“Well, the lad shall have the purse, though I don’t expect he will win it; for, if no one else will, I shall give him a throw to redeem the credit of old Cumberland.”

“Bravo, Sim!” cried his brother officers, and they accompanied him towards the ring.

The people again shouted when they perceived that there was to be another game, and the more so when they discovered that the stranger competitor was a gentleman.  The ensign, having cast off his regimentals, and equipped himself in the strait canvas jacket worn by wrestlers, entered the ring.  But now arose a new subject of wonderment, which in a moment was perceived by the whole multitude; and the loud huzzas that had welcomed his approach were hushed in a confused murmur of astonishment.

“Zwinge!” exclaimed a hundred voices, as they approached each other; “they be loik one anoother as two beans!”

“Whoy, which be which?” inquired others.

The likeness between the two wrestlers was indeed remarkable; their age, their stature, the colour of their hair, their features, were alike.  Spectators could not trace a difference between the one and the other.  The ensign had a small and peculiar mark below his chin; he perceived that his antagonist had the same.  They approached each other, extending their arms for the contest.  They stood still, they gazed upon each other; as they gazed they started; their arms dropped by their sides; they stood anxiously scrutinizing the countenance of each other, in which each saw himself as in a glass.  Astonishment deprived them of strength; they forgot the purpose for which they met; they stretched forth their hands, they grasped them together, and stood eagerly looking into each other’s eyes.

“Friend,” said the ensign, “this is indeed singular; our extraordinary resemblance to each other fills me with amazement.  What is your name? from whence do you come?”

“Whoy, master,” rejoined the other, “thou art so woundy like myself, that had I met thee anywhere but in the middle o’ these folk, I should have been afeared that I was agoing to die, and had zeen mysel’.  My name is George Prescot, at your sarvice.  I coom from three miles down the river there; and what may they call thee?”

“My name,” replied the soldier, “is Charles Sim.  I am an orphan; my parents I never saw.  And tell me—­for this strange resemblance between us almost overpowers me—­do yours live?”

“Whoy,” was the reply, “old Tom Prescot and his woif be alive; and they zay as how they be my vather and moother, and I zuppose they be; but zoom cast up to them that they bean’t.”

No wrestling match took place between them; but hand in hand they walked round the ring together, while the spectators gazed upon them in silent wonder.

The ensign presented the youth, who might have been styled his fac-simile, with the purse subscribed by his brother officers and himself; and in so doing he offered to double its contents.  But the youth, with a spirit above his condition, peremptorily refused the offer, and said—­