“Oh, a wonderful piece of engineering skill carried out by Justinian thirty years ago,—a tunnel which pierces the side of this mountain, and will admit us into its interior.” “Where we will find—what?” “The patriarchal community of which Justinian is king!” “What! does he rule over Troglodytes, like a Norwegian gnome?” “Gnomes have nothing to do with the south,” said Crispin provokingly. “I tell you this is the Island of Fantasy—the only fairyland yet remaining on earth. You anticipate the realms of Pluto, but you will find Arcadia.” “I’m hanged if I understand you!” “Well, your curiosity will soon be satisfied. _En avant, messieurs_, for I am hungry, and wish to be seated at the hospitable board of Justinian.” High above, over the terra-cotta-colored cliffs, hung the fresh green foliage which clothed the slopes of the mountain high up to the verge of the eternal snows;—tall, dark cypresses, funereal-looking even in the bright sunshine, the silver-gray glimmer of olive trees, chestnuts, beeches, plane-trees, and, nearest to the summit, gloomy pines accentuating the whiteness of the snows, which, clinging to the rocky peak, stood out in cold relief against the warm blue sky. Ahead of them was a reddish promontory running out into the calm waters, the trees fringing its crest like the mane of some wild animal. Turning round the shoulder of this, they saw in the distance a similar promontory, and between these two headlands a range of reddish cliffs topped by vegetation, a white sandy beach scattered over with bowlders, and a huge arch in the middle of the cliff, which apparently led into the bowels of the mountain. “Here we are at the palace gate,” said Crispin gayly, as he led the way towards the subterranean entrance. “We will soon be in safety.” Standing in front of this mighty arch, they saw a broad flight of steps leading up into the darkness, so that it looked like the entrance into the hall of Eblis. Outside, the brilliant sunshine, the many-colored land, the sparkling sea; but within, darkness, dank and unwholesome, which inspired the two strangers with anything but hope. Crispin, however, knowing the place well, sprang lightly up the steps, followed hesitatingly by his companions, but suddenly he stopped and held up his finger, the action being visible in the bright light pouring in through the arch into this artificial cave. “Listen! Maurice, do you recognize that voice?” It was a man singing, and his clear high tones echoed in the dark vault overhead, coming nearer and nearer as the vocalist slowly descended the steps. “Blow, wind, and swell the sail, So that my boat may fly—may fly As a swallow to its nest across the foam. I am a swallow, and so am flying To that dear nest of love, which is her heart. Blow, wind! for I am filled with longing. Her heart is empty till me she kisses.”