The Armory Of The Knights.

The Armory Of The Knights.

Repeated visits must be made to this magnificent structure, if one would carry away from it any clear idea of its pictorial and plastic, as well as its architectural, embellishment. One walks astonished and bewildered from one chapel to another, each decorated differently according to the insignia of that section of the Order to which the shrine especially belonged, but all most lavishly adorned with beautiful mosaic pavements, marble columns, statues, paintings, and resplendent lamps. Moreover, all the doorways, pedestals, pilasters, and even great expanses of wall surface are wonderfully ornamented with finely sculptured scrolls, wreaths, flowers, cherubs, coats-of arms, swords, trumpets, suits of armor, and all else that can by any possibility reveal the pomp of war and pride of pedigree; while everywhere, from the exalted apex of the exterior to the dome of the sepulchral vault, we see displayed the cherished symbol of the Knights - the well-defined, eight-pointed cross. A flight of steps leads downward to the solemn crypt, where, in the place reserved for those whom the Fraternity desired to honor most in death, lie twelve of the Grand Masters. Among them are L'Isle d'Adam, who brought the Order hither, and La Valette, the hero of the siege. The latter rests beneath a grand sarcophagus of bronze, surmounted by his recumbent statue, clad in the armor of the Brotherhood which he so wisely governed and so well preserved. His was, indeed, an enviable fate. Beloved by all, renowned throughout the world, he lived to see with justifiable pride and pleasure the laying of the first stone of the city that now bears his name, and for which contributions had been made, under the impulse of a special proclamation of Pope Pius IV., by Catholics of every land.

The Residence Of The Old Spanish Knights.

The Residence Of The Old Spanish Knights.

It was at the close of an afternoon devoted to a final inspection of this noble shrine that I sailed away from Malta toward the coast of Sicily. It was the hour of sunset. Valetta lay behind me, glittering in the glory of the dying day. The atmosphere surrounding it appeared to be composed of an impalpable dust of gold and precious stones, which filled the city with ineffable splendor, and turned its parallel harbors into reservoirs of amber wine. Some fleecy cloudlets, floating over the bright domes and towers, seemed a soft shower of petals from a rose of paradise. The indented shore gleamed, as if made of fretted ivory; and in the lambent haze Malta, Gozo, and Comino looked no longer like material objects, but rather like their luminous wraiths emerging from the sea. An hour later, the mantle of the night had fallen, hiding their fading outlines in its dusky folds; but far above them, in the east, flashed the three jewels of Orion's belt, as if the astral spirits of the islands had ascended, and formed a radiant triad in the sky.

Leaving Valetta.

Leaving Valetta.

Homeward Bound.

Homeward Bound.