"For when the eloquent is mute,
Silence itself is eloquent.
It is the dam upon the river,
Whereon the waters press for ever,
By their own fulness pent."[1]
The road at the Col split into two; and, taking the inland one, we began at once to descend rapidly, leaving behind us the magnificent views and the blue sky, and turning into monotonous green hills, sloping down to a river bordered by willows, and a colourless sky, whose leaden clouds were discharging themselves with a quiet persistence that denoted their "staying" properties.
Our mid-day halt was at Ponte alle Lecchia, where the river, widening out and dashing in white foam, throws itself over boulders of bright green porphyry under a handsome bridge. Ponte alle Lecchia is an inconsiderable village, but it is the junction between the Bastia and Calvi roads, and every diligence stops here on the road from Bastia to Corte. The little inn, before which we stopped, was wretched and filthy, and they had absolutely nothing in the house but bread and sardines, for which they charged us a high price. I say "nothing," for I mean nothing eatable by civilized people. We were, as usual, offered bacon and cheese; but, as the first was raw, and the second could have been smelt a quarter of a mile off, these we declined.
We made, however, a good fire of blazing sticks on the open hearth, and, surrounded by the curious eyes of all the inmates of the inn, guests or otherwise, dried our soaked garments.
The hills between Belgodere and Ponte alle Lecchia were the home of the celebrated bandit Serafino.