The Fleet has been treated to rather a hot reception, and finds it advisable to lie a little further down the entrance to the Straits, which it accordingly does. The mouth of the Straits looks glorious: the intense blue of the sea, with the warships and transports with their motley collection of lighters, picket boats, etc., all stand out strongly against the steely blue of the sky. Further off, the lovely Isle of Imbros shimmers like a perfect gem set in a sapphire sea. One can just make out the lovely violet tints of her glorious vales, tempered by the pearly grey mists that lightly swathe her mountain crests, as she stands out sharp against the sky. A beautiful sight and not easily forgotten. Looking landward, the trees are all bursting into leaf, the country is wrapped about in a cloak of flowers and flowering grasses, with Achi Baba as a grim and rugged sentry, its sides sloping away to the sea on either hand. Truly a grim and forbidding sentinel, but one which most certainly has to be passed if we are to do any good at all. To-day an enterprising Greek landed in a small sailing vessel with a cargo of oranges, chocolate, and cigarettes, and in a very short time was quite sold out. We shall be having a Pierrot troupe on the beach next. At night as the moon rises to the full the picture is perfect. The coast of Asia—that land of mystery and romance, with the plains of Troy in the background, immortalized for ever by the sweet singers of ancient Greece. One can almost picture those god-like heroes of the past halting in those titanic fights which their shades perhaps wage nightly in the old battlefields of Troy, halting to gaze in wonder and amazement on the strange spectacle unfolded before them—modern war, that is, and all its attendant horrors. Hector, Achilles, and Agamemnon in their golden harness—their old enmities forgotten—must surely gaze in astonishment on the warlike deeds and methods of another age than theirs. The soft, shimmering sea merges into liquid silver where in the dim distance the little wavelets lap around the silent sleeping isles. There is Tenedos, standing like a sugarloaf in a silver bowl, silent as the night itself, and filled with mystery. Further off Imbros, that queen of the isles, sleeps like a goddess wrapt about in a garment of violet and silver, all unheeding apparently of war’s alarms—surely on such a night as this the mythology of the ancients becomes a living thing, and it does not tax the intellect much to imagine Diana, queen and huntress, surrounded by her attendant maidens, pursuing the quarry through the violet vales of the isles. Again, one can almost hear the splashing of Leander as he swims the Hellespont to keep his tryst with the lovely Hero.