The road now wound again right over the edge of the sea, and the clear green waves dashed against the brown rocks beneath us, and rolled in transparent curls upon the sandy shore for many a mile, watering with spray the rich shrubs that clothed the cliff to the very water's edge.
Here, on many a lonely hill overlooking the wide waste of waters, stood a massive, round Genoese watch-tower—half-ruined memorial of a cruel sway now passed, but which for centuries crushed out happiness and prosperity, although not resistance, from the heroic little island.
It was between six and seven when we reached Ile Rousse; but long before this, the picturesque promontory from which it takes its name was visible, standing far out into the bay, blood-red against a sunset sky.
The town, neat and tidy, lies at the water's edge, backed by the white snow-cones of Monte Pedro; but the rocks themselves are distinct, and are connected with it by a straggling little quay and long wooden bridge. They are composed of a long rough tongue of red sandstone, torn and rent into every picturesque shape, and running out into the sea for about a quarter of a mile. On the furthest rock rose a solemn watch-tower; on the nearer one, some grey old ruins.
The sun was just setting as we walked over the wooden bridge and climbed upon a high point. The rocks gleamed a fiery red where they caught the last rays, but ghostly black shadows filled their crevices below; and the old watch-tower looked grandly out towards the French coast, painted against an orange sky.
The road leading up from the quay was shaded by an avenue of trees, and was evidently the favourite evening stroll of the Ile Rousse upper ten. A great number of the inhabitants were here, and we were much edified by the polite manner with which one and all raised their hats to us, wishing us "bon soir," one nice-looking Italian sailor, however, varying the salute by offering it in English—we, of course, responding in like manner, greatly to his delight.
The bump of manly courtesy is evidently well developed in Ile Rousse; for, coming up the street, pursued by a horde of excited children, shouting "Inglesé!" the tribe were reprimanded and even caught and pommelled by one or two of the smoking idlers at the street corners.
We often experienced courtesy of this sort amongst the Corsican men, who were far too kind and too well-bred to enjoy seeing us mobbed and annoyed by their progeny; but unfortunately, as a rule, their remonstrances proceeded no further than words, and for a verbal remonstrance the juvenile Corsican cares but little.
These Corsican children were a curious study. In some few places, notably Corte and Propriano, the children were unboundedly impudent; in some few others again, quiet little country villages, they had the modesty and simplicity to be expected in sweet Auburn; but these were exceptions.
They are, generally speaking, utterly fearless, but highly intelligent, eager to follow and criticize your every step, and to demand an answer to every question possible regarding your person and your nationality; but quite open to friendliness.