hour of
sunlight in clambering about the little maze of streets, or rather of
mountain paths and burrows beneath houses piled one upon another
indistinguishably. Forced back by hunger, he still lingered upon the
window-balcony, looking' up at the hoary riven tower set high above the
town on what seems an inaccessible peak, or at the cathedral and its
many-coloured campanile.

How could Mallard help comparing these manifestations of ardent temper
with what he had witnessed in Cecily? The resemblance was at moments
more than he could endure; once or twice he astonished Elgar with a
reply of unprovoked savageness. The emotions of the day, even more than
its bodily exercise, had so wearied him that he went early to bed. They
had a double-bedded room, and Elgar continued talking for hours. Even
without this, Mallard felt that he would have been unable to sleep. To
add to his torments, the clock of the cathedral, which was just on the
opposite side of the street, had the terrible southern habit of
striking the whole hour after the chime at each quarter; by midnight
the clangour was all but incessant. Elgar sank at length into oblivion,
but to his companion sleep came not. Very early in the morning there
sounded the loud blast of a horn, all through the town and away into
remoteness. Signify what it might, the practical result seemed to be a
rousing of the population to their daily life; lively voices, the tramp
of feet, the clatter of vehicles began at once, and waxed with the
spread of daylight.

The sun rose, but only to gleam for an hour on clouds and vapours which
it had not power to disperse. The mountain summits were hidden, and
down their sides crept ominously the ragged edges of mist; a thin rain
began to fall, and grew heavier as the sky dulled. Having breakfasted,
the two friends spent an hour in the cathedral, which was dark and
chill and gloomy. Two or three old people knelt in prayer, their heads
bowed against column or wall; remarking the strangers, they came 'up to
them and begged.

"My spirits are disagreeably on the ebb," said Elgar. "If it's to be a
Scotch day, let us do some mountaineering."

They struck up the gorge, intending to pursue the little river, but
were soon lost among ascents and descents, narrow stairs, precipitous
gardens, and noisy paper-mills. Probably no unassisted stranger ever
made his way out of Amalfi on to the mountain slopes. They had scorned
to take a guide, but did so at lengt