sculptor, his very features being marked out by the natural indentations of the granite, and his pose full of spirit and vivacity.

Behind the headland, sweeps of blue sea and distant points of brown and purple rocks form a fine background, and in front the ground slopes away by a rocky winding road to the sea level.

A little Douane, represented by one pleasant elderly gendarme, and a tiny inn, are the only dwellings on this bleak and lonely spot, or for miles around its windy solitudes.

A tame tortoise, and some queer Corsican ware inside the bare little inn, consoled us during our mid-day halt for a passing shower, and our bread and cheese was augmented by the only luxury possessed by the good-natured landlady, who sold us an apronful of walnuts for twopence, and laughed cheerily at our original Italian.

Distorted and fantastic boulders gave way after a time, on the road down, to macchie and plains of corn-fields bedecked by sheets of scarlet poppies, as we left off following the margin of the sea-shore and struck inland once more amongst the green hills.

A wide rock-strewn plain, with a rocky line of hills in front, and a dry sandy road, nearly stifled us, and we were glad to get into a lovely lane hedged by arbutus, up which twined the loving purple vetch, to a height of more than eight feet, and where flowers—scarlet, blue, white, and golden—hid everything but blue sky from our aching eyes.

Breezy hills, peeps of sea, and malarious-looking plain, followed each other in quick succession, as we wound up and down, never leaving the sea-coast far behind.

Reaching the top of the last stony height, about six miles from Bonifacio, a splendid view lay spread before us. As far as the eye could reach the great Mediterranean glittered like a blue mirror to the horizon, with its white cliffs and low blue hills, surrounded by many small islands, while the white bastion walls of Bonifacio glistened in the noonday sun far off upon the mainland, overtopping all.

On our right rose the splendid rocks, black pointed and well-nigh inaccessible, upon which is situated the Hermitage de la Trinité.

This monastery has been for many years deserted and untenanted, but an immense black iron cross stands out with weird arms pointing into the summer sky from the extreme summit of this wild eyrie.

Looking at the almost perpendicular rocks, it is difficult to believe that any one could scale those heights; and one felt that here, at any rate, was a monastery which could have little or no communication with the outer world.

The next four or five miles seemed interminable, as in a burning fiery furnace of heat we drove along the level, sandy road leading to Bonifacio, bordered by a few dusty olives, and plentifully sprinkled with the black wooden wayside cross.

Nearer the town we passed between wonderful chalk cliffs, curved and hollowed and glittering, some having every appearance of high built walls. When at length we emerged from these white, cave-carved cliffs, we were at the bottom of an almost perpendicular hill, from the summit of which rose the bastions of Bonifacio.

The long narrow harbour which winds from the sea round one side of the town through more curious chalk cliffs, ceased at the edge of the roadside, and the lower little town or quay, with one or two small stone towers, lay beside it, before us, under the brow of the hill up which we must ascend to the citadel and town proper. A more wild and extraordinary looking situation for a town it would be impossible to conceive; and of all the towns in Corsica, I have no hesitation in saying that Bonifacio is best worth a visit.

Perched on the summit of its steep hill, its chalk foundations overhanging the blue sea on one side, and flanked by harbour and distant purple hills upon the other, the great mass of masonry looks proudly down, with the invincible pride of centuries, upon its Sardinian neighbour, and upon the waters that surround three sides of its steep fortress.

CHAPTER V.

BONIFACIO.

The town of Bonifacio proper is within the citadel walls, and two roads ascend to the heights. One is wide and handsome, winding round the lofty walls and entering the citadel by a strong drawbridge with fine old chains; the other is a stony zigzag, too narrow and too steep for any vehicle, and only available for men, women, and mules. This also leads by a lesser drawbridge into the well-defended town.

On entering through the main gates of the city, you find yourself in a wide street, which will be handsome when some ruined houses are repaired, and others now building are finished. Between the houses, come peeps of breezy hills and blue harbour. The ascent is still steep and stony, although wide; and the street, which is the only good one in Bonifacio, soon comes to an end.

An intricacy of narrow byways leads out of it in every direction. Into some of these we penetrated, and found them most curious.

The houses were enormously high, supported by flying buttresses from one roof or wall to the other across the narrow street; while the road itself (by courtesy so called) was made up of mighty cobble-stones, varied by large holes, with here and there a sudden drop of a foot or two. There was of course no apparatus of any sort for lighting up these side streets, and I could not help wondering what was the percentage of the population whose nocturnal errands in these dark, dangerous alleys gave them a contused or broken limb.

Here and there among the overleaning houses came a break of queer old stone arches, leading by some black and filthy staircase into an abode of darkness from which came the voices of dogs and children.

Our passage down these back streets, however, was a nervous and hasty one, and we took care to keep in the centre of the five or six feet of stony way, knowing by uncomfortable experience the national propensity of treating the highways as drains, and the possibility any moment of a deluge of dirty water from an upper window upon our heads.

In one street, a little wider than the others, and which boasted a row of shops, a brown monk was collecting coppers for his order in a little tin can, against which he rattled his brown rosary suggestively.

He was a very dirty, but a very polite monk, and showed withal rather a pleasant, honest face as he bowed to us, turning back his cowl to get a better stare.

The main street at its end branched off into two steep paths, one of which led to our "hotel," (!) and the other, equally steep but rather wider, brought us out, by rough stony passages, first to the barracks, large and white with an open square in front, and then, under an archway (over which is a little room once inhabited by the first Napoleon when a Corsican lieutenant), to a wide breezy common.

This common, covered with grass and corn-fields, with flying wind-mills, one or two military towers of heavy white stone, containing gunpowder, and some fortifications, is the plateau of the rocky height upon which Bonifacio is built.

Reaching the edge of the grassy plateau, we looked down the almost perpendicular chalk cliffs to a depth of several hundred feet below, where the blue water chafed and sparkled, as it worked away busily in its endless task of excavation.

Straight before us, across the straits, lay Sardinia, one or two houses showing a glitter across the nine miles of white-ribboned currents that rushed with terrific pace between us and her. Then, turning back, and wandering out again