guttering candles. It was a hungry, thirsty, and deadbeat head-quarters' mess I had been invited to on the night of the memorable 2nd of September. While the comfort of the troops had been looked to, the Sirdar and his staff had evidently neglected themselves. Their canteen and mess were miles away on slow-travelling camels; one of the most brilliant victories of the nineteenth century was being celebrated by a supper of a few biscuits, poor water, some of my prison bread, which I shared with others around me, and Cairo cigarettes, with the sand of the desert for seats, and the canopy of heaven as the roof over our heads. Soon after reaching the "mess," I heard a voice calling, "Where's Neufeld?" and the inquirer introduced himself to me; it was Mr. Bennet Burleigh, of the Daily Telegraph. I had heard, and yet had not heard, much English spoken to me, but the flood of language he poured out when he found me still in chains came as a revelation to me; it was as picturesque as his description of the battle which I have since read. Rushing off, he was back in a few moments with some farriers with their shoeing implements to try and remove my chains; off again, he came with some engineers, and amidst a running torrent of abuse, anent cold chisels and other implements which he required and which were not forthcoming, he questioned me. Every one had a try at those chains; some one I heard use language concerning the Khaleefa when he found his thumb between the hammer and the links, but with a great deal of strong language, and equally as strong blows, the links connecting with the anklets
