In the streets invalid soldiers of every kind, in tattered _karkee_ uniforms or red serges, Guardsmen, Highlanders, Dragoons, Artillery, and Rifles, were creeping about, some propped on sticks and crutches, awaiting their transmission home; and there, too, might be seen, occasionally, stalwart Bedouins, dirty Jews, and sable negroes, howling Dervishes, and many breeds of Arabs, Italians, and Frenchmen; the Turk, with his smart scarlet fez; the Egyptian, with tarboosh and a turban twisted round it; and in some instances Moors, with embroidered jackets, white turban, crimson sash, and trousered to the knee, with yellow shoes, a scimitar and antique gun of enormous length; and though last, not least, the English Jack-tar, rollicking about and eyeing curiously the closely-veiled women. The novelty of these sights and scenes in the minds of Olive and Eveline became merged at last, especially when they saw our wounded redcoats and bluejackets, in absorption about Allan, who, dead or alive, was then in that place, Ismailia. And, in dread of the tidings that might await her, Olive already began to pray and wrestle, as it were, with anticipated despair and dread of how Allan, if in life, might receive her. Until now this idea had never occurred to her. 'Oh, my lost love--my lost love!' she whispered to herself; 'what shall I say or do to convince you that I love you, and you only? If gone--oh, my God!--no, no, _no_--but if gone, I cannot call you back to me--and I cannot go to you. In another hour we shall know all--all!' Aware, as an old Crimean campaigner, that shocking scenes might meet their eyes in the vicinity of a military hospital, Lord Aberfeldie took the three ladies of his party to the chief hotel, and then, with a heart full of the liveliest anxiety, set forth to make inquiries about Allan, to whom we shall now return. CHAPTER XVII. AT ISMAILIA. The putrid water he had drunk on many occasions, the stone-fruit on which he had been compelled to feed, the damp sand on which he had lain under the night dews--the watching, fatigue, and depression of spirits he had undergone--had served to prostrate Allan now, and even his magnificent constitution failed to resist such a combination of evils. At times he was in a burning fever; at others in cold, shivering fits, as if his limbs would go to pieces. These were succeeded by feeble listlessness and indifference to all around him, and then he seemed as if about to die. He first became quite conscious of where he was on being roused from a species of waking dose by voices near him. 'Captain,' said an Irish Fusilier, one of Sir Garnet's own, 'I want ten shillings from you.' 'For what purpose?' asked the officer, sharply. 'To bury my brother.' 'Bury your brother, d--n it! I gave you ten shillings for that purpose two days ago.' 'To bury his leg that was, your honour.' 'Well!' 'And now I want another ten shillings to bury the rest of him.'