military career was brought to an abrupt conclusion,
and his hope of doing something brilliant—
something that even Miss Colonna should be
forced to admire—was nipped in the bud. These
things were hard to bear, and demanded all the
patience that he could summon to his aid.

Their campaign thus unexpectedly ended, the
young men would gladly have gone back at once
to their little yacht, and set sail in search of
"fresh fields and pastures new;" but to that
proposition the medico would not listen. So they
lingered on in Melazzo day after day, keeping
for the most part beyond the walls, and passing
the hot and weary hours as best they might.

It was a dull time, though enlivened by the
surrender of the garrison. They saw the
Neapolitan transports steam into the bay, and
witnessed the embarkation of Bosco and his troops.

When this interlude was played out, the
Garibaldians began to look towards Messina and
speculate eagerly on what might next be done.
Then came rumours of a general evacuation
of the royalist strongholds; and by-and-by they
learned beyond doubt that the tedium of success
was not likely to be relieved by any more fighting
in the island of Sicily.

Somewhat comforted by this intelligence, and
still more comforted by a note which the Earl
received from Signor Colonna the fourth day
after the battle, the young men submitted to
the semi-imprisonment of Melazzo, and saw
Garibaldi depart with the main body of his army
somewhat less regretfully than they might otherwise
have done.

Brief as a military despatch, the Italian's note
ran thus:

"Caro Gervase. The victory which has just
been won terminates the war in Sicily. Dissension
and terror reign in the cabinet at Naples.
Months will probably elapse before another blow
is struck; and it is possible that even that blow
may not be needed. In the mean while give
ear to earnest counsel. Sheath thy sword, and
pursue thy journey in peace. This in confidence
from the friend of thy childhood. G. C."

It was something to receive this assurance
from a man like Colonna—a man who knew
better than even Garibaldi himself the
probabilities and prospects of the war. So the friends
made the best of their position, and amused
themselves by planning what they would do when they
received the medico's order of release.

Norway was now out of the question. By
the time they could reach Bergen the season
would be nearly past; besides which, the Earl was
forbidden to expose his wounded arm to so severe
a change of temperature. They therefore proposed
to confine their voyage to the basin of the
Mediterranean, seeing whatever was practicable,
and touching, if possible, at Malta, Alexandria,
Smyrna, Athens, Naples, Cadiz, and Lisbon, by
the way. To this list, for reasons known only
to himself, Saxon added the name of Sidon.

At length Lord Castletowers was pronounced
fit for removal, though not yet well enough to
dispense with medical care. So Saxon cut the
knot of that difficulty by engaging the services
of a young Sicilian surgeon; and, thus attended,
they once more went on board the Albula, and
weighed anchor.

CHAPTER LXVIII. LIFE IN THE EAST.

A LITTLE yacht rides at anchor in the harbour
of Alexandria, and two young Franks, one
of whom carries his right arm in a sling, are
wandering to and fro, drinking deeply of that
cup of enchantment—a first day in the East.

These two young Franks roam hither and
thither in a state of semi-beatitude, conscious
neither of hunger, nor thirst, nor fatigue, nor
hardly of the heat, which, though it is but nine
o'clock in the morning, is already tremendous.

First of all, having but just stepped ashore,
they plunge into the Arab quarter of the town,
passing through a labyrinth of foul lanes
fenced in on either side by blank, windowless
dwellings, that look as if they had all turned
their backs to the street; and coming
presently to thoroughfares of a better class, where
the tall houses seem almost toppling together,
and the latticed balconies all but touch;
and the sky is narrowed to a mere ribbon
of vivid ultra-marine high overhead. Here are
beggars at every corner, calling loudly upon
Allah and the passer-by, donkey-boys, vagrant
dogs, now and then a mounted Arab riding like
mad, and scattering the foot passengers before
him right and left. Here, too, are shops with open
fronts and shadowy backgrounds; some gorgeous
with silks and shawls; some rich with carpets;
some fragrant with precious gums and spices;
some glittering with sabres and daggers of
Damascus. In each shop, sitting cross-legged on
floor or counter, presides the turbaned salesman,
smoking his silver-lidded pipe, and indifferent
alike to custom and fate. Now comes a Moorish
arch of delicate creamy stone, revealing glimpses
of a shady court-yard set round with latticed
windows, and enclosing a palm-tree and a
fountain. One slender, quivering shaft of
sunshine falls direct on the green leaves and
sparkling water-drops, and on an earthen water-jar
standing by—just such a jar as Morgiana
may have filled up with boiling oil in the days of
the good Caliph Haroun al Raschid. And now
comes a string of splay-footed camels, noiseless
and dogged-looking, laden with bundles of
brushwood as wide as the street, and led by
shiny Nubian slaves, with white loin-cloths and
turbans. Avoiding this procession, our two
Franks plunge into a dark arcade of shops,
lighted from above. This is a bazaar. Here
are alleys where they sell nothing but slippers;
alleys of jewels; alleys of furs, of tobacco, of
silks, of sweetmeats and drugs, of
books, of glass and ivory wares, of harness, of
sponges, and even of printed Manchester goods,
Sheffield cutlery, and French ribbons. Here
crowds a motley throng of Europeans and
Asiatics; impatient Arabs, with the camel's-hair
thread bound upon their brows; stately Moslems,
turbaned and slippered; Greeks, in crimson
jackets and dingy white kilts; dervishes,
in high felt caps; magnificent dragomen, in
huge muslin trousers; Armenians, Copts,