Christine of the hills

About This Book

We had been sailing for some hours with no word between us, but Barbarossa woke up as the yacht went about under the lee of the promontory, and with a lordly sweep of his brown-burnt arms he indicated the place. “Olà, excellency,” said he, “yonder is the pavilion of little Christine.” I had called him Barbarossa, though heaven knows he was neither Suabian nor renegade Greek of Mitylene, but an old sinner of Sebenico who chanced to have a yacht to let and a week to idle through. “Shew your excellency the islands?” cried he, when I had made him the offer. “Madonna mia, there is no man in all the...