Ismail did not live to see the orange gardens blossom round his new house, for in 1867 he was accused of participation in the romantic rebellion of the Bey’s brother, Sidi Adel, was dragged from the gilded apartments of Kasr-es-Said to the executioner’s chamber in the Bardo, and there strangled with a silken cord. Muhamed es Sadek confiscated the property of his dead minister, and removed his _penates_ from the gloomy old _seraglio_ of his ancestors to the more cheerful palace on the other side of the ditch. Kasr-es-Said has proved almost as unfortunate for the prince as it did for his servant. The very room in which Sy Ismail Sunni struggled with his captors, has now witnessed the extinction of even the remaining shadow of Tunisian independence. It was in Kasr-es-Said that the last “possesseur du royaume de Tunis” became a vassal of France. In April 1881, both the Bey and his Prime Minister were living in the Kasr-es-Said Palace, the only picturesque feature of which is the great garden of roses, jessamine, and orange-trees, in the midst of which it stands. The wide expanse of stucco façade is almost blinding in the sunlight, as one approaches the entrance by an avenue of palm and pepper trees, and above the roof floats the green, red, and orange-coloured silk banner, bearing as a device the golden two-bladed sword of the Hassanite dynasty. It was thus that I saw Kasr-es-Said on the 23d April 1881. Muhamed es Sadek was anxious that people in England should be acquainted with his troubles, and he asked me to come to the palace early on the morning in question. The only sign of the impending crisis was the entire desertion of the _bureaux_ at the Bardo, which were left in undisputed possession of General Musalli and one or two of his subordinates. Ministers and employés now crowded the ante-rooms of Kasr- es-Said, the Council of State held perpetual session in one of the drawing-rooms, and the corridors were thronged with Tunisian officers and Arabs from the interior. The department of Foreign Affairs had temporary quarters in a little chamber on the ground floor, which possessed several sofas but no table. A solemn silence was maintained throughout the building, in which the wives of both prince and premier were sharing, behind the gratings of the harem windows, the common anxiety. Cigarettes and coffee were almost forgotten. Every new-comer from the city underwent an ordeal of whispered questioning:—Is there any news from the frontier? What do the latest newspapers say? Has the English fleet come? Are the Italian troops already at Palermo? The Turkish music was playing as usual at the door when I arrived, and M. Sumaripa, the confidential agent of M. Roustan, had just left the palace, after delivering a verbal message to Mustapha. When I met the Prime Minister he was holding a letter in his hand. In order to avoid mistakes Sumaripa had given him a copy of his instructions. It was a last attempt on the part of M.