In the cool of the afternoon you leave Camogli and climb by the byways to Ruta, whence you may see all the Gulf of Genoa, with the proud city herself in the lap of the mountains, and there, yes, far away, you may see the stainless peaks of Tuscany, whiter than snow, shining in the quiet afternoon; and nearer, but still far away, the crest of the horn of Spezia, with the ruined church of Porto Venere—­a church or a temple, is it?—­on the headland beside the island of Palmaria.  Beside you are the sea and the hills, two everlasting things, with here an old villa, beautiful with many autumns, in a grove of cypress, ilex, and myrtle, those three holy trees that mark death, mystery, and love; while far down on the seashore where the foam is whitest, stands a little ruined chapel in which the gulls cry all day long.  But your heart turns ever toward Italy yonder—­towards the hills of marble.  Will one ever reach them, those far-away pure peaks immaculate in silence, like a thought of God in the loneliness of the mountains?  Far away below you lies Rapallo in the crook of the bay among the oleanders and vines.  It is there you must sleep, far away still from those visionary peaks, which yet will in some strange way give you a sense of security, as though a legion of bright angels, ghosts in the pale night (for they fade away in the twilight), invisible to other men, were on guard to keep you from all harm.  Somehow it is always into a dreamless sleep one falls in Rapallo, that beautiful and guarded place behind Portofino, where the sea is like a lake, so still it is, and all the flowers of the world seem to have run for shelter.  It is as though one had seen the Holy City, and though it was still far off, it was enough, one was content.

[Illustration:  ON THE ROAD]

Rapallo itself, as you find on your first morning, is beautiful, chiefly by reason of its sea-girt tower.  The old castle is a prison, and the town itself, full of modern hotels, is yet brisk with trade in oil and lace; but it is not these things that will hold you there, but that sea-tower and the joy of the woods and gardens.  And then there are some surprising things not far away.  Portofino, for instance, with its great pine and the ilex woods, its terraced walk and the sea, not the lake of Rapallo, but the sea itself, full of strength and wisdom.  Then there is San Fruttuoso, with its convent among the palm trees by the seashore, whither the Doria are still brought by sea for burial.  Here they lie, generation on generation, of the race which loved the sea; almost coffined in the deep, for the waves break upon the floor of the crypt that holds them.  They could not lie more fitly than on the shore of this sea they won and held for Genoa.  San Fruttuoso is difficult to reach save by sea.  In the summer the path from Portofino is pleasant enough, but at any other time it is almost impassable.  And indeed the voyage by boat from Rapallo to Portofino, and thence to San Fruttuoso, should be chosen, for the