It was strange to hear the Marseillaise from the mouth of so lovely a child, and to see the grave face with which he sang. But how historical this bloody song sounds in the mouth of a Corsican boy! As little Camillo sang—"Tyranny has raised its bloody flag against us!" I thought, Poor child! Heaven guard you, and grant that you do not fall some day yet from the bullet of the Vendetta, nor wander as avenger in the hills. As we approached Isola Rossa, we were alarmed by a red glow, as of flame, in the little town. I hastened on, believing fire had broken out. It proved to be a bonfire. The children, girls and boys, had kindled a huge bonfire on the Paoli Place, had joined hands and were dancing round about it in a ring, laughing and singing. They sang numberless little couplets of their own composition, some of which I still remember:— Amo un presidente, I love a president— Sta in letto senza dente. He lies in bed, and has no teeth. Amo un ufficiale, I love an officer— Sta in letto senza male. He lies in bed, and nothing ails him. Amo un pastore, I love a herdsman— Sta in letto senza amore. He lies in bed, and has nothing to love. Amo un cameriere, I love a valet— Sta in letto senza bere. He lies in bed, and has nothing to drink. The youngsters seemed to have an exhaustless store of these little verses, and kept singing and swinging round the fire as if they would never stop. The melody was charming, _naïve_, childlike. I was so pleased with this extemporized child's festival, that in honour of it I improvised one or two couplets myself, whereupon the little folks burst into such uproarious shouts of merriment, as made all Isola Rossa ring again. On the following day, I drove in a _char-à-banc_ to Calvi. Little Camillo was standing beside the vehicle as I stepped into it, and said sorrowfully: _Non me piace che tu ci abbandoni_—I'm not pleased that you're going to leave us. The wanderer fills his note-book with sketches of mountain, stream, and town, records deeds honourable and vile, why not for once preserve the picture of a beautiful child? When long years have elapsed, the face still returns upon our inward vision, and haunts the memory like a lovely song. CHAPTER IV. FROM ISOLA ROSSA TO CALVI. My vetturino was not long in informing me that I had the honour of travelling in an extraordinary vehicle. "For," said he, "in this same _char-à-banc_ I drove last year the three great bandits—Arrighi, Massoni, and Xaver. They came up to me as I was driving along, all armed to the teeth, and ordered me to take them to Calvi. I did so without saying a word, and after that they let me turn back unharmed. Now they are all dead."