deeply indented as the Dalmatian littoral, with Its unending succession
of rock-bound bays, as frequent as the perforations on a postage-stamp,
and its thick fringe of islands. In calm weather the channels between
these islands and the mainland resemble a chain of landlocked lakes,
like those in the Adirondacks or in southern Ontario, being connected by
narrow straits called _canales_, brilliantly clear to a depth of several
fathoms. As a rule, the surrounding hills are rugged, bleached yellow or
pale russet, and destitute of verdure, but their monotony is relieved by
the half-ruined castles and monasteries which, perched on the rocky
heights, perpetually reminded me of Howard Pyle's paintings, and by the
medieval charm of Zara, Sebenico, Spalato, Ragusa, Arbe, and Curzola,
whose architecture, though predominantly Venetian, bears characteristic
traces of the many races which have ruled them.

Just as Italy insisted on pushing her new borders up to the Brenner so
that she might have a strategic frontier on the north, so she lays claim
to the larger of the Dalmatian islands--Lissa, Lésina, Curzola, and
certain others--in order to protect her Adriatic shores. A glance at the
map will make her reasons amply plain. There stretches Italy's eastern
coastline, 600 miles of it, from Venice to Otranto, with half a dozen
busy cities and a score of fishing towns, as bare and unprotected as a
bald man's hatless head. Not only is there not a single naval base on
Italy's Adriatic coast south of Venice, but there is no harbor or inlet
that can be transformed into one. Yet across the Adriatic, barely four
hours steam by destroyer away, is a wilderness of islands and deep
harbors where an enemy's fleet could lie safely hidden, from which it
could emerge to attack Italian commerce or to bombard Italy's
unprotected coast towns, and where it could take refuge when the pursuit
became too hot. All down the ages the dwellers along Italy's eastern
seaboard have been terrorized by naval raids from across the Adriatic.