foliage, backed by the wild heights of Istria, on some of whose serrated peaks and crags the snow still hung. Immediately in front of us was the flatter island of Veglia, of a fainter verdure, and spotted here and there by the purple shadows of four playful clouds. Before, towered the vast mountain range of Croatia; great Vellebitchi, princely Marzuran, the gentler chain of the Kapella, and monarch of all, Kleck, sparkling in its deep snows. Between Cherso and Veglia, faint in the distance, lay the grey shadow of Plaunich. How lovely it was, that calm shallow sea—the sun-rays piercing it in a thousand golden or beryl paths, and casting quivering spangles and drops of light on the golden sand,—or the rock where the purple sea-anemone spread its blossoms, and the sea-rose its broader leaves. Now and then the breeze, freshening, brought the sound of church bells, or the music of nightingales from sweet Cherso; now and then, a distant wave flashed into snow on some black rock,—or a distant vessel, tacking, glanced like a white sea bird.
It was Rogation Sunday. And now I began to make out a spire or two on the nearing coast of Veglia: and to see groups of peasants wending their slow way to mass from the beach-cottage, or the vine-concealed hut. And so we cast anchor in the little bay of Malinski. The post-master, Lloyd's agent, and general factotum for that part of the island, came off in a boat: and with the hearty Austrian wish of Glückliche Reise from our captain, and from our late fellow-passengers, we pulled towards the village-quay, and the steamer stood northward for Fiume.
Anxious to see all I could of the Glagolita rite, I
