Mr.  C is,  I  believe,  the  only  American  resident

of  Malta.  His  villa  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful
homes  on  the  island.  Seven  broad  terraces  of  olive,
orange,  and  lemon  trees  ascend  from  the  water's

[204]


IMPRESSIONS  OF  MALTA

edge  to  a  spacious  pergola,  several  hundred  feet  in
length,  overgrown  with  roses  and  trumpet-vine,  and
masses  of  gorgeous  purple  bougainvillea.  The  house
itself  savors  of  the  Spanish — low  and  rambling —
with  salon  after  salon  filled  with  souvenirs  of  the
days  of  the  Knights,  with  silver  of  rare  workman-
ship, with  portraits  of  Grand  Masters  in  flowing
robes  with  crosses  of  St.  John  upon  their  breasts.
Among  pictures  by  Francia  and  Robusti,  by  Cara-
vaggio  and  Preti,  examples  of  Cropsey,  Van  Elten,
and  Bierstadt  strike  a  strange  note.
In  the  well-chosen  library  I  refreshed  my  memory
on  the  history  of  Malta,  and  as  I  looked  from  the
window  could  read  with  new  understanding  of  the
heart-sinkings  of  I'lsle  Adam  and  his  brother
knights  on  coming  from  the  gardens  of  Rhodes  to
this  desert  island  spot.  Prescott's  wonderful  ac-
count of  the  great  Siege  took  on  a  fresh  interest
when  I  could  place  St.  Elmo,  the  old  city,  and  the
harbors  where  the  swimmers  fought  in  the  water
with  their  knives  between  their  teeth.  Even  in  so
sober  a  historian  the  story  reads  like  a  recital  of
the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table  or  the  Paladins  of
Charlemagne.  The  courage  of  Jean  de  la  Valette,  his

[205]


BY  ITALIAN  SEAS

determination  in  the  face  of  all  obstacles,  his  diplo-
macy and  wisdom,  fill  the  mind  with  admiration.
