tony, reminiscent of the days
when Saracens ruled the coast. Some faces, too, were like the faces of
eastern men, high featured, with enormous, flashing eyes. Here and there
was one of a bold yet dreamy, gray-eyed, brown-haired type Vanno had not
met before in any of his travels. He remembered that this country had
belonged to the Ligurians before his ancestors, the Romans, took it
after two hundred years' hard fighting: and types are persistent. He had
heard that there were ruined Ligurian forts to be traced still, among
the higher hills and mountains; and the monument of La Turbie, whither
he was bound, was Augustus Caesar's emblem of triumph over the Ligurian
tribes.

The funicular was not running at this hour, and the white lacings of the
Upper Corniche were empty save for a cart or two, bringing down loads of
wallflower-tinted stone from some mountain quarry, for the building of a
villa. Vanno had easily found his way on to a mule path, rough yet well
kept, and ancient perhaps as the hidden Ligurian forts. Round him was
the gray-green shimmer of olive trees, and their old, thick roots that
crawled and climbed the rocks were like knotted snakes asleep. Bands of
pines marched and mourned along the skyline, and in the midst of
glittering laurels cypress trees stood up straight and black as
burnt-out torches.

Clouds that had darkened the east when Vanno started veiled the sun now,
like lazy eyelids. The gay glitter was gone from the world, and the sea
was of a dull velvety gray, dappled with silver-gleams that sifted
through holes in the clouds, making the water look like scales on a
fish's back. Far below lay the strip of frivolous fairyland, all that
most strangers know of the Riviera: the pleasure towns with their palms
and tropical flowers, the decorated villas, to live in which Vanno
thought would be like living in hollowed-out birthday cakes. And the
soft, thoughtful grayness which was dimming the sunshine suited this
different, higher world as well as it suited his mood. The loveliness of
trees, and the pale splendour of mountain peaks carved in bas-relief
against the pearl-gray sky, rang out to his soul like a chime of bells
from a cathedral tower, giving him back the mastery of himself. It was
good to be here, where there were no sounds except the voice of Nature,
singing her eternal song, in the universal language, and where the life
of man seemed as distant as the far-down windows that glittered
mysteriou