'Marcian? As I trust myself!'

One of the boatmen coming within earshot, their conversation ceased.

The hour before noon saw them drawing near to land. They left on the
right the little island of Nesis, and drew towards Puteoli. On the
left lay Baiae, all but forsaken, its ancient temples and villas
stretching along the shore from the Lucrine lake to the harbour
shadowed by Cape Misenum; desolate magnificence, marble overgrown
with ivy, gardens where the rose grew wild, and terraces crumbling
into the sea. Basil and Aurelia looked upon these things with an eye
made careless by familiarity; all their lives ruin had lain about
them, deserted sanctuaries of a bygone creed, unpeopled homes of a
vanished greatness.

As the boat advanced into the bay, it lost the wind, and rowing
again became needful. Thus they entered the harbour of Puteoli,
where the travellers disembarked.

Hard by the port was a tavern, which, owing to its position midway
between Neapolis and Cumae, still retained something of its
character as a _mansio_ of the posting service; but the vehicles and
quadrupeds of which it boasted were no longer held in strict reserve
for state officials and persons privileged. Gladly the innkeeper put
at Basil's disposal his one covered carriage, a trifle cleaner
inside than it was without, and a couple of saddle horses, declared
to be Sicilian, but advanced in age. Thus, with slight delay, the
party pursued their journey, Basil and his man riding before the
carriage. The road ran coastwise as far as the Julian haven, once
thronged with the shipping of the Roman world, now all but abandoned