up to cover the eyes--a touching
gesture, because it is the child's when in trouble, the instinctive
movement of the grief-stricken little boy.

Ten miles south of Corfu one meets the second of the Ionian Islands,
Paxo, with the tiny, severe Anti-Paxo lying off its southern point, like
a summary period set to any romantic legend which the larger isle may
wish to tell. As it happens, the legend is a striking one, and we all
know it without going to Paxo. But it is impossible to pass the actual
scene without relating it once more, and, for the telling, no modern
words can possibly approach those of the old annotator. "Here at the
coast of Paxo, about the time that our Lord suffered His most bitter
Passion, certain persons sailing from Italy at night heard a voice
calling aloud: 'Thamus?' 'Thamus?' Who, giving ear to the cry (for he
was the pilot of the ship), was bidden when he came near to Portus
Pelodes" (the Bay of Butrinto) "to tell that the great god Pan was dead.
Which he, doubting to do, yet when he came to Portus Pelodes there was
such a calm of wind that the ship stood still in the sea, unmoored, and
he was forced to cry aloud that Pan was dead. Whereupon there were such
piteous outcries and dreadful shrieking as hath not been the like. By
the which Pan, of some is understood the great Sathanas, whose kingdom
was at that time by Christ conquered; for at that moment all oracles
surceased, and enchanted spirits, that were wont to delude the people,
henceforth held their peace."

Those of us who read Milton's Ode on Christmas Eve will recall his
allusion to this Paxo legend:

"The lonely mountains o'er,
And the enchanted shore,
A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;
From haunted spring and dale,
Edged with poplar pale,
The parting Genius is with sighing sent."

[Illustration: ALBANIAN FEMALE COSTUME]

Anti-Paxo is one of the oddest spots I have seen. It is a small, bare,
stone plain, elevated but slightly above the surface of the water. The
rock is of a tawny hue, and there is a queer odor of asphaltum. At
certain seasons of the year it is covered so thickly with quail that
"you could not put a paper-cutter between them." There were no quail
when we passed the rock. The sun shone on the flat surface, bringing out
its rich tint against the azure of the sea, and in its strange
desolation it looked like a picture which might have been painted by a
man of genius who had gone mad