From my lofty roof-top here, in the highest part of Valetta, it is possible to take in at one sweeping glance a panorama that can hardly be surpassed for beauty and interest.

Intensely blue, the placid sea curdles around the rock bases of this wonderful little island as if it loved them. There are no rude breakers, no thundering, earth-shaking on-rushings of snowy-crested waves, leaping at the point of impact into filmy columns of spray.

Overhead the violet, star-sprinkled splendours of the night are just beginning to throb with returning light. One cannot say that the beams are definite, rather it is a palpitating glow that is just commencing to permeate the whole solemnity of the dome above, as does the first impulse of returning joy relax the lines of a saddened face. Far to the north may be seen a tiny cluster of fleecy cloudlets nestling together as if timid and lonely in that vast expanse of clear sky. But as the coming day touches them they put on garments of glory and beauty. Infinite gradations of colour, all tender, melt into one another upon their billowy surfaces until they spread and brighten, investing all their quadrant of the heavens with the likeness of the Gardens of Paradise.

At my feet lie the mighty edifices of stone that have, by the patient unending labour of this busy people, grown up through past ages, until now the mind reels in the attempt to sum up the account of that labour. A sea of white roofs, punctuated here and there with the dome and twin steeples of a church, the only breaks in the universal fashion of roof architecture. Away beneath, the white, clean streets—so strangely silent that the far-off tinkle of a goat-bell on the neck of some incoming band of milk-bearers strikes sharply athwart the pellucid atmosphere, like the fall of a piece of broken glass on to the pavement below. A few dim figures, recumbent upon the wide piazza of the Opera House, stir uneasily as the new light reaches them, and gape, and stretch, and fumble for cigarettes. A hurried, furtive-looking labourer glides past, his bare feet arousing no echo, but making him pass like a ghost. And then, from the direction of the Auberge de Castile, comes a solemn sound of music.

Its first faint strains rise upon the sweet morning calm like some lovely suggestion of prayer, but they are accompanied by an indefinite pulsation as of a beating at the walls of one’s heart. More and more distinct the strains arise until recognizable as Chopin’s “Marche FunÈbre,” and suddenly in the distance may be discerned, turning into the Strada Mezzodi, row after row of khaki-clad figures moving, oh, so slowly. Deadened and dull the drum-beats fall, more and more insistent wails that heart-rending music, and close in its rear appears the only spot of colour in the sad ranks, the brilliant folds of the Union Jack, hiding that small oblong coffer which holds all that was mortal of Private No. ——. Perhaps in life he was rather an insignificant unit of his regiment, at times a troublesome one, familiar with “pack-drill,” “C.B.,” and “clink,” but now he has been brevetted, for a fleeting hour his fast-decaying remains are greeted with almost Royal honours.

Nearer and nearer creeps the solemn and stately procession, so slowly that the strain becomes intolerable. How do his comrades bear it? We who knew him not at all find ourselves choking, gasping in sympathy. While that silent escort is filing past we have traced his history, as it might be, his babyhood in some fair British village far away, his school-days, his pranks, his mother’s pride. Then his aspirations, what he would do when he was a man. Or perhaps he came from the slums of a great town, where, neglected, unwanted, he wallowed in the gutters, living like the sparrows, but less easily, and only surviving the rough treatment by dint of a harder grip of life than so many of his fellows. He knew no love, was coarse of speech, given to much drink and little repentance. But who thinks of that now? He is our dear brother departed, and his comrades follow him home, for the time at least solemnized at the presence among them of that awful power before whom all heads must bow.

Now, the so lately slumbering street has filled. Swarthy Maltese, Sicilians, Indians, men of all occupations, and of none, stand with bared heads and downcast faces as the King goes by. Oh that they would hasten on! But no. As if the procession would never end, it files through the Porta Reale, and at last is lost to view, although for long afterwards those muffled drums still beat upon the heart.

As if rejoicing at the passing of death, the street suddenly awakens. A very hubbub of conversation arises. Incoming crowds of workmen, striding along with that peculiarly easy gait common to the barefooted, jostle each other, and fling jest and repartee in guttural Maltese. Country vehicles, laden with all manner of queer produce, their bitless stallions swaying tinkling bells, encumber the way. Presently all make clear the crown of the road for the passage of a company of mounted infantry, which, in the almost blatant pride of fitness and workmanlike appearance, sallies forth into the country for exercise beyond the walls. But hark! martial strains are heard, a joyous blare of brass, a gleeful clatter of cymbal and drum. Hearts beat quicker, the foot taps, involuntarily acknowledging the power of music to elevate or depress the mind. Swinging into view strides a jaunty company, with heads erect and splendid swagger, and in their midst the plain imitation gun-carriage, which so short a time ago was burdened with the flag-enwrapped dead, is gaily trundled along. The moments of mourning are ended. We have hidden our dead out of our sight, and, with a spring of relief, are back again with the duties and pleasures of the living.

The great sun is soaring high, and already his beams are heating the stones so that we can hardly bear to touch them. The sea is rejoicing, for with the sun a little breeze has risen and covered that gorgeous expanse of sapphire with an infinity of wavelets, each crested with a spray of diamonds. A few barbaric-looking feluccas, their great pointed sails gleaming like snow against the blue sea, are creeping in from Gozo or Sicily, laden with fruit and fish for hungry Valetta. Far out, a long black stain against the clear sky betokens the presence of a huge steamship, homeward bound from the East, and avoiding these bright shores carefully because of stringent quarantine regulations. The very mention of the dread word “plague” is enough to cause a panic here, and if the most rigorous exclusion, at whatever cost, of vessels from infected ports, will keep us free, we will see to it that such exclusion is practised.

But what is this long, phantom-like vessel, her colour so blending with the blue of the sea, that she is difficult to distinguish? Occasionally from one of her three irregularly placed funnels there is a burst of black smoke, but otherwise she is as nearly invisible as careful painting can make her. Up there at the lofty look-out station the signalmen are discussing her with many epithets of dislike. They know her well, and all her kindred; know well, too, with what jealous, longing eyes those on board peer at the prosperous island, and with what accents of hatred they speak of the insolent, perfidious Briton, who dare to thus maintain a station of such strength, a naval base of such inestimable value, in the midst of what should be a Latin-governed sea.

But the treasure so coveted is not only guarded by all the deadly devices known to modern warfare, it is made doubly secure in that these swarthy speakers of a strange tongue know and love their rulers too well to exchange them, save at the cost of almost utter annihilation, for masters whom they equally well know and hate.

The morning freshness has gone. Valetta, never quite asleep at any time, only drowsing occasionally, is wide awake now. The bright waters of the harbour are alive with “disÓs,” gondola-like boats, and small steamers. The hurrying thousands have swarmed into their appointed places in the dockyard, the never-finished stone-hewing is going briskly forward, the market is a howling vortex of clamour and heat and excitement; and in its niche of living rock the tabernacle of him who yesterday was Private ——, of her Majesty’s army, lies quietly oblivious of it all.