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A circuitous route of three miles through narrow streets, with buildings crumbling to decay and indicative of architecture of an early period, led us to the cemetery on a shady plateau near the outskirts of the city. Here the cortege halted, and the last rites were solemnized by Chaplain Chidwick of the New York, well known as the late chaplain of the ill-fated battleship Maine. Three volleys were fired over the sailor’s grave, and the services closed impressively with the sound of “taps,” “lights out.”

As the band struck up “In the good old summer-time,” ranks were broken, and the men roamed at will through the narrow, spicy-scented streets, thronged with semi-barbarians, rough-riding vassals of the Sultan costumed in turbans, sandals, and flowing robes, whose contempt for all foreigners cannot brook restraint. It was a pleasant relief to escape the fumes of this incensed city, to inhale the fresh ozone aboard the man-of-war.

On departing from Morocco, our cruise led to ports along the coast of the great Mediterranean Sea.