Amid the rugged heights of the mountains, here at their highest, and
in the fastness of a gorge, lies Lloseta itself.

From the heights above a subtle invigorating odour of marjoram,
rosemary, lavender, growing wild like heather, comes down to mingle
with the more languid breath of tropic plant and flower.

Such is Lloseta--a home to live for, to die for, to dream of when
away from it. As a man is dreaming of it now, just across that
hundred miles of smooth sea, on the end of the Muelle de Ponente at
Barcelona,

He is always dreaming of it--in Spain, where he is a Spaniard--in
England, where he might be an Englishman. It is not every one of us
who has a home from whence his name is derived, who signs his
letters with a word that is marked upon the map.

Such is Cipriani of that name, who has now left the Rambla and is
wandering along the deserted pier.

The steamer has loosed its moorings, is slowly picking its way out
of the crowded harbour, and it will pass the pier-head by the time
that Cipriani de Lloseta reaches that point.

The man walks slowly, cloaked to the mouth, for the evening breeze
is chilly. He gravely descends the steps and begins to walk on the
little path around the circular tower at the end of the pier. He
usually stands at the very end, so as to be as near to Majorca as
possible, one might almost think.