled up the valley beneath, and clothed the opposite slope with a warm mantle, out of which rose the white conical peak of Monte D'Oro at a great height into the burning blue sky.

The forest of Vizzavona was far more beautiful than at our first visit. There were no naked trunks or bare branches now: both beeches and pines were in full luxuriance, and everywhere was richest foliage and most grateful shade, showing only occasional peeps of the grand snowy ranges through the avenue breaks. Descending again, we baited, for our mid-day rest, under a frying sun but a frosty atmosphere, on an exposed plateau just beyond the forest, beside a lonely and deserted cantonnier's house, where the ground was bare, but where snow, on grandest hills, hemmed us in on every side.

After washing down our bread and raisins with a draught from the delicious mountain spring that ran before us, we descended the hill a little farther, to investigate a little pine wood just above the road-way.

It was fringed by gigantic Mediterranean heath trees, and the ground was carpeted by cyclamen and fir cones, out of which the lizards darted at our approach in hundreds, some only an inch or two long, and evidently mere babes of their tribe.

Almost at the same moment, my companion and I started two large snakes.

Mine was black, and about four feet long; hers green, and somewhat shorter. The black fellow sprang almost from under my feet on the narrow pathway, and wriggled away rapidly, swimming across a dyke just beside it, and then hastening into concealment up the side of the opposite bank.

The other one started out in the same way just before my companion, but took refuge in the hollow of a neighbouring tree-trunk, putting out his pretty green head and bright green eyes every other minute cautiously, to see if the coast were clear, but always retiring when he observed us watching.

I have no doubt that wood, and every wood and forest in Corsica, is more or less full of such snakes; but their timidity makes them little formidable, unless one should happen to place a bare hand or foot by accident upon them.

Starting anew, we continued our descent through thick chestnut woods, and beside mountains, apparently steeper and nearer; until at length, just above the village of Vivario, we left the Corte road and struck off to the right towards the forest of Sorba.

This forest is situated upon the summit of such a high hill that, when Antonio pointed it out to us, it seemed quite impossible that we should have time, or the horses strength, to reach it that day.

It proved, however, to be only a very toilsome mount of about three hours. This ascent to the Col is certainly the most steep and precipitous of any forest we had yet seen in the island; but the road is fairly good, and the views, near and far, are exquisite.

As we entered the outskirts of the forest, young firs bent over the large boulders around us; then the numerous thin-stemmed pines crowded more closely together, growing at each turn larger, handsomer, and bigger of girth, until, near the summit, the trees that lined the path on either side were the finest we had ever seen for height and circumference. Many of these trees were of vast reputed ages; which, however, could not be computed until, after being felled, their rings were counted. Some of them, however, sent to the Paris Exhibition of 1867, were proved to be four hundred years old.

The path mounted so rapidly that we could see over the heads of nearly all these forest giants, except those immediately on the road level; and through every break loomed the magnificent head of D'Oro, now some distance, but looking grander and larger than ever, hanging like something unearthly between sky and plain, with a wide belt of clouds round his base, but with his head clear and cloudless.

The road which we had passed over seemed to lie under our very feet, and, as we mounted, the boulders grew more and more gigantic and imposing. At one place we had a very narrow shave to get past. A great block of rock had become detached from the mountain-side above, and fallen across our path at a remarkably steep point. We all got out while the horses wormed themselves round the corner, and Antonio half lifted the empty carriage after them, leaving only the wheels on one side on mother earth, and supporting the other side himself.

"If this had been night, and we had been descending," asked No. 3, "what would have become of us then?"

Antonio shook his head with a silent smile. He was too wise to commit himself to any opinion on such a point.

"But no one would come down such a place at night, I suppose?" she remarked.

"Yes," said Antonio; "the very first time I ever drove out into the country, when I was a boy of fifteen, was down this very road. A party had to go to Ghisoni and back in haste, and we returned down here by night; and there was no moon."

"And you had no mishap?"

"No, mademoiselle," was the grave reply; "I have never had a mishap yet."

As we neared the lofty summit of the Col, shifting clouds ran across our path, and broke about us, dividing us alternately from heaven and earth; but, as at length we reached the top, we found ourselves enveloped in a dense fog of cloudland.

We stood for a moment on the pass to rest the horses, and, as we looked down into that abyss of white vapour, into which we were to plunge in another minute, its trackless desert appeared appalling, and it seemed as if we were going to throw ourselves into a bottomless pit of misty horror. It was almost impossible to believe that land and hill and valley lay beneath that horrible veil.

But Antonio knew every turn of the sharp descent as we flew down the mountain-side; and presently dim misty forms of hills, bleak and bare, with here and there fir woods, but no snow mountains, broke through the thinning clouds.

Ere long they cleared away, and, after passing through lines of magnificent chestnut trees, many scorched and blackened by ruthless forestiers, we looked down upon Ghisoni, situated in a valley closely shut in on all sides just above a foaming river.

It was an ugly village, even for Corsica, and its inn was not cheering in appearance, although more cleanly looking than Bocognano of unsavoury memory.

As it proved, however, this little inn was by no means uncomfortable, and one of the cleanest we had met with.

Whilst waiting for dinner, we took a walk, followed by some twenty or thirty children, and made our way up to the cemetery hill, looking down upon the noisy torrent.

The children were very friendly and not disagreeable, although rather pressing in their attentions, most of the boys taking off their caps, and all of them offering us nosegays of flowers.

We were quite reconciled to them before we returned to the village, and had grown so used to our usual triumphal procession of juvenile admirers, that it astonished us to see one of a group of men, who had all politely bowed as we passed them, dart into the centre of our train with a torrent of angry words, and an energy of threats that dispersed the tribe at once and left us free.

Strolling on in the opposite direction, we went to see the famous crag of Christalisione. This is a magnificent cliff of perpendicular grey rock rising from the opposite side of the gorge, and overhanging the wild torrent foaming through it, about half a mile from the village.

Some men were mending the road, which was in sore need of repair; and, as they rested on their pickaxes and shovels to gaze after us, we spoke to one or two of them, and found them, as usual, pleased to be talked to, and exceedingly polite and intelligent.

The great crag looked very noble, with a band of white clouds encircling his middle, from which the grey head and greyer base emerged at top and bottom.

At six o'clock we returned to our inn, to find dinner laid at the small round table for half a dozen people.

The salle à manger was, as usual, a long low room, rather dark; but it seemed clean, and there was no smell worse than ancient tobacco smoke. The walls were covered with gay frescoes, representing rural scenes.

It was a little embarrassing to wash one's hands for dinner under the curious scrutiny of some eight or ten pairs of eyes. My little bedroom window faced the village street, and as it possessed neither blind nor shutters, I found myself an object of increasing interest to the heads that gradually gathered at the opposite windows, and protruded themselves to an alarming extent in the excitement of commanding my movements.

Returning downstairs, we found that our three fellow-diners consisted of a Frenchman, called by his companions "M. le General," and occupying the civil post of "Garde General" of the neighbouring forests; and two Corsicans, one a plain "garde forestier," and the other the master of the inn himself.

It is a little peculiar to sit down to dinner with one's innkeeper; but, except for the sentiment of the thing, we had little to complain of, as mine host was most agreeable and well-behaved. His conversation was amusing, and he had arrayed himself in semi-evening costume in honour of our presence. His knowledge of the culinary resources of the household, too, did us many a good turn during dinner, as he sent his daughter, acting as waitress, for first one thing and then another, out of the family cupboards.

The garde forestier was a tall good-looking man of about thirty, dressed in brown velveteen and hessians, and seemed a clever man. Both he and mine host spoke French with great rapidity, if not with the same idiom as the Parisian garde general.

M. le General was a very fine gentleman indeed. He was thoroughly French, both in appearance and conversation, and his exalted rank evidently accounted both for his tone of good-tempered patronage in addressing his two male companions, and the _persiflage_ with which he favoured us.

"Flowers!" he exclaimed, when the forestier made some remark about the floral richness of his country; "why, you haven't a garden in the whole of this little island of yours!"

"I have some astonishing roses in my garden behind the house, which I will show you after dinner," said the host.

"Roses, mon cher! Why, you Corsicans don't know a rose when you see it! You gather a few miserable little worm-eaten buds, and call them a bouquet of roses. There isn't a man in Corsica who understands how to make a garden."

The two Corsicans took this rebuke very meekly, perhaps owning its truth in their hearts; and presently the conversation diverged to the subject of bandits.

"Do you know, mesdemoiselles," said the General, "that you are now in the heart of the bandit country?"

We testified our knowledge of the formidable fact.

"Probably, mesdemoiselles, you expect these bandits to be very terrible fellows? You would not know them from other people; in all probability you have met one or two in the street this evening," continued our French friend, who evidently wished to create a "sensation," and was not particular about the use of the long bow. "Ma foi! they are 'charmants garçons,' and 'braves hommes,' these bandits--they would behave to you with every civility."

"Possibly," said we. And the two Corsicans assented gravely, seeing nothing in the subject to joke about.

"Yes, mesdemoiselles," went on M. le General, warming with his topic, "you may sleep safely in your beds to-night, here as elsewhere. You need not fear the bandits."

"We do not fear them," we remarked, unable to help laughing.

"Ah, poor fellows! They are often ill-used men, and forced into their way of life. Is it not so, my friends?" he asked, turning to his companions.

"They are brave men," said mine host gravely.

"They may be ill-used," remarked No. 3; "but they are not brave when they lay wait for their enemy and shoot him concealed in the maquis. It would surely be more manly to give him a chance."

"Yes," said the big garde forestier, "you are right, mademoiselle. The man who fires upon his foe from the maquis is a lâche. He should shoot him in the open street."

"Quite so, mon cher," said M. le General, "always provided that his enemy has not a pistol with which to return the compliment!"

But the Corsicans looked grave at this levity; and the versatile General had soon found another topic of conversation.

"Is it true, mesdemoiselles," he asked, as he poured a half-pint of sweet oil over his salad, "that you meditate going to the Inzecca precipices to-morrow?"

"We do," we replied.

"You had better not go, ladies. Ah! mon Dieu! _there_ are precipices indeed! It is terrible. Such a road! One slip of the horse's foot--one stone rolling--and vous voilà perdues!"

"We mean to risk it, monsieur."

"Ah, you English ladies are rash; you fear nothing. Have you a good driver?"

"A very good one; and one we can trust perfectly."

"That is well; for it is a terrible place, an expedition of horror. Precipices six hundred feet high--a wall of rock overhanging--ah, ciel! And a steep and narrow road, where one false step may cause destruction! Think of that, mesdames!"

We had thought of it, and enjoyed the prospect; but, as these three men shuddered sympathetically over the horrors of the place, we began to wonder faintly whether the Inzecca would indeed prove our romantic and early tomb.