Burton, who had long known that the tale was in circulation but had never before heard anyone relate it as fact, here interrupted with, “Excuse me, but what was the name of that traveller?”

“Captain Burton,” replied the don, “now Sir Richard Burton.”

“I am Burton,” followed Sir Richard, “and I remember distinctly every incident of that journey, but I can assure you I do not remember shooting anybody.”

At that, the don jumped up, thanked him for giving the story denial, and expressed his happiness at being able to make the great traveller’s acquaintance.[FN#614]

On March 26th (1890) a week after his return to Trieste, Burton wrote to Mr. A. G. Ellis:  “It is very kind and friendly of you to write about The Scented Garden MSS.  I really rejoice to hear that you and Mr. Bendall have escaped alive from those ground floor abominations stinking of half rotten leather.  I know the two Paris MSS. [of The Scented Garden] (one with its blundering name):  they are the merest abridgments, both compressing Chapter 21 of 500 pages (Arabic) into a few lines.  I must now write to Gotha and Copenhagen in order to find out if the copies there be in full.  Can you tell me what number of pages they contain?  Salam to Mr. Bendall, and best wishes to you both.  You will see me in England some time after March 19th 1891.”

At no work that he had ever written did Sir Richard labour so sedulously as at The Scented Garden.  Although in feeble health and sadly emaciated, he rose daily at half-past five, and slaved at it almost incessantly till dusk, begrudging himself the hour or two required for meals and exercise.  The only luxury he allowed himself while upon his laborious task was “a sip of whiskey,” but so engrossed was he with his work that he forgot even that.  It was no uncommon remark for Dr. Baker to make:  “Sir Richard, you haven’t drunk your whiskey.”  One day, as he and Dr. Baker were walking in the garden he stopped suddenly and said:  “I have put my whole life and all my life blood into that Scented Garden, and it is my great hope that I shall live by it.  It is the crown of my life.”

“Has it ever occurred to you, Sir Richard,” enquired Dr. Baker, “that in the event of your death the manuscript might be burnt?  Indeed, I think it not improbable.”

The old man turned to the speaker his worn face and sunken eyes and said with excitement, “Do you think so?  Then I will at once write to Arbuthnot and tell him that in the event of my death the manuscript is to be his.”

He wrote the letter the same day.  Arbuthnot duly received it, and several letters seem to have passed between them on the subject; but we do not know whether Lady Burton was aware of the arrangement.  All we can say is that Arbuthnot believed she knew all about it.