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And all this happened while Mr. Keith and his companion, drowsily
ensconced among the morocco cushions of their boat, were being wafted
over the blue sea, far away, under the cliffs.



CHAPTER XXII


"The Devil's Rock, gentlemens! The rock of the Devil. Where the young
English lord jump over. Everyone know that story."
The word "devil" caused the bishop to wake up from his pleasant dreams
with something of a start.
"You had better take a good look at that cliff," suggested Mr. Keith.
"It is not only the finest on the island but, I fancy, the finest on
the whole Mediterranean. Those on the Spanish coast and on Mount Athos
lack the wonderful colour and the clean surface of this one. Looks as
if it had been done with a knife, doesn't it? Alpine crags seem
vertical but are nearly always inclined; their primary rock, you know,
cannot flake off abruptly like this tufa. This is a genuine precipice.
Plumb!"
"Terrific," said Mr. Heard. "What was that about the English lord?"
"Two young fellows who rented the villa at the back of it for a summer.


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