Chapter 11

"The human mind, that lofty thing,
The palace and the throne,
Where reason sits, a sceptred king,
And breathes his judgment tone;
Oh! I who with silent step shall trace
The borders of that haunted place,
Nor in his weakness own,
That mystery and marvel bind
That lofty thing--the human mind!"

ANONYMOUS.

It is unnecessary to dwell on the glories of the Mediterranean. They are
familiar to every traveler, and books have again and again laid them
before the imaginations of readers of all countries and ages. Still,
there are lights and shades peculiar to every picture, and this of ours
has some of its own that merit a passing notice. A sunset, in midsummer,
can add to the graces of almost any scene. Such was the hour when Raoul
anchored; and Ghita, who had come on deck, now that the chase was over
and the danger was thought to be past, fancied she had never seen her
own Italy or the blue Mediterranean more lovely.

The shadows of the mountains were cast far upon the sea, long ere the
sun had actually gone down, throwing the witchery of eventide over the
whole of the eastern coast, some time before it came to grace its
western. Corsica and Sardinia resemble vast fragments of the Alps, which
have fallen into the sea by some accident of nature, where they stand
in sight of their native beds, resembling, as it might be, outposts to
those great walls of Europe. Their mountains have the same formations,
the same white peaks, for no small portion of the year at least, and
their sides the same mysterious and riven aspect. In addition, however,
to their other charms, they have one that is wanting in most of
Switzerland, though traces of it are to be found in Savoy and on the
southern side of the Alps; they have that strange admixture of the soft
and the severe, of the sublime and beautiful, that so peculiarly
characterize the witchery of Italian nature. Such was now the aspect of
all visible from the deck of le Feu-Follet. The sea, with its dark-blue
tint, was losing every trace of the western wind, and was becoming
glassy and tranquil; the mountains on the other side were solemn and
grand, just showing their ragged outlines along a sky glowing with "the
pomp that shuts the day"; while the nearer valleys and narrow plains
were mysterious, yet soft, under the deep shadows they cast. Pianosa lay
nearly opposite, distant some twenty miles, rising out of the water like
a beacon; Elba was visible to the northeast, a gloomy confused pile of
mountain at that hour; and Ghita once or twice thought she could trace
on the coast of the main the dim outline of her own hill, Monte
Argentaro; though the distance, some sixty or seventy miles, rendered
this improbable. Outside, too,