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a quiet curve of the coast of Provence, on a stretch of that coast which before the war was seldom if ever visited by strangers, lies the small seaport town of Saint-Loup-sur-mer, cleansed by strong winds and purified by sunshine. Its Patron—if one may credit report—was a warrior-bishop of no mean attainments, since of him it is told that he checked the advance of Attila, Mighty Scourge of the Lord, though by what precise method remains somewhat uncertain. But his memory is mellowed by gentler legends even as the years have mellowed his statues, so that of him it is also told that he felt great concern for the sorrows of women, and a great tenderness towards newborn things, having once restored its life to a fledgling. And since this bird was a nightingale it would come with the darkness to sing in his garden: 'Praise God in His Golden Saints,' it would sing, as everyone knew very well at the time—that is to say, in the year 400, when Saint Loup had not yet been privileged to hear the harps and the angelic songs of heaven.

His town has a harbour with numerous vessels and many simple activities; a fine view from such windows as look over the quay and thus out beyond to a stretch of blue water, and a wall of dark peaks from such as look sideways or backward towards the long range of the Maures, Saint Loup being partly encircled by mountains. There is also the church with its open B