and shaded by cork trees. Above was the castle, perched up, and apparently as high above them as when they began their enterprise; below was a steep descent, clothed with pines and adorned with white heaths. The place was altogether strange; they had lost themselves; Bertha began to repent of her adventure, and Maria was much disposed to cry.
‘Never mind, Maria,’ said Bertha, ‘we will not try to go any higher. See, here is the dry bed of a torrent that will make a famous path down. There, that’s right. What a picture it is! what an exquisite peep of the sea between the boughs! What now, what frightens you?’
‘The old woman, she looks so horrid.’
‘The witch for the lost children? No, no, Maria, she is only gathering fir cones, and completing the picture in her red basquine, brown jacket, and great hat. I would ask her the way, but that we could not understand her Provençal.’
‘Oh, dear! I wish Phœbe was here! I wish we were safe!’
‘If I ever come mountain-climbing again with you at my heels! Take care, there’s no danger if you mind your feet, and we must come out somewhere.’
The somewhere, when the slope became less violent, was among vineyards and olivettes, no vestige of a path through them, only a very small cottage, picturesquely planted among the rocks, whence proceeded the sounds of a cornet-à-piston. As Bertha stood considering which way to take, a dog flew out of the house and began barking. This brought out a man, who rudely shouted to the terrified pair that they were trespassing. They would have fled at once up the torrent-bed, bad as it was for ascent, but there was a derisive exclamation and laugh, and half-a-dozen men, half-tipsy, came pouring out of the cottage, bawling to Colibri, the rough, shaggy white dog, that seemed disposed to spring at the Maltese in Bertha’s arms.
The foremost, shouting in French for the sisters to stop, pointed to what he called the way, and Bertha drew Maria in that direction, trusting that they should escape by submission, but after going a little distance, she found herself at the edge of a bare, deep, dry ravine, steep on each side, almost so as to be impassable. The path only ran on the other side. There was another shout of exultation and laughter at the English girls’ consternation. At this evident trick of the surly peasants, Maria shook all over, and burst into tears, and Bertha, gathering courage, turned to expostulate and offer a reward, but her horrible stammer coming on worse than ever, produced nothing but inarticulate sounds.
‘Monsieur, there is surely some mistake,’ said a clear voice in good French from the path on the other side, and looking across, the sisters were cheered by an unmistakable English brown hat. The peasants drew back a little, believing that the young ladies were not so unprotected as they had supposed, and the first speaker, with something like apology, declared that this was
really the path, and descending where the sides were least steep, held out his hand to help Bertha. The lady, whose bank was more practicable, came down to meet them, saying in French, with much emphasis, that she would summon ‘those gentlemen’ to their assistance if desired; words that had considerable effect upon the enemy.