Some faces, too, were like the faces of
eastern men, high featured, with enormous, flashing eyes. Here and there
was one of a bold yet dreamy, gray-eyed, brown-haired type Vanno had not
met before in any of his travels. He remembered that this country had
belonged to the Ligurians before his ancestors, the Romans, took it
after two hundred years' hard fighting: and types are persistent. He had
heard that there were ruined Ligurian forts to be traced still, among
the higher hills and mountains; and the monument of La Turbie, whither
he was bound, was Augustus Caesar's emblem of triumph over the Ligurian
tribes.
The funicular was not running at this hour, and the white lacings of the
Upper Corniche were empty save for a cart or two, bringing down loads of
wallflower-tinted stone from some mountain quarry, for the building of a
villa. Vanno had easily found his way on to a mule path, rough yet well
kept, and ancient perhaps as the hidden Ligurian forts. Round him was
the gray-green shimmer of olive trees, and their old, thick roots that
crawled and climbed the rocks were like knotted snakes asleep. Bands of
pines marched and mourned along the skyline, and in the midst of
glittering laurels cypress trees stood up straight and black as
burnt-out torches.
Clouds that had darkened the east when Vanno started veiled the sun now,
like lazy eyelids. The gay glitter was gone from the world, and the sea
was of a dull velvety gray, dappled with silver-gleams that sifted
through holes in the clouds, making the water look like scales on a
fish's back.
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