expanse of blue sea and sky. A south wind breathed over the
Mediterranean waters, drawing up their moisture which lay couched in
thick mists abut its flanks and uplands. The comely outlines were
barely suggested through a veil of fog. An air of irreality hung about
the place. Could this be an island? A veritable island of rocks and
vineyards and houses--this pallid apparition? It looked like some snowy
sea-bird resting upon the waves; a sea-bird or a cloud; one of those
lonely clouds that stray from their fellows and drift about in wayward
fashion at the bidding of every breeze.

All the better-class natives had disappeared below save an unusually
fat young priest with a face like a full moon, who pretended to be
immersed in his breviary but was looking out of the corner of his eye
all the time at a pretty peasant girl reclining uncomfortably in a
corner. He rose and arranged the cushions to her liking. In doing so he
must have made some funny remark in her ear, for she smiled wanly as
she said:

"Grazie, Don Francesco."

"Means thank you, I suppose," thought the Bishop. "But why is he a
don?"

Of the other alien travellers, those charming but rather metallic
American ladies had retired to the cabin; so had the English family; so
had everybody, in fact. On deck there remained of the foreign
contingent nobody but himself and Mr. Muhlen, a flashy over-dressed
personage who seemed to relish the state of affairs. He paced up and
down, cool as a cucumber, trying to walk like a sailor, and blandly
indifferent to the agonized fellow-creatures whom the movements of the