Cairo, and, among other attentions, he was admitted to view his host's bed-chamber. Its severe simplicity was relieved by but one mural decoration—a picture. It was a portrait of the single Mameluke who had escaped him. The sole memento of that ancient crime, now more than thirty years behind him, which Mohammed Ali cared to cherish, was one which would serve to remind him, for precaution's sake, of the features of his one surviving enemy.
But the sports are over. The turbaned spectators are trooping down the hill to the town, and Tommy Atkins is betaking himself to barracks after a Christmas Day spent much better, thanks to the kindly forethought of his officers, than in fortifying himself with strong liquors against the gentle melancholy naturally engendered by a Christmas celebrated in exile. Tea is awaiting us in the hospitable messroom of the Citadel, and from its windows, which command an unrivalled view of this pearl of Eastern cities, we can
