We were up betimes the following morning, for we had a long day’s work before us.  We were approaching Corinth, and knew that from the Acrocorinthus, a very high and steep hill over-hanging it, a prospect was to be had inferior to none in Greece.  The morning, though not actually unpleasant, was chill and hazy, and Dhemetri tried to dissuade us from wasting the time.  But we were determined to see what there was to be seen, and after a ride of two or three hours over a rough country, we entered the fortifications of this chief citadel of Greece.  It is now guarded by a handful of soldiers, two or three neglected cannons thrust their muzzles idly over the rampart, and shepherds with their flocks roam at will within.  A sharp wind was sweeping over the summit, and the mountains and islands—­Parnassus, Cyllene, Helicon, Pentclicon, Salamis, AEgina—­were veiled with a dull, opaque haze.  While Basil, with stiff fingers, was sketching the view from the top, I wandered about with my other companion, picking spring flowers, reading the descriptions of Pausanias, and studying the distant landscape.  There is a thriving town at the bottom of the hill, and hither we descended, asking for the inn (Xenodhekeon) where Dhemetri had told us to meet him.  But alas! modern Corinth can not sustain an inn; and we were obliged to eat our dinner in a grocery, stared at by all the youth of Corinth.  Half a dozen Doric columns, belonging to a very old temple, are the only considerable relics of ancient Corinth.  And as we had a long afternoon’s work before us, we set off before twelve.  We galloped at good speed across the Isthmus, about an hour’s ride; Dhemetri, who understood the management of Greek horses, driving us before him like a flock of sheep.  We paused a moment at the Isthmic sanctuary of Poseidon, passed through the village of Kalamaki, whence steamers run to Athens, then continued along the shore between Mount Geroneia and the sea, through a low, uneven country, well grown with pine, heather, arbute, gorse in the full splendor of its yellow blossoms, and sweet-smelling thyme.  The afternoon was warm and bright.  Here and there were flocks of long-haired sheep and sturdy black goats, cropping the grass and the shrubs, and it was well in keeping with the scene when we passed a shepherd, with his cloak thrown carelessly aside, leaning on his crook, and playing a few simple notes—­not a tune—­on his flageolet to while away the time.  We delayed half an hour at the miserable hamlet of Kineta, to rest one of the horses, exhausted with our fast riding, then began the ascent of our last mountain-pass.  A spur of Mount Geroneia runs boldly into the sea, forming a wall between the territories of Corinth and Megara.  It is called ‘Kake-Scala,’ ‘Bad Ladder,’ an odd mixture of Greek and Italian.  Here, as the ancients fabled, dwelt the robber Skiron, plundering and mutilating all wayfarers, and throwing them into the sea; but Theseus subdued him and subjected him to a like treatment, and thereafter