THE EAST COAST 151 



rock which I would not recount were Vasco da 

 Gama and his gallant grandees not long since 

 dead. The officer in charge of the arsenal — he 

 had some title which is too long for memory to 

 grapple with — sold various munitions of war to 

 all and sundry; a wholly execrable act on the 

 part of a glorified powder-monkey. To his ears 

 there came one day dire tidings. The Governor- 

 General was coming to weigh the powder, count 

 the cartridges, muster the cannon-balls. Ruin 

 and disgrace stared him in the face, so he blew 

 up the magazine ! Ingenious, if calamitous, for 

 the Governor-General could then do nothing 

 more than pen official regrets to Lisbon. 



The tale came vividly back to me a few months 

 ago when I leant over the rails of an East Coast 

 liner, and watched the sun sink to rest behind 

 the battlements of San Sebastian. There was 

 fire in heaven, so brilliant, so glaring, that there 

 came to me visions of the Portuguese arsenal 

 commandant creeping, like Guy Fawkes, amid 

 the powder-kegs with a flaming torch and a 

 consummated devildom. 



With that suddenness which is only known 

 where palm trees flourish and the winter is a 

 farce, the glare and glamour darkened into a 

 glow of gorgeous gold. Black shafts of night 

 came rushing across the burnished sky, but still 

 where the light of the world was dipping over 

 that mysterious mainland into which no Portu- 

 guese dare enter, a blaze of splendour shone 

 through the riot of gloom and garish day. But 

 now the light was of silver brilliancy so dazzling 

 that eyes ached at the vision. An evening wind 

 came sighing over the waters and brought a 

 myriad of gentle wavelets drifting by. Two or 

 three white-robed dhows sped homewards like 



