IF you will look at the general map of Spain and Portugal, you will see that the outlines of the Peninsula suggest the head of a man—a broad, square head, with a high forehead and plenty of room for a large brain. The profile, lying sharply cut on the blue Atlantic, shows a crest of disordered hair, a slightly swelling forehead, a long, sensitive, aristocratic nose with a sharply cut nostril, firm lips set close together, a fine chin tapering to a small pointed beard, a slight fulness under the chin; the throat, set well back and surrounded by a blue collar—the Straits of Gibraltar—joins the head to the shoulders—the continent of Africa. The more you look at the face, the more certain you become that it is a familiar one, that it is the face of one you hold dear, till at last complete recognition flashes upon you; it is the face of Don Quixote de la Mancha! Look again; it is a face such as Velasquez painted, not once, but many times; it is the typical Spanish face, proud, high-bred, reserved.

So you need not land alone and unwelcomed upon the shore of fabled Hispagna, now looming dim and blue upon the horizon, now growing distinct and green. Two great spirits, Cervantes and Velasquez, come to meet you! Their hands are stretched out to you; if you so elect, they will walk with you in all your wanderings, and with their help you shall know Spain.

Gibraltar, a lion couchant, head on paws, fronts the sea. Cross the bay from Algeciras, the lion rears its head—a lion no longer—the pillar of the coast of Europe, blue at first, then purple; when you are close in its shadow you look up at a grim gray mountain towering above you. It greets you like an old friend. You have known it under many names; first as Calpe under its first master, Hercules, for that glorious old fellow, the first “Great African Traveler,” was here. Wishing to show other travelers who should come after that the “inner seas,” where it was safe to sail, ended here, he took up a mountain and tore it in two to make the bounds; half he set down in Africa, on the south, half in Europe, on the north. These are the Columns of Hercules; the African column is Abyle; the European, Calpe.

“Ne plus ultra,” said Hercules, as he wrapped his lion’s skin about him and set sail for Libya to call on Atlas. Every time you write the sign for the dollar ($) you draw the Columns of Hercules and the scroll for his parting words, “Ne plus ultra.”

Carthage was here! The poor Carthaginians built a tower on Calpe, to watch for the dreaded Roman galleys sweeping down from Ostia, while in Rome’s senate implacable Cato thundered his eternal “Delenda est Carthago.” Of course the Romans were here,—it is impossible to escape them; wherever you travel in Europe or Africa you are always meeting those grave ghosts!

Tarik was here; he and his Berbers, sailing over from Morocco, landed on Calpe, and built a magnificent castle fortress to protect their retreat and keep open the way back to Africa. Moors and Berbers made a long stay in Europe; they held the Rock seven hundred years, until Moor and Mahomet were driven out by Ferdinand and Isabel,—a service Spain holds the Christian world has too soon forgotten. A pitiful flying remnant of the Moors of Granada took ship at Gibraltar and sailed back to Morocco, leaving behind them the imperishable Legacy of the Moor, taking with them the keys of their houses in that lost paradise, Granada. Since Tarik landed, the Rock has stood fourteen sieges, has passed from master to master, but this is still the Hill of Tarik (Jebel Tarik), though we pronounce it Gibraltar.

So, coming after Hercules, Carthage, Rome, Tarik, we are here! We landed at night. As we passed down the steamer’s companionway to the tug, the Kaiser roared a hoarse farewell, her screw beat the “inner sea” to a white lather. From the upper deck a girl’s handkerchief fluttered, a man’s voice cried “Good luck!” Two thousand Italian steerage passengers, the menace and amusement of the voyage, chaffed and laughed at us from the lower deck. For nine days the steamer Kaiser, sailing on even keel, had been all our world; a creature-comfortable world, with only too much beef, beer, and skittles.

“There are no boats but the German—except a few of the English—fit to cross the Atlantic,” a fat Hanoverian drummer said at dinner, that last evening on board; “Germans and English are the only sailors.”

Don Jaime, the Andalusian, who sat opposite, looked at him.

“Claro,” he assented, graciously, in Spanish, “but—do you happen to know how many Germans and English Columbus had with him on his caravel?”

The Hanoverian only grunted, like the pig he was.

The tug sheered away; we looked up from our dancing cockle-shell to the Kaiser, looming vast above us, shutting out the stars. The glare of her lights, the throb of her engines were still the all-important facts of the universe, until—a long finger of light stretched out from Tarik’s Hill and touched us.

“You see?” said a voice in the dark beside us, “the searchlight! Gibraltar never sleeps.”

The searchlight faded, the tender turned her nose to shore. The Kaiser, a little floating bit of Germany, was left behind; before us towered England, a mighty Rock hung from peak to base with chains of diamond lights. The tender drew alongside the Old Mole. At the gate a young English sergeant in a smart uniform looked us over.

“Are you a British subject, sir?” he said to J., the first man ashore. J. said he was.

“Pass in, sir,” said the sergeant; then to me: “British subject, marm?”

“I am an American——” I began.

“One shilling, if you please, marm; after gunfire only subjects may enter Gibraltar without——”

“That is to say,” I explained, “I am the wife of this gentleman; you may consider me a—a British sub——”

“Very good, marm, certainly,” murmured the sergeant, consolingly; “pass in.”

“So an American birthright is only worth one shilling?” J. jeered, and the international incident was closed, for the moment.

We slept at the Hotel Cecil, a comfortable house, with Spanish waiters and Hispano-Anglo fare. At breakfast we made the acquaintance of a pretty young officer, who wore his watch in a leather bracelet on his wrist. He laughed at our impatience to have done with tea and marmalade and be off to see the sights.

“Not much to see in Gib,” he said, “a beastly place! There’s the Trafalgar Cemetery, if you care for that sort of thing. See that old chap with the beard? If you want a guide he’s the best. He’s lying in wait for you, a real Rock Scorpion; don’t let him sting you on the ‘tips.’ He’s a native; must have come into the world before the law forbidding aliens to be born in Gibraltar.”

We thought that law must be hard to enforce. He said it was, but that there was so little living room on the Rock “they” were very strict about it. All ladies, except the wives of British subjects, must cross over to the main land before the birth of their children. Spain, he said, liked the law, because in the old days it had sometimes happened that sons of Spaniards born on the Rock had refused to serve in the Spanish army, claiming to be British subjects.

We asked how long strangers might stay in Gibraltar. He said that generally speaking they might stay as long as they wished. The hotel proprietor would get us the necessary permit; it might be extended for ten days. The Governor, Sir George White (he who was in command in Ladysmith when the garrison was relieved), was very exact about such matters.

Again commending us to Old Scorp, our friend with the watch bracelet left us, and we went out “for to admire and to see.” We avoided Old Scorp, a little gray creeping man with shabby European clothes, but he saluted us with the air of one who bides his time.

First we explored the North Town, crouching at the Rock’s base. Waterport Street, the main artery of trade, lies at the lowest level, the town rising in a series of terraces two hundred feet above. Houses, churches, hospitals, barracks, stables, all built of a uniform gray limestone, seem to have been honeycombed out of the Rock. The names at the street corners have a bold British military flavor; Prince Edward’s Ramp, Bomb House Lane, Devil’s Gap Steps, Victualling House Lane, Ragged Staff Stairs. The shops are small and stuffy, with stale meagre wares; the high-sounding names over their doors, Moorish, Spanish, Jewish names, such as Alcantara, Barabiche, Vallerinos, Montegriffos, show in whose hands the trade of Gibraltar has fallen. There are many names beginning with Ben, such as Beneluz and Beneliel. I believe that all the “Bens” are of Moorish descent: I have known a good many such, their dark, impenetrable eyes, their skilful hands, the frequent touch of genius they show, are a part of the Moor’s Legacy.

It was still early morning; the sky was a vault of blue fire, the air was keen with the salt and seaweed of the Mediterranean. The orange trees in the garden of the old Franciscan convent—now the Governor’s house—were covered with fruit and blossoms; there was a sound of bugles, the tramp of a regiment in Commercial Square; the soft cracked bells of the old cathedral clanged the hour; from far away, where the gunners were at practice, came the deep boom of cannon. Color, life, movement all around us! This was no time to dream, to remember, to entertain ghosts; breathless we looked through the kaleidoscope to-day at the gay little pieces flickering with the pulse of time!

North Town has the most variegated population in Europe; to match it one must cross the Straits to Tangiers. A British officer passed on a small milk-white stallion; an Ethiopian, with gold earrings, and a beauty line gashed on either cheek; a pair of sharp-eyed Jewish children, books under arm, on their way to school; an Andalusian widow, draped like a Tanagra figurine with soft dusky veils hanging to her shoe; another officer of higher rank, a blond man with a face like a mask, who gave us one quick challenge of the eye as he went his way—and I was aware that I was a guest, while he was at home, a master in his own house. He was followed by two ladies, his British wife and daughter, all fresh and shining with soap and energy. Both were Saxons, with hair like spun gold and calm blue eyes; they wore London clothes, and drove an English cob in an Irish jaunting car. They were at home, too, and looked as if the earth belonged to them. There were many soldiers loafing in twos and threes, marching in files, walking singly—all with a jauntiness, a buoyancy, that no other mere mortal men possess. Some of them—oh, joy!—wore real uniforms with red coats; dull clod-colored khaki is good enough for war, in peace there is no excuse for it.

The dash of winter in the air that was as the elixir of life to the English, making their horses prance, their cheeks glow, their eyes sparkle, affected the other inhabitants differently; the Spaniards looked pale, the Moors ashen. We met Don Jaime, black sombrero pulled over the eyes, black capa thrown over the shoulder, toga-fashion, muffling mouth and chin and showing an amber plush lining. The Don uncovered with a noble gesture, but we did not stop to speak to him, he was in such evident terror of taking cold. There were frigid tears in the almond eyes of Mr. Pohoomull as he stood at the door of the Indo-Persian Bazaar inviting us to enter. Though he wore a lovely gray embroidered cashmere cap and a Persian lamb coat, his teeth chattered. We lingered somewhat, beguiled by his Benares trays, Burmese silver, Persian carpets, ivory elephants, and were only saved from bankruptcy by the vision of a figure in the street, more truly Oriental than anything in Mr. Pohoomull’s shop. A tall, bronzed Moor in a green turban, a pink kaftan, yellow slippers, and a big hairy brown sulham, drawn over his head and falling to his knees, walked slowly down the middle of the road, driving before him with a rod as long as himself a flock of green and bronze turkeys. We followed to the Moorish market, where he entered into discussion with another Morisco in a white sulham and red morocco slippers, presumably touching the price of turkeys. As an excuse to linger near, we bought pistachio nuts in a fresh lettuce leaf, dates from the desert on their yellow stalks, golden apples of Hesperides—they called them tangerines—with dark, glossy leaves. The market was noisy with the bickering of poultry, pigeons, and netted quails in wicker baskets. In the English market on the other side of the way, we bought for half a peseta violets, roses, and splendid Tyrian purple bourganvillia. The flower sellers, a group of withered women sitting on the ground, looked like the Fates. The fish market was a picture. The fish of the Mediterranean seem brighter colored than other fish. Like wet jewels the red mullet, like silver the turbot, like many-colored enamels the big variegated conger eels the Romans liked so well. Gibraltar, which produces nothing, is splendidly victualled. The beef comes from Morocco, the vegetables from Spain, the fruit from every Mediterranean port. At the fruit stalls were bunches of Spanish grapes, long, purple, white, hanging thick overhead, a background for Barbary baskets filled with citrons, persimmons, cocoanuts, apples, and pears. In the foreground were heaps of black olives and smooth green melons, the latter a cross between watermelon and cantaloupe. The Spaniards know how to keep them fresh half the winter. The vegetable stalls were quite as handsome in their way, the color used skillfully in broad masses. Deep chrome gourds, violet eggplant, a long cane basket of vermilion tomatoes and gray-green artichokes; the beauty of color so enthralled us that we were not quick enough in making way for a majestic British matron, followed by a neat Spanish maid. The lady must have been at least a colonel’s wife—if such go to market—for she looked through us, without seeing us, as if we had been so much glass. To make amends, the little servant gave us soft welcoming glances, but we felt abashed and went sadly away. As we left the market, we saw our young officer of the watch bracelet sniffing at the carcass of a mighty new-killed pig—then we knew that he was of the “commissariat.”

Outside the market we met the turkey-herd again; he had sold no turkeys, but added a pair of white ones to his flock. As we stood admiring him, Patsy joined us, kodak in hand.

“I must snap that Moor,” he said; “please stand before me. If he sees me he will be frightened and think I mean to do him a mischief.” Patsy adjusted his camera; he was on the point of turning the button when a policeman interfered:

“Beg pardon, sir, it’s against the rules to photograph the fortifications.”

“But I wasn’t,” Patsy explained. “I was only taking a shot at that old boy with the turkeys.”

The man pointed to the bastion behind the Moor; it would certainly have come within the kodak’s focus. We tried to comfort Patsy by reminding him that Gibraltar was a fortress, that we were here on sufferance; but he was much chagrined and kept repeating that he was not a spy. At that moment of discomfiture we heard a voice, deep as an organ note, behind us, rumbling out the words:

“I am the book.”

We turned and saw Old Scorp.

“I am the Century.”

“Looks old enough to be,” murmured Patsy.

“I am Harper’s Magazine.”

“Indeed? You scarcely look it,” said J.

“Don’t you see?” I cried, “he is the guide, he has been mentioned in Harper and the Century.”

“Take him along!” begged Patsy. “He knows the ropes; he’ll keep us from getting into any more scrapes.”

Old Scorp had crawled in our wake all the morning; his time had come; he claimed us for his own. From that moment till we left the Rock, we were scarcely out of his company, except when asleep or at meals. When not busy guiding travelers, he acted as Moorish interpreter of the law court. A little gliding man, like a composite of all the peoples who have held the Rock, his clothes were English, his manners Spanish, his fanatical eyes were Berber, his energy, in spite of his age, ancient Roman, his keenness as to pounds, shillings, and pence was Phoenician, his manner of cracking a nut—where had I seen that action? In the monkey cage at the Zoo.

The original inhabitants of Gibraltar, a tribe of half-tame, tailless apes, still hold the steep west front of the Rock. They are descended from those apes of Tarshish sent to Solomon, together with peacocks, ivory, and gold, every three years. They live on the summit, where the sweet palmetto and the prickly pear grow. In summer, when man and monkey grill upon the arid Rock, the soldiers at the Signal Station save water for their poor relations, and look the other way when the simian troop goes on a raid to rob the Governor’s fruit garden; they even keep a sort of parish register of monkey births and deaths. How these blue Barbary apes, the only African monkeys in Europe, ever found their way here, is a mystery, like the presence of the Basques in the Pyrenees.

“I wonder if they were here before the convulsion of nature that tore apart the coasts of Africa and Europe,” Patsy ruminated.

Why not say, when Hercules tore them apart? It’s so much prettier!

From the market-place we went to the parade-ground, a quadrangle surrounded by solid stone barracks, where a squad of the King’s Own were drilling. Inside the barracks a military band played Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever.” The King’s Own were brisk, young, and fresh-looking newcomers, with the beef and beer of Old England still in their blood; they will not have such pretty complexions when they leave, after three summers on the Rock. The climate that we found delicious in December must be terrific in July. Scorp admitted that it was a trifle warm, though it suited him; we could fancy him basking on the Rock, as if he belonged in one of its crevices. At luncheon we asked Bracelet how he found the summer here. From what he said, Gibraltar cannot be a nice place when the black levanter blows, the dark cloud cap settles on the summit, the clamminess comes into the air, and the stifling east wind takes the heart out of a man and sets his nerves jangling, till he feels like Prometheus chained to the burning Rock. They make out very well in the winter, Bracelet said, with the warships coming and going, people from home running down to the Hotel Maria Cristina over in Algeciras, and occasional shooting trips in the Atlas Mountains. Of course, the great institution is the Calpe Hunt.

“Fox hunting here?” Patsy interrupted.

“No, no, over there.” Bracelet nodded towards the narrow ribbon of sand that ties the Rock to Spain. “In the old days, though, the place swarmed with foxes. Rockwood and Ranter, the first couple of hounds an old parson had out from England, gave ’em some rattling good runs up the face of the Rock.”

More ghosts—the ghosts of the first two foxhounds whose names, Rockwood and Ranter, are a matter of history. Never was such a place for ghosts as Mons Calpe!

Patsy catechized Bracelet about the hunting half through luncheon; that was not fair. He asked more than his share of questions; when it comes to dogs, horses, or sport of any kind, men never are fair, they are so greedy. I had a hundred questions I wanted to ask, but I had to listen and pretend to be interested. From November, after the rains are over, till March, when the ground is too dry to carry the scent, they have two joyous runs a week. It’s the only thing that makes life here possible. The ride to the meets is almost always along the Spanish beach; some of them are a goodish distance; Long Stables, for instance, is thirteen miles away, Almoraima is twelve. We could imagine the relief of a gallop in the salt air after being cooped up on the Rock. There is every sort of country,—thick woods, coverts, crags; only, Bracelet complained, no jumping, because there are no fences or hedges in this benighted land. Everybody hunts, of course. An old gentleman, a sort of Nestor of the chase, died as he had lived, following the hounds. He was drowned at Washerwoman’s Ford the other day, on his way home from the meet. Quite a decent exit, wasn’t it? To die in the saddle at the end of a day’s hunting. He was a goodish age, too, turned seventy-six.

We had one disappointment: demanding to be taken to St. Michael’s Cave, we learned that it was no longer shown. Scorp, who in his far-off youth had known it well, was easily led to talk of the mysterious cave. I was the only one of the party who had grace to listen. The others were welcome to monopolize Bracelet—young, handsome, full of delicious insularity; I preferred the little old gray man. There are many impetuous merry lads; there is but one Rock Scorpion! There was something reptilian about the man. His language, full of Oriental allegory, moved sluggishly along, then broke into sudden bursts of antediluvian slang, and on every possible occasion stung us with the words, “You tip the hand.”

“‘Metuendus acumine caude,’ Ovid says of the scorpion,” Patsy quoted, “or, as one might say, Fearful with the sting of his tip!”

According to Old Scorp, the entrance to St. Michael’s Cave is now one thousand feet above the sea, about two thirds up the face of the mountain. Once upon a time the sea was level with the cave. Had not he and his brother, when they were boys, found fossil shells there, and the remains of a sea beach outside? The entrance was low, he remembered, but inside it was big as the Mosque of Cordova. Its wonderful stalactite columns, fifty feet high, looked like yellow alabaster; there were pointed arches springing from column to column. Lighted up with blue fire, as he had once seen the cave, it was a sight that, man or boy, he had never seen equalled. Except for its being so dark, those who lived here had a fine commodious dwelling. Yes, men have lived, fought, and died in the great cave, and left their flint knives, their stone axes, and their bones to tell the tale. Women have lived and worked there; they left their necklaces, their anklets, their bone needles, their household pottery behind them. There have been feasts here, for amphorÆ with traces of wine have been found. There were other caves—oh, many! sea caves and land caves; some “professors” say that the old name Calpe means caved mountain. Whether or not that is true, Scorp, of his own knowledge, assured us that the Rock is full of secret caverns. As if these were not enough, the English are always burrowing and tunnelling. They have dug three tunnels under the Rock; in one they found what is more precious than gold, good water. No, we might not see the tunnels, not even the last of the smaller caves—the secrets of the mountain are jealously guarded.

Listening to the old man’s talk, we climbed a street of stairs cutting directly through a tangle of narrow alleys where Jews and other aliens live, to the upper level of North Town, where we found the Church of the Sacred Heart, its doors hospitably open. As it was the only door in Gibraltar, except the Cecil’s, that had not been shut and barred against us, we went in. The smell of the incense, the red light of the candles, was pleasantly familiar; the statues of saints and Virgin greeted us like old friends.

“I haf a friend in Brooklyn, Unity States,” said a voice beside us. “He send me weekly paper. I hope you know my friend—his name is——. Mebbe he spoke with you of Father Jims, of the Sacred Heart?”

Father Jims was young and soft-eyed, with a face such as Murillo painted in his “St. Joseph and the Holy Child.” He was so sure we had come to find him out, with some message from his friend, that it went to our hearts to undeceive him. He said he meant shortly to go to Brooklyn; from what his friend wrote, there was a rare field for missionary work! Father Jims was a Catalan; his eyes burned with a zeal that augured well for his mission among the heathen of Brooklyn. He showed us the modest treasures of his church, and presented us with a picture of St. Bernard, the patron of Gibraltar. As we parted we gave him a little money for his poor; he took it with a radiant smile I shall not soon forget. Among all the tremendous impressions we brought away from Gibraltar, the smile of the little Spanish servant maid in the market-place, and the smile of the poor Catalan priest in the church, are the kindest, and will perhaps remain with us the longest.

Near the church is the fine new hospital; an inscription tells that Lord Napier, of Magdala, laid the foundation stone.

In Lord Napier’s hospital there are women nurses. Teaching and nursing nuns are in charge of several charitable institutions, and in the post office reigns a postmistress; so, though Gibraltar is the most mannish, English-speaking place I know, there is plenty of civic and charitable work for women. It was strange to learn that the place is a colony and a port, as well as a fortress. On this tiny speck of earth you can find all the complex machinery of civil, military, and colonial existence, as neatly organized as life in an ant-hill. As to the port, it is now of consequence as a coaling station only. Prosaic enough, compared to the palmy days when it was the first smugglers’ headquarters of the Mediterranean! Tobacco is still smuggled into Spain, where it is a government monopoly, and is, consequently, very bad and very dear. The smuggling is largely carried on by dogs. The poor innocents are taken out in a boat at night from Gibraltar; when near the Spanish coast, small water-tight casks filled with contraband tobacco are fastened on either side of them, they are put overboard and swim to land. They learn not to bark or make a noise, but to scramble silently ashore into the arms of their contrabandista partners, just as in the days of the Deerfield Massacre, babies in New England were taught not to cry on account of the Indians.

After luncheon we went to see the “Galleries.” Our Scorp convoyed us; Gunner Wilkinson, a lean old war dog, received us and led the way into a dim passage, with sanded floor and whitewashed roof, tunnelled out of the bowels of the Rock. The narrow gallery ascends at an easy slope, now and again widening out into a small chamber, as a Roman catacomb expands into the chapel of Christian martyr or saint. Only here, in this aerial catacomb, instead of the statue of a saint, stands a great gun, its black nozzle poking through a loophole. The Gunner explained the working, patting the gun as one pats a favorite horse. At the lightest touch the monster swung smoothly on its swivel, and the loophole was free for us to look out at the magnificent view. Below us was Gibraltar Bay, the cork woods of Algeciras, and the blue line of Sierras beyond. We were in no hurry to leave the gallery, as we should probably never be here again. Gunner Wilkinson refused a shilling, but accepted a cigar; and finally understanding that we really were interested in his wonderful Cyclopean galleries, he unbent and gossiped about them in a friendly way.

During the “Great Siege,” a non-commissioned officer, Sergeant Ince, heard the commandant, General Eliott, say that he would give a thousand dollars to be able to drop shells on the enemy from a certain point where the Rock’s face was a sheer precipice. The practical genius of the plain soldier found out the way. If there was no place for the guns on the Rock, make a place for them in the Rock. So the famous Rock Batteries, at Ince’s suggestion, were blasted out of the living cliffs. They had done great service in their day, but now, frankly, this cannon, that to me looked so deadly, was quite out of date. The real guns were mounted—elsewhere! Yes, La Vieja (the old dog) had a new set of teeth; she could bite now as well as bark. Beyond this the Gunner would say nothing of the modern defences, nor of those secret forbidden parts of “Gib” I longed to see. His talk was all of old wars, old heroes, of Ince, who rose from the ranks and was made an ensign of the Royal Garrison Battalion as a reward for his batteries. One day, when he was an aged man, riding to his work on an ancient nag, he met the Governor, the Duke of Kent, the father of “the Queen.”

“That horse is too old for you, Mr. Ince,” said the Duke.

“I like to ride easy, your Royal Highness,” Ince answered meekly.

“Right,” said the Duke, “but you deserve a better mount.”

A few days later the Duke sent Ince a fiery young horse, far too spirited for the old overseer to manage. The next time the Duke met Ince he was riding his shambling nag. The Duke stopped and asked where the new horse was. Ince confessed that it was more than he could manage, and begged leave to send it back to the Duke’s stable.

“No, no, Overseer, if you can’t ride him, put him in your pocket,” said the Duke handsomely. Ince took the hint and sold the horse for a good price.

Gunner Wilkinson talked of Nelson’s visit and the banquet given him in St. George’s Hall, the magnificent rock chamber at the end of the galleries, as if it had all happened last year, and first, last, and always he talked of the great siege.

A red flash, a puff of white smoke, a dull roar told that a yacht had just entered the harbor. As I looked through the narrow loophole, watching the sailors furl the sails, I glanced across the bay to the cork woods of Algeciras, and the lower foothills of the Sierras—and again I remembered the past. This is the thirteenth of April, 1783, the great day of the “Great Siege,” that began on a September morning three years before, when Mrs. Skinner touched off the first gun of the defence to General Eliott’s signal, “Britons strike home.” This day, the allies believe, will see the obstinate garrison that has held out so long, against scurvy and starvation within, as well as the enemy’s guns without, come to terms. The old General who has lived for more than a week on four ounces of rice per diem, just to prove how little a man need eat to live and fight, will hoist the white flag before evening gunfire. Down there in the bay lies the combined fleet of France and Spain, forty-seven “sail of the line”—real line of battleships, with white figureheads and wings and pleasant windowed balconies astern, and nice brass cannon shining through long rows of portholes. Alongside these three deckers and frigates are the strangest craft Gibraltar Bay has ever seen—ten famous unsubmergible, incombustible, floating batteries; uncouth monsters with bulging sides padded with wet sand, and hanging roofs covered with damp hides. Those Algeciras hills are crowded with spectators, come from all over Spain, to see the fall of Gibraltar. For eight hours the besiegers’ five hundred guns roared and spat fire and shells, and the garrison’s ninety and six answered with Boyd’s deadly hot shot. The bay was a gallant sight at sunrise—who would have seen it at evening gunfire? Not the people who had come to watch the great victory; they melted away from the hills like summer snow, for the victory was to the “old dog!” The indestructible floating batteries were destroyed, the beautiful ships sunk or in flames, their sides blackened, their sails tattered. That day’s fight cost the garrison something less than two hundred men, and the allies more than two thousand.

“Old Eliott stood there on the King’s Bastion during the fight,” the Gunner said. I wondered if he had shouted the slogun of his people in the debatable land. The Gunner asked what that might be. I gave him the old border cry of the Black Eliotts:

“My name is little Jock Eliott, and wha’ daur meddle wi’ me?”

Wilkinson, chuckling grimly, repeated it, surmised that “per’aps ’ee did,” and gave this parting anecdote:

When, after peace was declared, the French commander, Duc de Crillon, visited Gibraltar, Eliott showed him Ince’s galleries. De Crillon called the attention of his suite with these words:

“Notice, gentlemen, that these works are worthy of the Romans.”

(Shade of Scipio Africanus! didst hear and wert appeased?)

While in the Gunner’s company we heard much rolling of drums and sounding of “tuckets”; some military business was going on not far away. It was stirring to the pulses, and made us feel martial and bloodthirsty. We parted with the Gunner at evening gunfire; when we shook hands my bones crunched in his mighty grip, but I believe I did not flinch. We marched back to the hotel, keeping step to the march a military band was playing in the Alameda. That night, just as the floor of my room at the Cecil began to heave with the slow even roll of the Kaiser, a strain of sleepy lullaby music melted into my dream. I roused and looked at the watch. It was ten o’clock; the bugler at the barracks was playing “taps” on a silver bugle. It was all true! We were here, sleeping in the “Key to the Mediterranean!”