The assaults of the infidel had for so long a time been intermitted, that the simple hardy¹ islanders had almost come to believe that they would always be left in peace to cultivate their tiny fields, to worship God after their own sweet manner, and to rest quietly in their little square stone dwellings², secure from the attacks of the swarthy, merciless monsters that, not content with the possession of their own sunny lands, had so often swarmed³ across the bright blue stretches of sea separating the Maltese Islands from Africa.

 

Over the main thoroughfare of Rabato, the principal town of the tiny island that hung like a jewel in the ear of Malta the Beautiful, the great square citadel⁴ of the knights⁶ kept grim watch and ward⁷. It rose sheer from the street for one hundred feet of height, a mass of quarried⁸ stone cemented into a solidity scarcely less than that of the original rock from whence its ashlar had been hewn with such heavy toil⁹, a mountainous fortress¹⁰, to all outward seeming impregnable. Upon its highest plateau towered the mighty¹¹ cathedral, fair to view without in its stately apparel of pure white stone, and all glorious within by308 reason of the numberless gifts showered upon it by the loving hands of those who desired thus to show their gratitude¹² to God.

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