This was in the episcopal city of Durham.  We sat down, a considerable company, to dinner, most of us fine old vatted English tories of that class which is often so enthusiastic as to be inarticulate.  I took and held the lead from the beginning; and, the talk having turned on the French in the Peninsula, I gave them authentic details (on the authority of a cousin of mine, an ensign) of certain cannibal orgies in Galicia, in which no less a person than General Caffarelli had taken a part.  I always disliked that commander, who once ordered me under arrest for insubordination; and it is possible that a spice of vengeance added to the rigour of my picture.  I have forgotten the details; no doubt they were high-coloured.  No doubt I rejoiced to fool these jolter-heads; and no doubt the sense of security that I drank from their dull, gasping faces encouraged me to proceed extremely far.  And for my sins, there was one silent little man at table who took my story at the true value.  It was from no sense of humour, to which he was quite dead.  It was from no particular intelligence, for he had not any.  The bond of sympathy, of all things in the world, had rendered him clairvoyant.

Dinner was no sooner done than I strolled forth into the streets with some design of viewing the cathedral; and the little man was silently at my heels.  A few doors from the inn, in a dark place of the street, I was aware of a touch on my arm, turned suddenly, and found him looking up at me with eyes pathetically bright.

’I beg your pardon, sir; but that story of yours was particularly rich.  He—­he!  Particularly racy,’ said he.  ’I tell you, sir, I took you wholly!  I smoked you!  I believe you and I, sir, if we had a chance to talk, would find we had a good many opinions in common.  Here is the “Blue Bell,” a very comfortable place.  They draw good ale, sir.  Would you be so condescending as to share a pot with me?’

There was something so ambiguous and secret in the little man’s perpetual signalling, that I confess my curiosity was much aroused.  Blaming myself, even as I did so, for the indiscretion, I embraced his proposal, and we were soon face to face over a tankard of mulled ale.  He lowered his voice to the least attenuation of a whisper.

‘Here, sir,’ said he, ’is to the Great Man.  I think you take me?  No?’ He leaned forward till our noses touched.  ’Here is to the Emperor!’ said he.

I was extremely embarrassed, and, in spite of the creature’s innocent appearance, more than half alarmed.  I thought him too ingenious, and, indeed, too daring for a spy.  Yet if he were honest he must be a man of extraordinary indiscretion, and therefore very unfit to be encouraged by an escaped prisoner.  I took a half course, accordingly—­accepted his toast in silence, and drank it without enthusiasm.

He proceeded to abound in the praises of Napoleon, such as I had never heard in France, or at least only on the lips of officials paid to offer them.