occasional gleam of tiger-like ferocity in his
dark eyes, and a tone—sometimes audible—
in his usually softened voice, which told
plainly of hypocrisy and cruelty, and
suggested an admixture of Lambro with Cormac
Doil. Superficially, his appearance was not
unpleasing: short, inclining to corpulence,
with regular features and clear brown complexion;
with manners of great suavity and
polish, he did the honours of his tent with
ready hospitality and courtly ease. He was
probably forty-five years old, and the hair
that peeped from beneath his crimson fez
was streaked with silver grey. His countenance
was placid—almost sleepy—in its habitual
expression; but, it brightened at some
scraps of news that I brought from the then
great centre of interest,—the camp before
Sebastopol. My companion told me that
Sifley Bey always paid great attention to the
English, and that it was the dream of
his life to obtain an English military
decoration.  In this fancy he had been
encouraged by some who either did not
know, or did not care to tell him, that it
could never be realised. A few months
afier the commencement of my acquaintance
with him, his hopes were quite unwittingly
raised to the highest pitch by the Duke of
Newcastle, who chanced to call at his tent
when riding round the lines. I knew the
Bey better by that time, and had discovered
that the faults of his character—visible as they
were and brought out by circumstances as
they had been—had not effaced much that was
worthy of regard. His desire for the decoration,
mentioned to me at first as an almost
childish passion, sprang from very sufficient
reasons he had, to seek for friends external
to the divan at Constantinople. His past
history revealed those reasons clearly; and,
partly on his own authority—partly as
gathered from other sources—I will compress
into a paragraph enough of it to reveal them
to the reader.

Sifley Bey was a Druse, born near Nablous,
in Syria, at an old castle named El Rashaya
(or the Feathers), of which his father's
brother was owner, as well as seignorial lord
of the village clustered round its walls. His
father died in his infancy; but, his uncle took
care of the boy's education, to the extent of
making him a good horseman and expert in
the use of arms. He did such credit to this
instruction, that, in his fifteenth year, he
graduated as a shedder of human blood;
and, for some time afterwards, following the
then fashion of cadets in Syria, was
distinguished,  at the head of a band of men from
his native village, as a very daring and
successful  robber. He laughed at the Pasha of
Damascus, defeated several attempts to
capture him, and was, in fact, the terror of the
country. The even tenour of his life was
interrupted by Ibrahim Pasha's invasion of
Syria; and, foreseeing in its success a reign
of law and order totally different from the
feeble sway of the Sultan, Sifley exerted himself
vigorously in favour of the existing
régime, augmented his band, and carried on a
guerilla warfare with great activity. He
proved so formidable an adversary that Ibrahim
led forces against him in person; and,
after many failures, succeeded in entrapping
him in a pass or valley, from which every
outlet was closed by a greatly superior force.
The bandits were apparently doomed to
certain destruction, either by starvation where
they were, or by the tender mercies of the
conqueror. But, their youthful leader preserved
them. Alone, in the dead of night,
he penetrated unobserved to the centre of
the Egyptian camp, and, suddenly entering
the tent of the Pasha, yielded up his sword,
and demanded protection for himself and
his followers. Ibrahim, charmed by a submission
as brave as his resistance, returned
the sword, made certain conditions for his
good behaviour, and dismissed him and his
men to their homes. They did not long
remain in tranquillity; as soon as the
assistance of England placed the Sultan's
star once more in the ascendant, Sifley again
took up arms in its defence, and claimed,
when peace was restored, the honours and
rewards due to so loyal and faithful a subject.
He was met by perfidy equal to his own, and
by address still greater. His old enemy, the
Pasha of Damascus—who thought him too
dangerous to be at large—treated him as if
he were a pillar of the state, lured him into
his power by flattering words and fair promises,
induced him to visit him, and as soon
as he entered the city, put him in irons and
sent him to Constantinople. He remained
there for nearly two years, loaded with
chains and immured in a dungeon: at
length, by bribery or some similar process,
he obtained permission to live in a Turkish
town under surveillance. Widdin was the
place first selected for this purpose; and he
was afterwards moved to Adrianople, and
from thence to Broussa, without being
allowed the smallest voice in the matter. It
was probably suspected that he had secret
hoards in Syria, and that time would disclose
them for the benefit of influential people.
The suspicion was true enough, but the
expectation was never fulfilled. Perhaps the
prisoner might think it not certain that he
should receive his liberty after paying for it,
and the influential people might doubt his
paying after he was free. The Russian war
brought about a solution of the difficulty.
At its outbreak, Sifley Bey had been twelve
years a prisoner and an exile; he offered,
in exchange for his liberty and for the command
of the men, to raise a body of four
hundred Bashi-Bazouks, fully equipped, and
to pay them for the first year after their
enrolment. The offer was thought too good to
be refused, especially at a time when it might
come to the ears of officious Giaours. It was
thus that I found Sifley Bey in the camp at