The next pieve—Olmeto—was entirely a fief of the powerful family of the Istrias. The chief town, also called Olmeto, lies at the foot of high mountains, while beyond stretches a magnificent valley, wooded with olive-trees, and washed by the waters of the gulf of Valinco. On Buttareto, one of the most rugged of these mountains, are still shown the ruins of a castle, formerly the residence of Arrigo della Rocca. The view from Olmeto, away over the valley, as far as the gulf, is remarkably fine. There is a peculiar charm in the soft lines of the landscape, and the silence of the dark-brown coast. The view extends to the north as far as Cape Porto Pollo, and on the south to Cape Campo Moro. The name of _Moorish camp_, which is given to the cape and a small piece of land adjoining, on which now stands a watch-tower, carries the mind back to the time of the Saracens, who so often landed here in centuries long gone by. The Corsican arms—a Moor's head, with a band across the brow—dates from the expedition of the Saracen king, Lanza Ancisa, so celebrated in legendary romance. The whole coast is here of a Moorish-brown colour, and over it broods an inconceivable stillness—the deep peace of a summer's day. As I approached the little port of Propriano on the gulf, the spirit of dead times—a spirit so welcome in a desert island-country, again breathed upon me. There stood before me, on the shore, a crowd of Corsicans, all of them strong, healthy, dark-haired fellows; the double-barrelled gun slung upon their shoulders, standing as if in readiness to resist the attack of the Saracen. The sight of these dark and warlike forms, and the melancholy wildness of the shore, transported me completely into the times of the Middle Ages. I could not help remembering a Spanish ballad, which celebrates the prowess of Dragut the Corsair—well known in the history of the Corsican nation. It may well be sung on the shores of this wild gulf, among this stern band of islanders:— DRAGUT AT TARIFA. In the offing of Tarifa, Nearly half a league from shore, Dragut, chief of all corsairs, Pirate both by sea and land, Of the Christian dogs descried— Come from Malta—vessels five. Cursing all the hated race, Thus he shouted loud and long— Al arma! al arma! al arma! Cierra! cierra! cierra! Que el enemigo viene a darnos guerra. Dragut, chief of all corsairs, Fired with haste a signal-gun— A signal to the pirate crew, Who were for wood and water gone. Then the Christians gave reply From the galleys and the shore, And in the haven every bell Quick took up the 'larum-cry— Al arma! al arma! al arma! Cierra! cierra! cierra! Que el enemigo viene a darnos guerra.