The blue of the gulf was of an extreme intensity in the parts not reflected by the sun; the coast appeared of ochre; although the houses had tawdry facades, all these discordant elements were now blended and interfused in subdued and exquisite harmony.

The shrubbery was trembling rhythmically under the breeze.

The very air was musical, as though in its waves were vibrating the strings of invisible harps.
This was for Freya the true Greece imagined by the poets, not the island of burned-out rocks denuded of vegetation that she had seen and heard spoken of in her excursions through the Hellenic archipelago.
"To live here the rest of my life!" she murmured with misty eyes.

"To die here, forgotten, alone, happy!..." Ferragut also would like to die in Naples ...

but with her!...