The way is not long; it is astonishingly short for a sea voyage, and it is only with a previous knowledge of the shallows--or, rather, the deeps--that the craft can find its way across the scarcely hidden banks of yellow sand. Fifteen minutes of this voyaging brings one to the isle, and from its little jetty a _douanier_ accosts your boat to know if you have anything dutiable on board, as well as for your ship’s papers, and a doctor’s certificate. He need have no fears, however, for no one would ever take the trouble to smuggle anything into Embiez. “Nothing doing,” and the _douanier_ returns to his fishing off the jetty’s end. The isle is a rock-surrounded mamelon which rises to a height of some sixty or seventy metres, and is as wild and savage and romantic as the most imaginative sketch ever outlined by Doré. There is a fringe of small white houses, the dwellings of the workers in the salt-works of the isle, and of that lonesome _douanier_, while above, on an elevated plateau, is the Château de Sabran, which draws its name from one of the illustrious and ancient families of Provence. It is all very picturesque, but there is nothing very archaic about the château, with the exception of one old tower. There are numerous evidences which point to the fact that some kind of fortifications were erected here in early times; the _douanier_ is divided in his opinion as to whether they were the work of Saracens or Barbary pirates, and the reader may take his choice. At any rate, there is an unspoiled setting right here at hand for any writer who would like to try to turn out as good a tale as “Treasure Island” or “Monte Cristo.” Returning to the mainland, and following the highroad as it goes eastward to Toulon, one comes upon the curiously named little town of Six-Fours, situated on the very apex of the heights. The very name of Six-Fours is enigmatic. It is certain that it was a mountain fortress in days gone by; and from that--and the intimation that there was once six forts or six towers here--one infers that its name was evolved from Six-Forts, which name was written in Latin Sex Furni and finally Six Fours. Another opinion--French antiquarians, like their brethren the world over, are prolific in opinions--is that the bizarre name was that of one of the lieutenants of Cæsar engaged in the blockade of Marseilles. One named Sextus Furnus, or Sextus Furnis, did occupy a mountain stronghold in that campaign, and it may have been the site where the village of Six-Fours now stands. Six-Fours, so curiously named, and so little known outside its immediate neighbourhood, has many strange manners and customs. The genuine Six-Fourneens are six feet or more in height, and will not--or would not for a long time--marry any _étranger_, by which term they designate all outsiders.