ozen domains of the northlands as well as of
Provence. March-Tripoly and some of the seigneural names told the story
that I have often read in church inscriptions near the sea in Italy, in
Hungary, in Dalmatia and in Greece, as well as in Provence and Catalonia.
The feudal families of the Mediterranean are of Teutonic and Scandinavian
origin. They were founded by the stock that destroyed the Roman Empire,
barbarians, stronger, more energetic, more resourceful, more resolute
than the southerners whom they made their serfs. When feudalism, through
the formation of larger political units by the extension of kingly
rights, began to decline, the chatelains preserved their prestige by
supporting the propaganda to redeem the Holy Sepulcher. They took the
Cross and went to fight the Saracens in Africa and Asia. When climate
rather than culture latinized them, later northmen came and dispossessed
them. The men of the north have always been fighting their way to the
Mediterranean. Are Germans and Russians disturbing the peace of Europe
any more or any differently than Northern Europeans have always done?
Since the dawn of history, the Mediterranean races have had to contend
with the men of the north seeking the sun.

Behind the church, ruins of centuries, overgrown with shrubbery and ivy,
cling to the side of the cliff from the castle to the valley road. The
great square mass of the castle rises on top of a slope far above the
church terrace. A moat, filled with bushes, is on a level with the
terrace, and beyond the moat is a wall. An unkept path leads through the
moat to a modest door. From the towers and arch above one can see that
the former entrance to the castle, by means of a portcullis, was on this
side. But the outer wall has been rebuilt, leaving only a servants'
door. Evidently the chatelain used to enter by climbing up through
Villeneuve-Loubet as we had done. Since the motor road was made on the
other side of the hill, he and his guests can ignore Villeneuve-Loubet.

The Artist was sitting on the wall of the terrace, engrossed in midnight
labor. He was willing to stop for a pipe. Above us the castle,
dominated by a pentagonal tower, rose toward the moon. Below us, the
blanched roofs of Villeneuve-Loubet slanted into the valley. As long as
the pipe lasted, I was able to talk to the Artist about the men of the
north seeking the sun. But when the bowl ceased to respond to matches,
he said; "All very we