He was awakened next morning by the roar of the anchor-chain through the hawse-pipe.

Five minutes later he was on deck.

La Belle Arlésienne, steered by magic hands during the night, had raised some magic horizon and passed it to anchor in paradise. So it seemed to him as his eyes travelled from the cloud turban of Mont Pelée coloured by the dawn, and followed the tumbling woods, the cascades of leaping foliage high, far off, dark in shadow, falling to the hillside city; and the city breaking from the woods, falling street by street to the harbour’s edge; palm-tops peeping above the red-tiled roofs; houses, shadows, palms; tracery of gardens, squares, step flights from street to street; old moss-grown flights of steps, old gardens and scraps of gardens giving shelter to the grenadilla and the fleur d’amour; old houses, heavy-built and lightly coloured, all stretching from the great high woods to the very edge of the shadowy harbour in whose depths the blue of night still lay.

The blue of night—though the sky above Pelée was ablaze with the morning blue. Over on the east of the island at Grande Anse the morning was already full and splendid, but here the shadow of peak and morn held everything in magical chiara oscuro. The city, seen as though through a vague veil of gauze, seemed asleep, yet84 it was burning with early morning life, and Gaspard, as he watched, could see the moving figures of people, forms trickling down the steep flights of steps leading from street to street, and swarming by the sea-steps and harbour side.

Held, just for a moment, in this curious twilight lingering in the shadow of Pelée, whilst all the sea world beyond flashed to the sun-blaze of the tropics, the old sea-city of St. Pierre hanging, literally, between sky and sea, between dawn and night, between the present and the past, shewed to the mind those pictures of suggestion which lie in tapestry and verse.

Gaspard had never seen anything at all like this. He had seen many a tropic town where the galvanized tin roof of the trader, or the rigid outlines of the Methodist meeting house broke crudely through the beauty of palmiste and orange. But St. Pierre lay before him beautiful, absolutely beautiful, like a dream city set in Wonderland.

Nothing could be more wonderful than those torrential woods far up above the houses, woods of balisier and palm, tamarind, ceiba, and giant fern; lianas cable thick, air shoots, all climbing in the twilight, and leading the eyes to the slopes of Pelée and the peak, cloud-wreathed and burning in the blue.

Nothing could be more strange or more poetical than the city reaching from these woods to the shadowy sea.

Other vessels were anchored in the harbour, boats were putting out from the shore; now, clear and sharp-cut, through the vague noises of early morning came the note of a bugle from the fort, and from a sailing-ship away to starboard the clank of capstan pawls and the cry of sailors hauling on the halyards.

With and through everything came the perfume of the land, earth and tropic flowers, jasmine and vanilla scents, mixed with the scent of the sea.

85 Gaspard turned from the city and looked westward. Beyond the shadow of the island the sea lay in the bright daylight, shewing beneath the emerald ring of the horizon the virginal blue of early morning.

As he turned, Sagesse left the deck-house and stood for a moment looking on the land before speaking to his companion.

“Better than the stokehold,” said the Captain, who had put on a clean suit of white drill, and a shore-going and holiday manner; “better than the engine-room, vé! Look, the canotiers are putting off and the port officers will be aboard us before we have finished breakfast.”

Jules appeared, as he spoke, from the caboose, bearing a steaming coffee-pot; they went into the deck-house for the meal, and before it was half through and, as if to bear out the truth of Sagesse’s prediction, the port officers arrived.

They came into the deck-house, where Sagesse served them with vermouth and cigarettes; they seemed to know Sagesse as a friend, and bill of lading or bill of health seemed to trouble them very little as far as Gaspard could judge, who, in the middle of the cigarette smoking and exchange of news, left Sagesse to his friends and came on deck.

He found a new St. Pierre. Colour had stolen over the slopes of Pelée; light had stretched out her hand and torn away the veil of twilight. A burst of blue struck him in the face as he left the dingy deck-house. A sky of blue, a sea of blue, trium............