As we advanced, the gorge become narrower and the rocks steeper. The Orbo literally churned itself in its fury, so that we could scarcely hear each other speak, and the opposing crags, some decked with brilliant verdure, and all dotted with pines and ilex, reared their weird pointed ridges yet straighter into the brilliant sky, in strata of the most vivid colours—blue, grey, yellow, green, and even puce pink. The two latter colours were the porphyry and red granite, abounding in Corsica. In places, the rocks were hollowed out like the trunks of trees; and everywhere scored and cracked and seamed.
On the road-side at one point, standing out from the hill behind them, rose two great square towers of grey rock, reminding one strongly of the city gates of Florence.
At last we reached the particular precipice par excellence, without having had reason as yet to desert our carriage, or fear any fulfilment of M. le General's terrible prophecies; and here we got out and sat down on the broken wall, to drink in the beauty of the scene.
The morning sun was now shining brightly, but the great walls of curving rock on either side completely shut out the sunshine, and concealed great part of the sky.
On the opposite side of the gorge, precipices about six hundred feet high looked down perpendicularly upon the Orbo, as it rushed towards the sea, throwing up sheets of dazzling foam, and diving under and leaping over the great green boulders that lay across its narrow path.
On our side, the road overhung the torrent about a hundred feet, whilst red rocks bent over our heads to a height of some hundred feet more.
Just at the turn, the road, which was without defences of any kind, and which had hitherto not been too broad, widened out a little; and here we followed Antonio over the little green slope, to look down into the seething waters below.
Antonio had seated himself upon an out-jutting ledge of rock, and, with feet dangling over the precipice, employed himself in tearing up young boulders and sending them for our edification, with a noise of thunder, over the edge into the depths below. One rocky crash succeeded another, making echoes amid the wild din of the torrent, until the young Corsican was crimson in the face with his exertions, and seemed so much inclined to throw himself over with his heavy missiles, that we had to represent to him the serious inconvenience it would be to us were we to be left to make our way driverless back to Ghisoni.
This had the desired effect; and shrugging his shoulders, with a smile, he desisted, pulling down the pink and white calico smock that he always wore, when on duty, over his waistcoat, and returning to his horses.
Meanwhile we walked on, down the gorge. For about another three-quarters of a mile the precipices continued fine; then the rocks opened out, the road flattened, and all things began to look commonplace. We decided to return the way we had come, by Ghisoni and Sorba, instead of following this flatter and less interesting route to Vivario.