In the foreground a village lies at the foot of a high mountain, with its peak surmounted by a little church.

On the side towards the sea this rock shoots downwards so perpendicularly, that we might fancy it had been cut off with a saw.
Since we had come in sight of Candia, we had not been sailing on the high seas.

Scarcely did one island vanish from our view, before it was replaced by another.

On September 11th, between three and four in the morning, we reached Syra.

The terrible contrary winds with which we had been obliged to contend during almost the whole of our passage had caused us to arrive a day behind our time, to make up for which delay we only stayed half a day here, instead of a day and a half.