bay which my father, after a prolonged
consultation of the chart, decided to be that of Sagona. A sharp
promontory ran out upon its northern side, and within the shelter of
this Captain Pomery looked to find good anchorage. But the
_Gauntlet_, after all her battering, lay so poorly to the wind that
darkness overtook us a good mile from land, and before we weathered
the point and cast anchor in a little bight within, the moon had
risen. It showed us a steep shore near at hand, with many grey
pinnacles of granite glimmering high over dark masses of forest
trees, and in the farthest angle of the bight its rays travelled in
silver down the waters of a miniature creek.

The hawser ran out into five fathoms of water. We had lost our boat:
but Billy Priske had spent his afternoon in fashioning a raft out of
four empty casks and a dozen broken lengths of deck-planking; and on
this, leaving the seamen on board, the rest of us pushed off for
shore. For paddles we used a couple of spare oars.

The water, smooth as in a lake, gave us our choice to make a landing
where we would. My father, however, who had taken command, chose to
steer straight for the entrance of the little creek. There, between
tall entrance rocks of granite, we passed through it into the shadow
of folding woods where the moon was lost to us. Sounding with our
paddles, we found a good depth of water under the raft, lit a
lantern, and pushed on, my father promising that we should discover a
village or at least a hamlet at the creek-head.

"And you will find the inhabitants--your subjects, Prosper--
hospitable, too. Whatever the island may have been in Seneca's time,
to deserve the abuse he heaped on it in exile, to-day the Corsicans
keep more of the old classical virtues than any nation known to me.
In vendetta they will slay one another, using the worst treachery;
but a stranger may walk the length of the island unarmed--save
against the Genoese--and find a meal at the poorest cottage, and a
bed, however rough, whereon he may sleep untroubled by suspicion."

The raft grated and took ground on a shelving bank of sand, and Nat,
who stood forward holding the lantern, made a motion to step on
shore. My father restrained him.

"Prosper goes first."

I stepped on to the bank. My father, following, stooped, gathered a
handful of the fine granite sand, and holding it in the lantern's
light, let it run through his fingers.

"Hat off, lad! and salute yo