"Yes," we admitted, "we are strangers. But what then?"
"Ah, well! If you knew the country, you two would not dream of going about like this by yourselves."
"But why not?" we persisted, vaguely impressed by our companion's manner. "Every one is good to us in Corsica. What will harm us? What is there to frighten us?"
The young woman spread out her hands in amazement at our obstinacy. "What? Well"—with a shrug—"des chiens, et des bergers!"
Later on, we learnt to regard this threat of bergers in somewhat the same light as the Saracen babies did that of Richard Cœur de Lion, according to tradition; but at present we had scarcely imbibed that morbid and not very well-founded dread, and the response of our black-eyed friend did not inspire the terror she seemed to expect in our breasts.
For a moment or two we debated, and then, thanking the young woman for her kindly meant advice, we sprang over the stream and passed on, leaving her standing staring after us with all her black eyes, her hands still clasping her supple waist. We had no reason to repent our resolution, as we wandered amongst the sand-hills, winding down a little overgrown path which seemed to lead to a further bay.
Anything like the flowers which, for a mile or so of our way, covered the hillocks around us, I never saw or dreamt of before.
People talk of the beauties of rock and mountain scenery in Corsica, and the wild grandeur of its wide forests; but, to my mind, the distinguishing beauty of Corsica lies in its flowers.
Switzerland and Italy boast their rocks and mountains, and colder lands their forests; but neither Switzerland nor Italy, nor, I believe, any other country in Europe, can attempt to rival the flowers of Corsica in richness of colouring and luxuriance of growth.
Here, as we worked our way through interlacing shrubs, on each side of us stretched a sea of blossoms, completely hiding from sight both stalks and green leaves. Sheets of pink and white cystus, brilliant purple vetch everywhere scrambling over them, scarlet, crimson, and pink poppies, blue borage, Michaelmas daisies, cyclamen, and what in England we call the garden sweet-pea, together with a host of other gorgeous floral dainties, massed and tangled themselves together in a blaze of beauty.