CHAPTER IV.

THE LION OF ROCCAPINA.

From Sartene to Bonifacio is a drive of about seven hours, including an hour's baiting in the middle of the day.

The scenery at first is not very fine, and leads through many a bleak and rugged hill, varied by gigantic boulders, and half-stifled ilex and arbutus.

Some of these boulders were remarkable for their strange hollowness, and would have made excellent bandit caves, had they been a little more hidden by the cystus and arbutus which bordered the way.

About half-way to the pass of Roccapina, however, a fine range of blue rocks rose on our left, close at hand, and continued for some distance to stand sentinel over the little valley through which we passed.

Our drive to-day was varied by an amusing chase. A poor little foal, following its mother and her master, got separated from its friends, through fear of our carriage, and fled precipitately down the road before us.

After vainly shouting to its deaf owner, and trying by means of gentle driving to turn it back, Antonio at length jumped down, and we all followed his example. But the small beast, now out of sight of its mother, and not possessed of much wisdom, would not be persuaded to follow the same road; but, cleverly dodging our outstretched arms, rushed for protection to the horses, nestling up between them, to their great contempt and indignation.

The chase became exciting, and No. 3, standing at the horses' heads, was quite exhausted with laughing, Nos. 1 and 2 having shouted themselves quite hoarse, when Antonio, by a dexterous rush, suddenly caught the snorting, terrified foal up in his strong arms, and began to carry it kicking down the road. At the same moment a pitiful neighing was heard round the corner, and the stupid owner at last appeared, dragged back by his afflicted mare; and in another moment, mother and child were happily re-united.

The pass of Roccapina is wild and picturesque, overlooking the sea, and many a rocky range. The open pass is bordered by loose boulders, and far beneath lies the little bay of Roccapina, three or four large coasting vessels lying in its harbour, mere black atoms in the distance; the white sandy road winding down to it, dotted with charcoal carts drawn by their six or eight mules, looking like so many moving centipedes upon the hill-side.

The long headland, which juts far out into the sea and protects one side of this bay, has upon its furthest height a high round tower, and upon the summit of the nearer hill, one of the greatest natural curiosities in Europe. It consists of the figure of a lion, seated upon the high peak with a lordly air, looking out to sea--an entirely natural formation in the rock.

For miles this lion can be seen, lifelike as if from the chisel of a sculptor, his very features being marked out by the natural indentations of the granite, and his pose full of spirit and vivacity.

Behind the headland, sweeps of blue sea and distant points of brown and purple rocks form a fine background, and in front the ground slopes away by a rocky winding road to the sea level.

A little Douane, represented by one pleasant elderly gendarme, and a tiny inn, are the only dwellings on this bleak and lonely spot, or for miles around its windy solitudes.

A tame tortoise, and some queer Corsican ware inside the bare little inn, consoled us during our mid-day halt for a passing shower, and our bread and cheese was augmented by the only luxury possessed by the good-natured landlady, who sold us an apronful of walnuts for twopence, and laughed cheerily at our original Italian.

Distorted and fantastic boulders gave way after a time, on the road down, to macchie and plains of corn-fields bedecked by sheets of scarlet poppies, as we left off following the margin of the sea-shore and struck inland once more amongst the green hills.

A wide rock-strewn plain, with a rocky line of hills in front, and a dry sandy road, nearly stifled us, and we were glad to get into a lovely lane hedged by arbutus, up which twined the loving purple vetch, to a height of more than eight feet, and where flowers--scarlet, blue, white, and golden--hid everything but blue sky from our aching eyes.

Breezy hills, peeps of sea, and malarious-looking plain, followed each other in quick succession, as we wound up and down, never leaving the sea-coast far behind.

Reaching the top of the last stony height, about six miles from Bonifacio, a splendid view lay spread before us. As far as the eye could reach the great Mediterranean glittered like a blue mirror to the horizon, with its white cliffs and low blue hills, surrounded by many small islands, while the white bastion walls of Bonifacio glistened in the noonday sun far off upon the mainland, overtopping all.

On our right rose the splendid rocks, black pointed and well-nigh inaccessible, upon which is situated the Hermitage de la Trinité.

This monastery has been for many years deserted and untenanted, but an immense black iron cross stands out with weird arms pointing into the summer sky from the extreme summit of this wild eyrie.

Looking at the almost perpendicular rocks, it is difficult to believe that any one could scale those heights; and one felt that here, at any rate, was a monastery which could have little or no communication with the outer world.

The next four or five miles seemed interminable, as in a burning fiery furnace of heat we drove along the level, sandy road leading to Bonifacio, bordered by a few dusty olives, and plentifully sprinkled with the black wooden wayside cross.

Nearer the town we passed between wonderful chalk cliffs, curved and hollowed and glittering, some having every appearance of high built walls. When at length we emerged from these white, cave-carved cliffs, we were at the bottom of an almost perpendicular hill, from the summit of which rose the bastions of Bonifacio.

The long narrow harbour which winds from the sea round one side of the town through more curious chalk cliffs, ceased at the edge of the roadside, and the lower little town or quay, with one or two small stone towers, lay beside it, before us, under the brow of the hill up which we must ascend to the citadel and town proper. A more wild and extraordinary looking situation for a town it would be impossible to conceive; and of all the towns in Corsica, I have no hesitation in saying that Bonifacio is best worth a visit.

Perched on the summit of its steep hill, its chalk foundations overhanging the blue sea on one side, and flanked by harbour and distant purple hills upon the other, the great mass of masonry looks proudly down, with the invincible pride of centuries, upon its Sardinian neighbour, and upon the waters that surround three sides of its steep fortress.