gan, the simple feasting of Italy,
in which we joined so far as to partake of a lunch in the little inn,
which had a green bush as a sign over the narrow door--the "wine of the
country" proving very good, however, in spite of the old proverb. Then,
refreshed, we climbed up the steep path leading to the peak where was
perched the ruin of the old castle which is so conspicuous from Mentone,
high in the air. This castle, the so-called "Saracen stronghold" of
Sant' Agnese, pronounced, as Baker said, "either Frenchy to rhyme with
lace, or Italianly to rhyme with lazy," seemed to me higher up in the
sky than I had ever expected to be in the flesh.

"As our interesting friend" (she meant the Professor) "is not here,"
said Mrs. Trescott, sinking in a breathless condition upon a Saracen
block, "there is no one to tell us its history."

"There is no history," said Verney, "or, rather, no one knows it; and to
me that is its chief attraction. There are, of course, legends in
stacks, but nothing authentic. The Saracens undoubtedly occupied it for
a time, and kept the whole coast below cowering under their cruel sway.
But it is hardly probable that they built it; they did not build so far
inland; they preferred the shore."

Our specified object, of course, in climbing that breathless path was
"the view."

Now there are various ways of seeing views. I have known "views" which
required long gazing at points where there was nothing earthly to be
seen: in such cases there was probably something heavenly. Other "views"
reveal themselves only to two persons at a time; if a third appears,
immediately there is nothing to be seen. As to our own manner of looking
at the Sant' Agnese view, I will mention that Mrs. Trescott looked at it
from a snug corner, on a soft shawl, with her eyes closed. Mrs. Clary
looked at it retrospectively, as it were; she began phrases like these:
"When I was here three years ago--" pause, sigh, full stop. "Once I was
here at sunset--" ditto. Janet, on a remote rock, looked at it, I think,
amid a little tragedy from Inness, interrupted and made more tragic by
the incursions of Baker, who would not be frowned away. Verney looked at
it from a high niche in which he had incautiously seated himself for a
moment, and now remained imprisoned, because Miss Elaine had placed
herself across the entrance so that he could not emerge without asking
her to rise; from this niche, like the tenor of _Trovatore_ in his
tower, he