little vessel was shipping grain, anchored amongst the mud-choked shoals: that was all.
It was a dreary place at the best of times; antiquaries said that the sea had receded nearly a mile since the days when the Etruscan pirates had sailed from that bay, and Etruscan lucomonies had had their fortresses and their tombs away yonder where the shore line grew dusky with thickets of bay and rosemary and the prickly marucca, or holy thorn,[1] so common here.
'You are safe home, mother?' said the pallid women, as the mule of Joconda picked his way amidst the stones and sand to his own house door.
'Aye, the saints be praised,' said Joconda, and said no more.
They knew the woman of Savoy never chattered, and that it was useless to ask from her gossip of Grosseto until she had stabled her beast and broken her fast, and of not very much use after that. Joconda went on to her own dwelling; it was all of stone with a roof of red tiles; it was old and spacious, and had pointed casements and a massive oak door; her living-room and her bed-chamber were all the rooms she used;
