noon
At Naples , the tomb of Virgil , beetling over the cave of Posilipo , is reverenced , not with the feelings that should hallow the memory of the poet , but the awe that wraps the memory of the magician . To his charms they ascribe the hollowing of that mountain passage ; and tradition yet guards his tomb by the spirits he had raised to construct the cavern . This spot , in the immediate vicinity of Viola 's home , had often attracted her solitary footsteps . She had loved the dim and solemn fancies that beset her as she looked into the lengthened gloom of the grotto , or , ascending to the tomb , gazed from the rock on the dwarfed figures of the busy crowd that seemed to creep like insects along the windings of the soil below ; and now , at noon , she bent thither her thoughtful way . She threaded the narrow path , she passed the gloomy vineyard that clambers up the rock , and gained the lofty spot , green with moss and luxuriant foliage , where the dust of him who yet soothes and elevates the minds of men is believed to rest . From afar rose the huge fortress of St. Elmo , frowning darkly amidst spires and domes that glittered in the sun . Lulled in its azure splendour lay the Siren 's sea ; and the grey smoke of Vesuvius , in the clear distance , soared like a moving pillar into the lucid sky .