og along in almost
any way with the Wali, the Druzes, the Greeks, the Jews and the other
factors in Syria, there would have been no trouble. As to whether Burton
was right or wrong in these disputes, the Government seems not to have
cared a straw or to have given a moment's thought. Here, they said, is
a man who somehow has managed to stir up a wasp's nest, and who may
embroil us with Turkey. This condition of affairs must cease. Presently
came the crash. On August 16th just as Burton and Tyrwhitt Drake were
setting out for a ride at B'ludan, a messenger appeared and handed
Burton a note. He was superseded. The blow was a terrible one, and for
a moment he was completely unmanned. He hastened to Damascus in the
forlorn hope that there was a mistake. But it was quite true, the
consulship had been given to another.

To his wife he sent the message, "I am superseded. Pay, pack, and follow
at convenience." Then he started for Beirut, where she joined him.
"After all my service," wrote Burton in his journal, "ignominiously
dismissed at fifty years of age." One cry only kept springing from Mrs.
Burton's lips, "Oh, Rashid Pasha! Oh, Rashid Pasha!"

At Damascus Burton had certainly proved himself a man of incorruptible
integrity. Even his enemies acknowledged his probity. But this availed
nothing. Only two years had elapsed since he had landed in Syria,
flushed with high premonitions; now he retired a broken man, shipwrecked
in hope and fortune. When he looked back on his beloved Damascus--"O,
Damascus, pearl of the East"--it was with the emotion evinced by the
last of the Moors bidding adieu to Granada, and it only added to his
exasperation when he imagined the exultation of the hated Jews, and the
sardonic grin on the sly, puffy, sleek face of Rashid Pasha.

Just before Mrs. Burton left B'ludan an incident occurred which brings
her character into high relief. A dying Arab boy was brought to her to
be treated for rheumatic fever. She says, "I saw that death was near....
'Would you like to see Allah?' I said, taking hold of his cold hand....
I parted his thick, matted hair, and kneeling, I baptised him from the
flask of water I always carried at my side. 'What is that?' asked his
grandmother after a minute's silence. 'It is a blessing,' I answered,
'and may do him good!'" [244] The scene has certain points in common
with that enacted many years after in Burton's death chamber. Having
finished all her "sad preparations at B'lud