ook forward to them with the greatest
pleasure. Stisted [85] is not yet out: his regiment is at Belgaum [86],
but I shall do my best to see him as soon as possible. Edward [87] is
still in Ceylon and the war [88] has ceased there. I keep this letter
open for ten or twelve days longer, as that time will decide my fate.
A furious affair has broken out in Mooltan and the Punjaub and I have
applied to the General commanding to go up with him on his personal
staff. A few days more will decide the business--and I am not a little
anxious about it, for though still suffering a little from my old
complaint--ophthalmia--yet these opportunities are too far between to be
lost."

Unfortunately for Burton, his official respecting his investigations at
Karachi in 1845 was produced against him [89], and he was passed over
[90] in favour of a man who knew but one language besides English. His
theory that the most strenuous exertions lead to the most conspicuous
successes now thoroughly broke down, and the scarlet and gold of his
life, which had already become dulled, gave place to the "blackness of
darkness." It was in the midst of this gloom and dejection that he wrote
the postscript which he had promised to his cousin Sarah. The date
is 25th November, 1848. He says, "I am not going up to the siege of
Mooltan, as the General with whom I had expected to be sent is recalled.
Pray be kind enough to send on the enclosed to my father. I was afraid
to direct it to him in Italy as it contains papers of some importance.
You are welcome to the perusal, if you think it worth the trouble. I
have also put in a short note for Aunt Georgiana. Kindly give my
best love to your sister, and believe me, my dear cousin, your most
affectionate R. Burton."

Chagrin and anger, combined with his old trouble, ophthalmia, had by
this time sapped Burton's strength, a serious illness followed, and the
world lost all interest for him.

18. Allahdad.

He returned to Bombay a complete wreck, with shrunken, tottering frame,
sunken eyes, and a voice that had lost its sonority. "It is written,"
said his friends, "that your days are numbered, take our advice and go
home to die." They carried him to his ship, "The Elisa," and as there
seemed little hope of his reaching England, he at once wrote a farewell
letter to his mother. With him as servant, however, he had brought
away a morose but attentive and good-hearted native named Allahdad, and
thanks in part t