"But if he got off meanwhile to the macchie," asked Antonio, his dark eyes gleaming with a spice of mischief, "and was never seen again; what then?"
"Well," I said, after a pause, "you must be a difficult race to manage."
"The Corsicans quarrel amongst themselves sometimes, mademoiselle; and they kill one another sometimes; but they are a quiet people on the whole. They are content to live upon little, they neither beg nor steal" ("nor work," he might have added), "and they make no commotions. If there is any disturbance in the country, it is caused by Italians. There are more Italians than French in the island, and they are very rough and disorderly. If ever a stranger is molested it is by the Italians. No Corsican will ever speak rudely to you, mademoiselle."
There are certainly no begging propensities about the Corsicans. It had been with the greatest difficulty that we managed to make the bimbo's mother at Bechisano allow her baby to clasp a fifty-centime piece in his chubby hand, after refusing anything herself for her good-natured pose of a quarter of an hour opposite our carriage.
But Antonio's eloquence on the subject of Corsican docility rather lost its effect upon me, owing to the peculiar character of one of our new relay of horses. He was a great raw-boned brute about sixteen hands high, who reared upright at starting, and showed a strong disposition to bolt the first few miles—a disposition only checked by the extreme stolidity of his companion, who stumbled over his nose every few steps.
"N'ayez pas peur, mademoiselle," said the grave voice at my side, consolingly; "I know him well; he will do no harm. That fellow who rears is twenty-three years old; but he is much the best of the two. But the 'padron' should not have sent such horses for you."
In fact, with any driver less skilful or less careful than ours, I doubt if we should ever have reached Ajaccio that night; and we were reminded that it behoves travellers in Corsica to choose their horses before starting on a journey.
CHAPTER VIII.
TO VICO.
A few days' quiet at Ajaccio, was quite sufficient for us. The hotel, lately so lively, was now completely deserted, and even the white-capped chamber-maids had taken flight until next season. We had the large rooms completely to ourselves, and found them melancholy. The town, too, was hot and stuffy. Everybody was moving up to their summer houses, and the close air was depressing.
We were glad to arrange another tour to the north-west of the island, including the forests of Aïtone and Valdoniello. The first night was to be spent at Vico, a village up amongst the hills, a favourite resort of the upper ten of Ajaccio in summer.