“I am tired,” says he; “I have come in fifteen hours.  I am ill at Neuilly,” he added with a grin.  “Get me some eau sucree, and tell me the news, Prince de Mendoza.  These bread rows; this unpopularity of Guizot; this odious Spanish conspiracy against my darling Montpensier and daughter; this ferocity of Palmerston against Coletti, makes me quite ill.  Give me your opinion, my dear duke.  But ha! whom have we here?”

The august individual who had spoken, had used the Hebrew language to address Mendoza, and the Lord Codlingsby might easily have pleaded ignorance of that tongue.  But he had been at Cambridge, where all the youth acquire it perfectly.

“Sire,” said he, “I will not disguise from you that I know the ancient tongue in which you speak.  There are probably secrets between Mendoza and your Maj—­”

“Hush!” said Rafael, leading him from the room.  “Au revoir, dear Codlingsby.  His Majesty is one of us,” he whispered at the door; “so is the Pope of Rome; so is . . .”—­a whisper concealed the rest.

“Gracious powers! is it so?” said Codlingsby, musing.  He entered into Holywell Street.  The sun was sinking.

“It is time,” said he, “to go and fetch Armida to the Olympic.”

PHIL FOGARTY.

A tale of the fighting Onety-oneth.

By Harry Rollicker.

I.

The gabion was ours.  After two hours’ fighting we were in possession of the first embrasure, and made ourselves as comfortable as circumstances would admit.  Jack Delamere, Tom Delancy, Jerry Blake, the Doctor, and myself, sat down under a pontoon, and our servants laid out a hasty supper on a tumbrel.  Though Cambaceres had escaped me so provokingly after I cut him down, his spoils were mine; a cold fowl and a Bologna sausage were found in the Marshal’s holsters; and in the haversack of a French private who lay a corpse on the glacis, we found a loaf of bread, his three days’ ration.  Instead of salt, we had gunpowder; and you may be sure, wherever the Doctor was, a flask of good brandy was behind him in his instrument-case.  We sat down and made a soldier’s supper.  The Doctor pulled a few of the delicious fruit from the lemon-trees growing near (and round which the Carabineers and the 24th Leger had made a desperate rally), and punch was brewed in Jack Delamere’s helmet.

“’Faith, it never had so much wit in it before,” said the Doctor, as he ladled out the drink.  We all roared with laughing, except the guardsman, who was as savage as a Turk at a christening.

“Buvez-en,” said old Sawbones to our French prisoner; “ca vous fera du bien, mon vieux coq!” and the Colonel, whose wound had been just dressed, eagerly grasped at the proffered cup, and drained it with a health to the donors.