t have done. First, there was the port, with the white ships riding
at their moorings in the blue sea. Then grayish white Marseilles, with
its two immense ribbons, the Cannebiere running northward, and the Rue
de Rome and the Prado intersecting it. The great wooded amphitheater
rising like a wave and little Notre Dame de la Garde peeking like a
sentry out to sea. And eastward from the quays were the little jagged
islands the Phenicians knew, If, and Rion, Jaros, strange un-French
names ... the sunshine yellow as a lamp, and the sea blue as flax, and
the green woods, and the ancient grayish white city--all a picture some
unimaginative painter would have loved. Next to Belfast, Marseilles was
to Shane Campbell a second home. There it was, like your own house!

Obvious and drowsy it might seem, but once he went ashore, the swarming,
teeming life of it struck Shane like a current of air. Along the quays,
along the Cannebiere, was a riot of color and nationality unbelievable
from on board ship. Here were Turks dignified and shy. Here were Greeks,
wary, furtive. Here were Italians, Genoese, Neapolitans, Livonians,
droll, vivacious, vindictive. Here were Moors, here were Algerians,
black African folk, sneering, inimical. Here were Spaniards, with their
walk like a horse's lope. Here were French business men, very important.
Here were Provencals, cheery, short, tubby, excitable, olive-colored,
black-bearded, calling to one another in the _langue d'oc_ of the
troubadours, _"Te, mon bon! Commoun as? Quezaco?"_

And the bustle of the shops and the bustle of cafes, until Shane was
forced to go out to the olive-lined roads to the rocky summit of La
Garde, and once there, as if drawn by a magnet, Shane would enter the
chapel in the fort, where the most renowned Notre Dame of the
Mediterranean smiles mawkishly in white olive-wood. After the blinding
sun of the Midi, the cool dark chapel was like a dungeon to him, so
little could he see anything; but in a while the strange furniture of
the place would take form before his eyes: the white statue of the
Virgin, the silver tunny-fish, the daubs of sea hazards whence the
Virgin had rescued grateful mariners, the rope-ends, the crutches....
And though none might be in the chapel, yet it was full of life, so much
did the pathetic ex-votos tell.... And he would come out of the chapel,
and again the Midi sun would flash in a shower of gold, and he could see
the blue Mediterranean, pricked with