Tunisians, Maltese, English, Italians! Was there ever such a motley crowd as that collected in the principal street of Valletta? Bare-kneed Highlanders, in their picturesque tartans, elbowed wide-trousered Mahomedans from Tunis and Fez; swarthy, black-eyed Italians from Naples jostled against red-coated Tommy Atkins as he swaggered along, and the ascetic face of a priest, looking severely from under his long shovel hat, was seen close to the piquant countenance of a Maltese damsel, blushing under her ugly, black silk hood as she tripped gaily onward attended by her watchful duenna. Here and there parties of tourists came laughing and joking along the crowded pavement. English ladies, lithe and bright-looking in their neat-fitting yachting costumes, accompanied by smart young gentlemen, who had left their clubs and offices for a breath of the invigorating Mediterranean air, and crowds of ragged beggars were shrieking for money, and never satisfied with what they got. Such a mass of colour, such a diversity of costumes, such a confusion of tongues, and over all the clear blue sky, with the hot sun blazing down on the tall white houses and steep narrow streets. The "Neptune" cast anchor about two o'clock in the afternoon and, according to the notice posted at the top of the saloon stairs, would not leave till nine o'clock at night, so all the passengers--the men in flannels and straw hats and the ladies in white dresses with sunshades--went on shore to enjoy themselves. The great ship steamed majestically into the still, blue waters of the Grand Harbour, and cast anchor under the massive walls which rose in towering heights from the precipitous rocks, and still bore on their weather-beaten fronts, which had withstood so many rude assaults, the proud crests of the famous Order of St. John of Jerusalem. On each side stood the cities of Valletta and The Borgo with their square, flat-roofed houses showing white and clear as they arose in serrated masses against the vivid, blue sky, and all round the big steamer innumerable boats, with canopies erected in the stern to keep off the sun, were darting about impelled by screaming, vociferating boatmen who had more conversation than clothes. Down the side of the ship the passengers went in a never-ending stream, and as boat after boat was filled with a laughing crowd and sheered off, there was soon quite a procession to the shore. It appeared as if the ship would be quite empty, save for the crew; but one, at least of the passengers, remained behind. This was Lionel Ventin, who preferred a lazy day on board with a pipe and novel to the discomfort of exploring the steep streets and picturesque buildings of Valletta. "I'm sick of Malta," he said, in reply to Ronald's persuasions; "I know every hole and corner of that confounded Valletta, and agree with Byron about it; besides," with a significant glance, "I might meet my wife."