CANEA BAY 135 



and the like, busy at their work or smoking nar- 

 ghilehs. Cloths stretched from house to house 

 keep out the sun. Mules rattle through the crowd ; 

 curs yelp between your legs ; negroes are as hideous 

 and bright clothed as usual ; grave Turks with long 

 chibouques continue to march solemnly without 

 breaking them ; a little Arab in one dirty rag 

 pokes fun at two splendid little Turks with brilliant 

 f ezzes ; wiry mountaineers in dirty, full, white 

 kilts, shouldering long guns and one hand on their 

 pistols, stalk untamed past a dozen Turkish soldiers, 

 who look sheepish and brutal in worn cloth jacket 

 and cotton trousers. A headless, wingless lion 

 of St. Mark still stands upon a gate, and has left 

 the mark of his strong clutch. Of ancient times 

 when Crete was Crete, not a trace remains ; save 

 perhaps in the full, well-cut nostril and firm tread 

 of that mountaineer, and I suspect that even his 

 sires were Albanians, mere outer barbarians. 



'May 11. 

 ' I spent the day at the little station where the 

 cable was landed, which has apparently been first 

 a Venetian monastery and then a Turkish mosque. 

 At any rate the big dome is very cool, and the little 

 ones hold [our electric] batteries capitally. A 

 handsome young Bashibazouk guards it, and a still 

 handsomer mountaineer is the servant ; so I draw 

 them and the monastery and the hill, till I 'm black 



