stlessly up and down his cage, a
vigilant-looking sentinel, we entered a yard filled with the soldiers and
retainers of the illustrious man whom we had come to visit.

We were greeted cordially by the Minister Sahib, who was surrounded by a
crowd of brothers, only three of whom I knew, viz. the two fat travellers
and the future would-be assassin.

Jung's house was a large white building, which looked as if a Chinaman
had mixed together a Birmingham factory and an Italian villa, every now
and then throwing in a strong dash of the style of his own country by way
of improvement. It is three stories high, and one wing is devoted to the
six "beautiful missises" who compose the female part of his
establishment.

The state-room was very similar in shape and appearance to that in the
palace of the Mahila Sahib, but was, if possible, still more
fantastically ornamented. A picture of her Majesty's Coronation was
supported on the one side by a lady's bonnet, on the other by a carpet-
bag, while a lady's riding-habit, an officer's red jacket, and various
other articles of attire were hung round the walls upon pegs; here and
there, perhaps partly hidden by the folds of a lady's dress, was to be
seen the portrait of some sedate old Nepaulese noble.

Jung called our attention to one of these; it was the portrait of a
strikingly handsome man, whose keen eye and lofty brow seemed almost to
entitle him to the position he held between the Duke of Wellington and
the Queen. "See," said Jung, enthusiastically, "here is the Queen of
England; and she has not got a more loyal subject than I am." Then
turning to the picture of the man with the keen eyes and high forehead,
he remarked, "That is my poor uncle Mahtiber Singh, whom I shot; it is
very like him." After which he launched into a discussion upon the
comparative merits of the Duke of Wellington and Napoleon, and, skipping
two cocked hats and a bonnet, went on to some Purdy's rifles, of which he
spoke in glowing terms and with all the enthusiasm of a true sportsman.

My friend Colonel Dhere Shum Shere now came up, whistling the Sturm
Marsch, and challenged me to a game of billiards: he was in his manner
more thoroughly English than any native I ever knew, and both in
appearance and disposition looked as if he was an Anglo-Saxon who had
been dyed by mistake. When in Europe he used to dress like an
Englishman, and in company with his brother, the Minister Sahib, in
similar attire,