She was alone now. Closing her eyes she saw a little U shaped harbour shielded from the sea. It was as delicate as a pastel, a placque of sapphire set in pearl. In the crystal air the red-roofed houses crowded close to it, the terraced town rose on tip-toe to peer at it. All was glitter and gleam and radiant beauty. Yet yonder in sombre contrast rose the Rock, monstrous, moody, mediæval.
Once more she climbed the long steep hill; she crossed the sunny square in front of the palace; she passed into the cool gloom of the narrow streets. Then at last she stood before the low brown house with its tiny porch and its four pepper-trees....
Home.... Home. Would she ever see it again?
Moaning, she turned her face to the wall.
. . . . . .
BOOK ONE
The Story of Margot
CHAPTER ONE
THE OUTCAST
1.
“THAT you, Margot?”
“Yes, Mother.”