he was, he was too real and true and noble for
the miserable, skulking barricade fighting,
and bombardment of blind alleys, and beleaguering
of back parlours, and slaughtering
in cellars.

Who is this comes riding on a white horse,
all covered with crimson and golden trappings !
Who comes riding so proudly and defiantly,
has so firm a seat in the saddle, makes
his charger curvet and prance so gracefully!
He wears an embroidered caftan, his belt is
full of silver-mounted pistols and arabesqued
daggers; a jewelled yataghan is slung to his
wrist, his head is swathed in a spangled turban,
a muslin veil floats from it; glossy is his
coal-black beard; he is followed by his
cavasses and his pipe-bearer.  Who is this
Beyzadé, this son of an effendi, this scourge
of the giaour ? This is Nessim Bey, decorated
with the order of the Medjidié, by
virtue of an imperial firman, colonel of the
staff of the army of Anatolia.  He may be
a pacha soon and squeeze the rayahs;
he receives tourists from Frangistan; and
gives them coffee and chibouks.  He is brave
and merciless.  No grass grows where his
horse's feet have trodden.  His jack-boots
are terrible.  None can look on his face, it
is so radiant.  No odalisques are so beautiful
as his odalisques.  He will be seraskier and
marry the padisha's daughter.  He will
make terrible work of the Moscovs when
he meets them, and there will be wailing
at Nishni-Novgorod when he stands face to
face with General Mouravieff.  For this is
Nessim Bey.

Yes, but this is also our old acquaintance,
Captain Dugald Dalgetty, otherwise
Washington Lafayette Bowie, of New
York city, in the United States of
America.  The ardent Bowie has wearied of
the puny exercitations of frontier warfare.
He is tired of scalping Indians and making
topographical surveys; he wants a wider
field for his pugnacious predilections, and
this is why his Highness the Sultan has
one more colonel, and the Muscovites one
more deadly foe.  I should advise the Muchir
Omar Pacha, however, to use, in the next
war, a little more celerity in his movements,
and come to blows with the enemy rather
more frequently, than he was able to do lately;
for Nessim Bey must have fire to eat, and
heads to knock off.  Otherwise, there may
be found in the Russian hosts some day a
Lieutenant-General Bowiekoff; who will never
be tired of slaying Turks; whose Christian
names are Washington and Lafayette, and
who also hails from New York city, United
States.

Dalgetty's name is in a fair way to become
legion.  Do you see that general officer,
surrounded by a brilliant staff, bedizened
with stars and embroidery? He commands
armies; he directs campaigns; he corresponds
with princes; he takes the field against thousands.
That general officer's name is Dalgettiowski.
Fifteen months since he skulked
about the purlieus of Soho, a wretched,
proscribed, almost starving refugee.  He
dined for fourpence at a coffee-shop.  He
seldom washed.  He vainly strove to eke
out a livelihood by teaching mathematics.
But, the good time has come, hard knocks
are rife, and Dalgetty is triumphant.

Captain Sparkles, late of the Plungers,
who lost his commission through that ugly
chicken-hazard business with young Chawkey:
Lieutenant Pluckbare, who was obliged
to sell out to pay his debts; have
found asylums and commissions in the
Dromedary Contingent.  Ravelin, who has
come back from California with a few thousands,
but is still fond of fighting, is trying
hard for an appointment in the Osmanli
Mounted Ostriches; and Captain Strong is
thinking of giving up the Toboso's hams
and sherry business, and accepting the post
of quarter-master in the Anglo-Kamschatkan
Legion

What a pity that, just as all these honest
fighting men have drawn their swords to carve
their way to a little good fortune, there should
be a tolerable certainty of PEACE!  The world
is their oyster, which they with sword will
open; and, lo! the crafty diplomatists come
and take away the mollusc (for the good of
the entire world, though), and leave the noble
race of Dalgetty but the shells!

AN ORDEAL.
IN SIX CHAPTERS.  CHAPTER THE FIRST.

THE fire burnt cheerily, throwing a ruddy
light over the walls of the little room, with
its one or two prints in simple frames, its
hanging bookshelf, and its ebony clock.  The
round-table was drawn close to the fire, and
on it the tea-things glistened, and the lamp
stood ready for lighting.  Agnes Ross sat
with her feet on the fender, knitting by firelight,
expecting, not waiting— he was always
too punctual for that— to hear her brother's
step outside, and the familiar click of his key
in the street-door, as he let himself in.  It
was a London lodging, in one of those quiet
streets that appear like the very strongholds
of dreariness and discomfort; but, for all that,
it was a home, and looked like a home, too,
to the orphaned brother and sister.

That was his step! Agnes rose quickly,
set on the kettle, and lit the lamp.  Then, with
an air of careful pride, she took from the mantleshelf
a glass jar in which was a bouquet of
glowing, beautiful, green-house flowers, rich
with aromatic fragrance.  It seemed strange
on the table where she placed it, surrounded
by the homely ware of the tea-service.  The
bunch of winter-violets, which she removed to
make room for the others, had been far more
appropriate.  But Agnes' face shone as she
looked on her floral treasures, and then
watched for her brother's expression as he
saw them.

He did see them, as he came into the room.