most vivid realism.

The gentleman who impersonated the patriarch Lot had a distinctly
modern air, and resembled a third-rate Anarchist in depressing
circumstances.

He was dark and swarthy, and possessed a ferocious expression, and on
the whole suggested a caricature of Emile in his worst frame of mind.

He appeared in company with his reluctant spouse, whom he dragged along
by the hand, she meanwhile obviously unwilling to leave the urban
delights of the Cities of the Plain for a pastoral and dull existence
in the desert, and as she was several sizes larger than her husband,
she seemed likely to get the best of the encounter.

She was the same fat Englishwoman who had driven Arithelli's horses in
the chariot. She was by no means young, she had applied her rouge with
a lavish hand, and her golden wig was an outrage. Her airs and graces
were those of a well-fed operatic soprano.

She advanced in jerks, she clutched at her plump anatomy and she rolled
her eyes appealingly at the gallery, which responded with delighted
yells.

In her train came a small flock of dejected-looking, but real sheep,
which were seemingly inspired by sufficient intelligence to wish to
avoid the coming catastrophe.

The city (or cities) was represented by coarsely-painted scenery, and,
owing to some defect in the perspective, appeared to be only a few feet
from the travellers, though doubtless intended to fill the distant
horizon.

The fleeing pair jerked slowly across the stage in time to subdued but
brassy music from the Hippodrome band, the sheep followed, and thunder
and lightning were heard and seen.

Flashes and bangs resounded, the doomed city rocked upon its
foundations, and the audience joined in the uproar.

Sacks full of flour descended from Heaven and burst, converting the
fleshly Mrs. Lot into the traditional pillar of salt, and the house and
the curtain were brought down together.

Restored to good-humour, the audience had forgotten the disgrace and
failure of their favourite _equestrienne_.

CHAPTER XI

"I am tired of tears and laughter
And men that laugh and weep,
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow and reap.
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers,
And everything but sleep."
SWINBURNE.

If anyone had told Arithelli that she was in for a sharp attack of
diphtheria, she would have felt surprised and not ve