village of Levanto are seen
hundreds of feet beneath, but yet in that clear still atmosphere so near
that not only the white foam of the breaking wave could be seen, but its
rhythm-like plash heard as it broke upon the beach. For the first time
since he set out had the charm of scenery attracted him, and, descending
a few feet from the road, he reached a large square rock, from which he
could command the whole view for miles on every side.

He took out his bread and cheese and a melon he had bought that morning,
and disposed himself to eat his dinner. He had often partaken of a more
sumptuous meal, but never had he eaten with so glorious a prospect at
his feet.

A little lateen-sailed boat stole out from beneath the olives and gained
the sea; and as Tony watched her, he thought if he would only have been
a fisherman there, and Alice his wife, how little he could have envied
all that the world has of wealth and honors and ambitions. His friend
Skeffy could not do this, but _he_ could. _He_ was strong of limb and
stout of heart; he could bear hardships and cold; and it would be so
fine to think that, born gentleman as he was, he never flinched from the
hardest toil, or repined at the roughest fare, he and Alice treasuring
up their secret, and hoarding it as a miser hoards his gold.

Ay, down there, in that little gorge, with the pine-wood behind and the
sea before, he could have passed his life, with never a longing thought
for the great world and its prizes. As he ran on thus in fancy, he never
heard the sound of footsteps on the road above, nor noticed the voices
of persons talking.

At last he heard, not the words, but the tone of the speakers, and
recognized them to be English. There is that peculiar sound in English
utterance that at once distinguishes it from all other speech; and Tony,
quite forgetting that his high-peaked Calabrian hat and massive beard
made him far more like an Italian brigand than a British gentleman, not
wishing to be observed, never turned his head to look at them. At last
one said, "The little fishing-village below there must be Levante. John
Murray tells us that this is the land of the fan palm and the cactus, so
that at length we are in Italy."

"Do you know--shall I confess it," said the other, "that I am not
thinking of the view, beautiful as it is? I am envying that peasant with
his delicious melon on the rock there. I am half tempted to ask him to
share it with me."

"Ask him, by