nto,
the sea, and the mountains behind.

Of the ancient town there remains hardly anything worthy of being
called a ruin. Near the shore, however, one can see a few remnants of a
theatre--perhaps that theatre where the Tarentines were sitting when
they saw Roman galleys, in scorn of treaty, sailing up the Gulf.

My last evenings were brightened by very beautiful sunsets; one in
particular remains with me; I watched it for an hour or more from the
terrace-road of the island town. An exquisite after-glow seemed as if
it would never pass away. Above thin, grey clouds stretching along the
horizon a purple flush melted insensibly into the dark blue of the
zenith. Eastward the sky was piled with lurid rack, sullen-tinted folds
edged with the hue of sulphur. The sea had a strange aspect, curved
tracts of pale blue lying motionless upon a dark expanse rippled by the
wind. Below me, as I leaned on the sea-wall, a fisherman's boat crept
duskily along the rocks, a splash of oars soft-sounding in the
stillness. I looked to the far Calabrian hills, now scarce
distinguishable from horizon cloud, and wondered what chances might
await me in the unknown scenes of my further travel.

The long shore of the Ionian Sea suggested many a halting-place. Best
of all, I should have liked to swing a wallet on my shoulder and make
the whole journey on foot; but this for many reasons was impossible. I
could only mark points of the railway where some sort of food or
lodging might be hoped for, and the first of these stoppages was
Metaponto.

Official time-bills of the month marked a train for Metaponto at 4.56
A.M., and this I decided to take, as it seemed probable that I might
find a stay of some hours sufficient, and so be able to resume my
journey before night. I asked the waiter to call me at a quarter to
four. In the middle of the night (as it seemed to me) I was aroused by
a knocking, and the waiter's voice called to me that, if I wished to
leave early for Metaponto, I had better get up at once, as the
departure of the train had been changed to 4.15--it was now half-past
three. There ensued an argument, sustained, on my side, rather by the
desire to stay in bed this cold morning than by any faith in the
reasonableness of the railway company. There must be a mistake! The
_orario_ for the month gave 4.56, and how could the time of a train be
changed without public notice? Changed it was, insisted the waiter; it
had happened a few days ago,