It seemed, as we formed ourselves into marching order, that I was on the point to be answered. For above the bank we came to a causeway which our lanterns plainly showed us to be man's handiwork; and following it round the bend of a valley, where a stream sang its way down to the creek, came suddenly on a flat meadow swept by the pale light and rising to a grassy slope, where a score of whitewashed houses huddled around a tall belfry, all glimmering under the moon.
"In Corsica," repeated my father, leading the way across the meadow, "every householder is a host."
He halted at the base of the village street.
"It is curious, however, that the dogs have not heard us.
Their barking, as a rule, is something to remember."
He stepped up to the first house to knock. There was no door to knock upon. The building stood open, desolate. Our lanterns showed the grass growing on its threshold.
We tried the next and the next. The whole village lay dead, abandoned. We gathered in the street and shouted, raising our lanterns aloft. No voice answered us.
[1] Phosphorescence.
CHAPTER XIII.
HOW, WITHOUT FIGHTING, OUR ARMY WASTED BY ENCHANTMENT.
"ADRIAN. The air breathes upon us here most sweetly. . . .
GONZALO. Here is everything advantageous to life.
ANTONIO. True: save means to live."