They raised their pieces; suddenly Marianna rushed before them. "Stop!" she cried, "for God's sake, stop!" and she ran to the tree where Romanetti stood bound, and flung her arms round the murderer of her son. "In the name of God," she cried, "I forgive him. Yes, he has made me the most unhappy of mothers, but ye shall do him no further harm, and shoot me rather than him." And she continued to hold her enemy in her embrace, and to protect him with her own body. The priest came forward; but his words were not needed. The men loosed Romanetti, and from that moment he was free, and his life sacred for the Pozzi di Borgo, so that none ever touched a hair of his head. CHAPTER IX. ENVIRONS OF AJACCIO. I spent some time in wandering through the country round Ajaccio. The uneven nature of the ground allows you to walk only in three directions—along the shore to the north, inland along the highway to Bastia, and on the other side of the gulf, on the road to Sartene; the mountains close in on the fourth side. Footpaths wind among the vineyards, which adorn in great numbers the country to the north-east of Ajaccio. In these vineyards are to be seen those curious watch-houses, which are peculiar to Ajaccio, and are called Pergoliti. They are formed of the stems of four young pines, which support a small hut, raised entirely above the ground, and thatched with straw. The watchman bears the dignified name of Baron. He is armed with a double-barrelled gun, and from time to time blows a blast on a conch or a shrill pipe made of clay, for the purpose of notifying his presence, and of terrifying robbers. One evening, a hospitable old man conducted me into his vineyard on San Giovanni. He loaded me with bunches of beautiful Muscatel grapes, plucked almonds for me, and juicy plums and figs, which grow in luxuriant confusion among the vines. I happened to be passing along the road, when, after the hospitable manner of the country, he invited me to enter his garden. A very benevolent old man he was, and his reverend appearance reminded me strongly of the pictures of old age we find in the poems of Gleim's epoch, the touching simplicity of which often evidences a truer human wisdom than is discoverable in the most popular poems of our own time. Can there be seen a more beautiful picture than that of a cheerful and healthy old man in the garden planted by himself in his youth, the fruits of which he now kindly shares with the weary travellers by the wayside? Yes! thus peaceful and benevolent ought the close of man's life upon this earth to be.