laurel, glowing rose-gardens, and here and there the silver of a
fountain, seemed arranged and contrasted with a wonderful art, and the
town appeared a delicious ornament, every cube of color owing its place
to the thought and inspiration of the artificer. Lucian, as he gazed from
his arbour amongst the trellised vines, lost none of the subtle pleasures
of the sight; noting every _nuance_ of color, he let his eyes dwell for a
moment on the scarlet flash of poppies, and then on a glazed roof which
in the glance of the sun seemed to spout white fire. A square of vines
was like some rare green stone; the grapes were massed so richly amongst
the vivid leaves, that even from far off there was a sense of irregular
flecks and stains of purple running through the green. The laurel garths
were like cool jade; the gardens, where red, yellow, blue and white
gleamed together in a mist of heat, had the radiance of opal; the river
was a band of dull gold. On every side, as if to enhance the preciousness
of the city, the woods hung dark on the hills; above, the sky was violet,
specked with minute feathery clouds, white as snowflakes. It reminded him
of a beautiful bowl in his villa; the ground was of that same brilliant
blue, and the artist had fused into the work, when it was hot, particles
of pure white glass.

For Lucian this was a spectacle that enchanted many hours; leaning on one
hand, he would gaze at the city glowing in the sunlight till the purple
shadows grew down the slopes and the long melodious trumpet sounded for
the evening watch. Then, as he strolled beneath the trellises, he would
see all the radiant facets glimmering out, and the city faded into haze,
a white wall shining here and there, and the gardens veiled in a dim glow
of color. On such an evening he would go home with the sense that he had
truly lived a day, having received for many hours the most acute
impressions of beautiful color.