there in the sun, when Hannibal and his men broke through the brushwood,
and no road was.

Now it is very quiet. Sometimes a peasant girl comes riding by between her
panniers, and you hear the mule's feet beat upon the bricks of the
pavement; sometimes an old woman goes past with a bundle of weeds upon her
head, or a brigand-looking man hurries by with a bundle of sticks in his
hand; but for the rest the Chapel lies here alone upon the promontory,
between the two bays and hears the sea break at its feet.

I came here one winter's day when the midday sun shone hot on the bricks of
the Roman road. I was weary, and the way seemed steep. I walked into the
chapel to the broken window, and looked out across the bay. Far off,
across the blue, blue water, were towns and villages, hanging white and red
dots, upon the mountain-sides, and the blue mountains rose up into the sky,
and now stood out from it and now melted back again.

The mountains seemed calling to me, but I knew there would never be a
bridge built from them to me; never, never, never! I shaded my eyes with
my hand and turned away. I could not bear to look at them.

I walked through the ruined Chapel, and looked at the Christ in red
carrying his cross, and the Blessed rubbed-out Bambino, and the Roman
soldiers, and the folded hands, and the reed; and I went and sat down in
the open porch upon a stone. At my feet was the small bay, with its white
row of houses buried among the olive trees; the water broke in a long,
thin, white line of foam along the shore; and I leaned my elbows on my
knees. I was tired, very tired; tired with a tiredness that seemed older
than the heat of the day and the shining of the sun on the bricks of the
Roman road; and I lay my head upon my knees; I heard the breaking of the