“Oh! they made off!” And then Burton winked at me. As for the young subalterns, it would be hard to say whether their eyes or their mouths were the more open. Burton had dared and done more almost than any man living; that, however, was not enough for him. He was compelled to invent more. But his little inventions were almost childlike in their transparent simplicity. After breakfast Burton took me to see Lady Ellenborough. So many stories had been told about her and her strange life as the wife of an Arab chief, that I expected to see a grand and commanding figure living in a sort of tawdry barbarism, something like the Lady Hester Stanhope of “Eothen,” and Lamartine; an imposing personage, mystic, wonderful, half queen, half sybil—Semiramis and Meg Merrilies rolled into one, ruling by the force of the eye a horde of ignoble, ragged dependants, trembling but voracious. No two people could be more unlike. I found Lady Ellenborough—Mrs. Digby, as she now called herself—living in a European house, furnished, so far, at any rate, as the rooms in which we were received were concerned, like those of an English lady; in the desert, with the tribe, she would be altogether Arab. Her tables were covered with the miniatures, knick-knacks and ornaments indigenous to Mayfair—quite out of tune with Damascus. The owner was like her belongings; a little old-fashioned, a relic of the palmy days of Almack’s; dressed in quite inconspicuous Paris fashion, and very nice to look upon, for though past seventy years of age, she had the remains of great good looks and the most beautiful and gracious old-world manners. She had been a fair beauty, but in deference to the Arabs’ superstitious fear of the evil eye, her hair and eyebrows were dyed black. She was very much interested in hearing about England, and asked many questions about friends whom she had known in old days. She seemed to think that the world had stood still since she left it, for she spoke of people who, if not dead, were quite old folk, as if they were still in the heyday of blooming youth. She asked after the old Lord Clanwilliam—grandfather of the present Earl. How was he? “Wonderful,” I said, “cutting us all out skating at Highclere two or three months ago.” Lady Ellenborough looked puzzled. “But why should he not?” she asked. “Well!” I answered, “you must remember that he is past seventy years of age.” “Dear me! is it possible? That handsome young man!” Her old friends remained in her mind just as she had known them—Lady Palmerston, Lady Jersey, Lady Londonderry—still reigning beauties, queens of Almack’s. It was strange to hear a delicately-nurtured English lady talking of her life in the desert with “her” tribe. She told us how, the summer before, a hostile tribe had raided them and stolen some of their mares, and how, this next summer, they must ride out to avenge the outrage and get back the lost treasures. There would be fierce fighting, she said, and