Working with pleasure, and not with regret;
Never the phantom of Money they chase,
Never they feel in their bosoms a fret;
Nothing to alter, for all is in place.
I am the king of an indolent race.
From the archway of the tunnel stretched two roads, one to the left, leading down to the valley below by easy gradations, the other to the right, running round the cup of the mountain on a level with the place where they were now standing. Along this latter road they walked, the three gentlemen abreast, and Gurt, considerably bewildered, rolling behind in his nautical way. Maurice’s admiration was strongly excited by the perfection of this road, which was level and broad, being apparently hewn out of the living rock, while the side nearest the valley was bordered by cyclopean masses of dressed stone, and a long line of mulberry trees, now heavily foliaged. On the other side also, where the rocks arose steep and smooth, was a corresponding line of trees, so that they walked through a leafy arcade, formed by the meeting of the branches overhead, and their path was checkered with sunlight shadows moving restlessly under their feet, as the wind rustled the leaves above. Through the slim trunks of the trees, set some little distance apart, they caught glimpses of the town below on the verge of the blue lake, its white houses embosomed in trees, and straight streets intersecting each other at right angles, so that it looked like a miniature chess-board. Maurice was in ecstasies over this Eden of the South, and could not express his delight in high enough terms to his companions.
“It is a place to dream in!” he said enthusiastically; “a land of the lotos! I don’t wonder Justinian desires to keep all outside influences away from this paradise. Upon my word, Caliphronas, with such a beautiful spot as this to dwell in, I do not wonder you were discontented with our gray island of the West. My only astonishment is that you should ever wish to go beyond this enchanted circle of mountains.”
“Oh, it’s pretty enough,” said Caliphronas carelessly, casting a glance at the lovely valley below: “but one grows tired of lovely places, the same as one wearies of the most beautiful woman.”
“Every one is not so fickle as you are,” cried Crispin sharply.
“Well, you did not stay in this paradise yourself, Creespeen.”