As the _Charles Quex_ steamed farther and farther away, the church on
the mountainous hill appeared to change in shape. Notre Dame de la Garde
looked no longer like a building made by man, but like a great sacred
swan crowned with gold, and nested on a mountain-top. There she sat,
with shining head erect on a long neck, seated on her nest, protecting
her young, and gazing far across the sea in search of danger. The sun
touched her golden crown, and dusky cloud-shadows grouped far beneath
her eyrie, like mourners kneeling below the height to pray. The
rock-shapes and island rocks that cut the blue glitter of the sea,
suggested splendid tales of Phoenician mariners and Saracenic pirates,
tales lost forever in the dim mists of time; and so Stephen wandered on
to thoughts of Dumas, wishing he had brought "Monte Cristo," dearly
loved when he was twelve. Probably not a soul on board had the book;
people were so stupid and prosaic nowadays. He turned from the rail on
which he had leaned to watch the fading land, and as he did so, his eyes
fell upon a bright red copy of the book for which he had been wishing.
There was the name in large gold lettering on a scarlet cover, very
conspicuous on the dark blue serge lap of a girl. It was the girl of the
Channel boat, and she wore the same dress, the same sailor hat tied on
with a blue veil, which she had worn that night crossing from England to
France.
While Stephen had been absorbed in admiration of Marseilles harbour, she
had come up on deck, and settled herself in a canvas chair.
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