'Here we are at Fort Genova, crowning the little point, a small old
building, due to my old Genoese acquaintance who fought and traded
bravely once upon a time. A broken cannon of theirs forms the
threshold; and through a dark, low arch, we enter upon broad
terraces sloping to the centre, from which rain water may collect
and run into that well. Large-breeched French troopers lounge
about and are most civil; and the whole party sit down to breakfast
in a little white-washed room, from the door of which the long,
mountain coastline and the sparkling sea show of an impossible blue
through the openings of a white-washed rampart. I try a sea-egg,
one of those prickly fellows - sea-urchins, they are called
sometimes; the shell is of a lovely purple, and when opened, there
are rays of yellow adhering to the inside; these I eat, but they
are very fishy.
'We are silent and shy of one another, and soon go out to watch
while turbaned, blue-breeched, barelegged Arabs dig holes for the
land telegraph posts on the following principle: one man takes a
pick and bangs lazily at the hard earth; when a little is loosened,
his mate with a small spade lifts it on one side; and DA CAPO.
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