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.
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