The whole village had been made by robbing the castle of brick and
stone, as La Turbie was built of the Trophy. The castle itself grew out
of the rock, so that it was difficult to see where nature's work ended
or men's began; and the old, old houses crowding up to and huddled
against its foundations had cramped themselves into ledges and boulders
like men making their last stand in a mountain battle. The streets were
tunnels, with vistas of long, dark stone stairways running up and down
into mystery. Here and there above secretive doorways were beautiful
carvings set into the thick stone walls, relics of the castle's
decorations. At sharp corners were tiny shops with dark interiors, and
strange assortments of golden oranges, big pearly onions, ruby beets,
and bright green, peasant pottery in low-browed windows and on uneven
doorsteps. Dark Saracen eyes gleamed out of the cold shadows in
tunnelled streets, seeming to warm them with their light; and as Vanno
reached the tiny _Place_ where towered a large, old church, the pavement
was flooded by a wave of brown-faced boys and girls, laughing and
shouting. School was just out; and behind the children followed a man in
the black cassock of a priest. He was walking slowly, reading from a
little book. Vanno stood still, with eagerness and affection in his
eyes, and willed him to look up.
This man had been the Prince's tutor, after Vanno was six, until he had
passed his tenth birthday. It was years now since they had seen each
other, eight perhaps, for it must be as long ago that the cure had come
back to visit Rome.
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