del, the
city from the St. Lawrence had an appearance glowing and fantastic.

From Quebec the three fine ships steaming in line up the blue waters of
the river were a sight dramatic and beautiful, though from the heights
and against the wall of cliffs on the Levis side, a mile across stream,
the cruisers were strangely dwarfed, and even _Renown_ appeared a small
but desirable toy.

In keeping with the general atmosphere of the town and toy-like ships,
Quebec herself put a touch of the fantastic into the charm of her
greeting.

As the cruisers dressed ship, and joined with the guns of the Citadel
in the salute, there soared from the city itself scores of maroons.
From the flash and smoke of their bursts there fluttered down many
coloured things. Caught by the wind, these things opened out into
parachutes, from which were suspended large silk flags. Soon the sky
was flecked with the bright, tricoloured bubbles of parachutes, bearing
Jacks and Navy Ensigns, Tricolours and Royal Standards down the wind.

The official landing at King's Wharf was full of characteristic colour
also. It was in a wide, open space right under the grey rock upon
which the Citadel is reared. In this square, tapestried with flags,
and in a little canvas pavilion of bright red and white, the Prince met
the leading sons of Quebec, the French-Canadian and the
English-Canadian; the Bishop of the English cathedral in gaiters and
apron, the Bishops of the Catholics in corded hats, scarlet gloves and
long cassocks. Sailors and soldiers, women in bright and smart gowns
gave the reception a glow and vivacity that had a quality true to
Quebec.

From this short ceremony the Prince drove through the quaint streets to
the Citadel. In the lower town under the rock his way led through a
quarter that might well stage a Stanley Weyman romance. It is a
quarter where, between high-shouldered, straight-faced houses, run the
narrowest of streets, some of them, like Sous le Cap, so cramped that
it is merely practical to use windows as the supports for
clothes-lines, and to hang the alleys with banners of drying washing.

In these cramped streets named with the names of saints, are sudden
little squares, streets that are mere staircases up to the cliff-top,
and others that deserve the name of one of them, The Mountain. In
these narrow canyons, through which the single-decked electric trams
thunder like mammoths who have lost their way, are most of the
comm