The tomb takes the form of an Arab tent 5.5 metres (18 feet) high and 3.7 m (12 ft) square, built of Forest of Dean stone, whose sides are sculpted to create an illusion of canvas tugged by a desert wind. Beneath the roof runs a frieze of Islamic stars and crescents, an odd contrast to the crucified Christ over the door.

The two coffins it contains, those of Burton and his wife Isabel, can be viewed through a plate glass window at the rear. Beneath the peeling, painted walls, funerary bric-à-brac litters the floor and rusting camel bells dangle from the roof supports. Almost hidden under one of the coffins are photographs of the couple taken at the time of their marriage.

In her last years - she died in 1896, six years after her husband - Lady Burton was a regular visitor to the tomb, renting a cottage nearby. It is said that she held seances inside the tomb in an attempt to waken the spirit of her husband. It was a forlorn hope. If it is awake at all, Burton's restless spirit stalks through the magnificent body of literature he left behind, which still has the power to challenge and enthral readers in the new millennium.