“It is a curious thing that the Arabs refuse to believe in Cyril’s illness for a moment. According to them, he has been treated with dire ingratitude by the Jews, and to mark his displeasure has retired into the desert, whence he will emerge at the head of an Arab host on the occasion of some great crisis, and carry all before him. Oh that this might indeed be the case! Day by day, as I pray for it, I vow upon my knees that should he ever regain his old powers I will be no hindrance to his schemes. These few months have had more happiness crowded into them than I could ever have anticipated, and I will show that I also can be unselfish. But alas! there is no hope. One terrible day--I have told this to no one on earth but yourself--when the news of the Scythian seizure of Jerusalem arrived, I thought he would have gone out of his mind. He walked up and down the room for a long time, muttering and moving his hands as if he was addressing an assembly, then he turned suddenly to me, looking like his old self. ‘Paper, Ernestine!’ he cried. ‘They thought I was done for, did they?’ I gave him the paper, he sat down, burning with eagerness, and made a few marks upon the first sheet--a kind of plan. Then he began to dig the pen into the paper, and at last threw it down in despair. ‘It’s all gone, Ernestine, but for a moment I saw the whole thing.’ He called Paschics, and told him to write and advise the Chevalier to make the best terms he could for a Jewish Legislature sitting at Nablûs, and since then he has never once alluded, at least in my hearing, to the affairs of Palestine. It is unspeakably sad. At ordinary times he appears perfectly contented, rides with me, hunts with Banics and the Arabs, plans improvements for the place, reads aloud to us in the evenings, but when the mail comes in----! Ah, my dear sister, pray that you may never know such sorrow as I endure then. He reads of all that is going on--without him: he sees that he is forgotten where he was once supreme. He goes up to the ruined colonnade, at the summit of the palace, and spends hours there alone. Once I crept up after him; he was gazing out over the desert as Napoleon looked out upon the sea from the cliffs of St Helena. He does not know I saw him, for I dared not disturb his mournful reverie. I am only too well aware that I cannot comfort him, and he would not wish me to behold him in his desolation. I can but pray for him, and pretend to notice nothing when he returns, full of kindness, and apologises for his long absence. He has been reading his letters, he says. On the subject of politics we never open our lips to one another.--Believe me to be, my dear Nadia, your loving sister, Ernestine.” THE END. TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES. Sydney C. Grier was the pseudonym of Hilda Caroline Gregg. This book is part of the author’s “Balkan Series.” The full series, in order, being: