The Maiden’s Tower is now the plague-hospital of the Turks: and his heart must be atrophised indeed who can look around on the bright and beautiful scene amid which it stands, and not feel how much the bitter pang of the plague-smitten must be enhanced by the contrast of all around them with their own probable fate—for, alas! the long gaze of the sickening victim is too frequently his last! The dying wretch should pass to his infected home by a road of gloom and shadow, where no image of gladness can mock him by its intrusive and harrowing presence—but to be swiftly borne along that blue sea, with those magnificent shores stretching away into the distance, far beyond his failing vision—to be carried to his narrow chamber, probably to die—cut off from his fellow-men—from all the glory and the majesty around him—surely no after-pang can be so keen as that which grapples at his heart during his brief voyage to the Maiden’s Tower! Rapidly darts forward the slender caïque; it shoots from the shore like a wild bird—no sound of revelry, no shout of greeting, no pealing laughter, heralds its departure—the sturdy rowers bend to their oars; the resisting waters yield before the vigorous stroke—there is no pause—no interval—the errand is contagion—the freight is death! The eyes are dim that roll languidly in their sockets: the lips are livid that quiver with agony in lieu of words: the brow is pale and clammy that is turned upwards to the cloudless sky—the hands are nerveless that are flung listlessly across the panting breast—and as men watch from afar the rapid progress of the laden boat, their own breath comes thickly, and their pulses throb; and, when they at length turn aside to pursue their way, they move onward with a slower and a less steady step—their brows are clouded—they have looked upon the plague! But the goal is gained, and the caïque has discharged its gloomy freight. All around is life, and light, and loveliness. The surface of the channel is crowded with boats, filled with busy human beings, hurrying onward in pursuit of pleasure or of gain; a thousand sounds are on the wind. The swift caïques dart like water-fowl past the Maiden’s Tower, and few within them waste a thought upon the anguish which it conceals!