For the first time Mary saw olive trees, spouting silver like
great fountains, and palms stretching out dark green hands of Fatma
against blue sky and bluer sea. For the first time she saw the
Mediterranean that she had dreamed of in her cold, dim room at the
convent. This was like the dreams and the stories told by Peter, only
better; for nothing could give a true idea of the glimmering olive
groves. Under the silvery branches delicate as smoke-wreaths, and among
the gnarled gray trunks, it seemed that at any moment a band of nymphs
or dryads might pass, streaming away in fear from the noises of
civilization.
At St. Raphael and Frejus colossal legs of masonry strode across the
green meadows, and Mary knew that they had been built by Romans. Pine
trees like big, open umbrellas were black against a curtain of azure.
Acres of terraces were planted with rows of flowers like straightened
rainbows: young roses, carnations, pinky white stock and blue and purple
hyacinths; and over the coral or gamboge painted walls of little railway
stations bougainvillea poured cataracts of crimson. By and by, the
train ran close to the sea, and miniature waves blue as melted turquoise
curled on amber sands, shafts of gilded light glinting through the crest
of each roller where the crystal arch was shattered into foam.
Then came the wonderful red rocks which Peter had described; ruddy
monsters of incredible shapes which had crawled down to drink, and lay
basking in the clear water, their huge rounded backs bright as copper
where the westerly sun smote them; for by this time it was afternoon.
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