said, "Ha! there are only four men in the world
who know that signal." At once, and with a reverence quite distinct from
his former nonchalant manner, he advanced towards the new-comer.

He was an old man--an old man evidently, too, of the Hebrew race--the
light of his eyes was unfathomable--about his mouth there played an
inscrutable smile. He had a cotton umbrella, and old trousers, and old
boots, and an old wig, curling at the top like a rotten old pear.

He sat down, as if tired, in the first seat at hand, as Rafael made him
the lowest reverence.

"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 gu