So completely was I absorbed in my thoughts upon this matter, that I had not perceived the entrance of O’Leary and Trevanion, who, unaware of my being in the apartment, as I was stretched upon a sofa in a dark corner, drew their chairs towards the fire and began chatting.

“Do you know, Mr. Trevanion,” said O’Leary, “I am half afraid of this disguise of mine.  I sometimes think I am not like a Pole; and if she should discover me”—­

“No fear of that in the world; your costume is perfect, your beard unexceptionable.  I could, perhaps, have desired a little less paunch; but then”—­

“That comes of fretting, as Falstaff says; and you must not forget that I am banished from my country.”

“Now, as to your conversation, I should advise you saying very little —­not one word in English.  You may, if you like, call in the assistance of Irish when hard pressed?

“I have my fears on that score.  There is no knowing where that might lead to discovery.  You know the story of the Knight of Kerry and Billy McCabe?”

“I fear I must confess my ignorance—­I have never heard of it.”

“Then may be you never knew Giles Daxon?”

“I have not had that pleasure either.”

“Lord bless me, how strange that is!  I thought he was better known than the Duke of Wellington or the travelling piper.  Well, I must tell you the story, for it has a moral, too—­indeed several morals; but you’ll find that out for yourself.  Well, it seems that one day the Knight of Kerry was walking along the Strand in London, killing an hour’s time, till the house was done prayers, and Hume tired of hearing himself speaking; his eye was caught by an enormous picture displayed upon the wall of a house, representing a human figure covered with long dark hair, with huge nails upon his hands, and a most fearful expression of face.  At first the Knight thought it was Dr. Bowring; but on coming nearer he heard a man with a scarlet livery and a cocked hat, call out, ’Walk in, ladies and gentlemen—­the most vonderful curiosity ever exhibited—­only one shilling—­the vild man from Chippoowango, in Africay—­eats raw wittles without being cooked, and many other surprising and pleasing performances.’

“The knight paid his money, and was admitted.  At first the crowd prevented his seeing any thing—­for the place was full to suffocation, and the noise awful—­for, besides the exclamations and applause of the audience, there were three barrel-organs, playing ‘Home, sweet Home!’ and ‘Cherry Ripe,’ and the wild man himself contributed his share to the uproar.  At last, the Knight obtained, by dint of squeezing, and some pushing a place in the front, when, to his very great horror, he beheld a figure that far eclipsed the portrait without doors.