me—rammed down with good powdered beef, that will stand the working of half a dozen pair of jaws for a month, should be found in an odd corner of my father's house, why—hum!

[Exit.

La Gloire. There he goes! full of sour goodness, like a fine lemon. He's as trusty a crusty citizen, and as goodnatured an ill tempered old fellow, as any in France: and, though I say it, that shouldn't say it—I am his son.——But, now, neighbours, for provision.

3 Cit. Ay, marry! we would fain fall to.

La Gloire. I doubt it not, good hungry neighbours: you'll all remember me for this succour, I warrant.

All. Toujours; always.

La Gloire. See now what it is to bind one's country to one, by doing it a service. Good souls, they are running over with gratitude—[Walks about, Citizens following.]—I could cluck them all round the town after my tail, like an old hen with a brood of chickens. Now will I be carried in triumph to my father's: and ye may e'en set about it now—[Two stout Citizens take La Gloire on their Shoulders.]—now, while the provisions are sharing at the Governor's house.

[Citizens let him fall.

All. Sharing provisions! Allons! vite!—away! away!

[Exeunt Citizens hastily.

La Gloire. Oh diable! this is popularity. Adieu, my grateful neighbours! Thus does many a fool-hardy booby, like me, run his head into danger; and a few empty huzzas, which leave him at the next turning of a corner, are all he gets for his pains. Now, while all the town is gone to dinner, will I go to woo. My poor Madelon must be woefully fallen away, since I quitted Calais, Heigho! I've lost, I warrant me, a good half of my mistress since we parted. I have secured for her the daintiest bits of our whole cargo, as marks of my affection. A butcher couldn't show her more tenderness than I shall. If love were now weighed out by the pound, bating my master, the Count Ribaumont, who is in love with Lady Julia, not all the men in the city could balance the scales with me.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

A Hall, in the House of John de Vienne.

Enter Julia and O'Carrol.

Julia. Now, O'Carrol; what is the time of day?

O'Carrol. Fait, Lady Julia, we might have called it a little past breakfast time, formerly; but since the fashion of eating has been worn out in Calais, a man may be content to say it bears hard upon ten. Och! if clocks were jacks now, time would stand still; and the year would go down, for the want of winding up every now and then.

Julia. Saw you my father this morning?

O'Carrol. You may say that.

Julia. How looked he, O'Carrol?

O'Carrol. By my soul! Lady Julia, that old father of yours, and master of mine, is a gallant gentleman. And gallantly he bears himself. For certain, and so he ought; being a Knight of Burgundy, and Governor of Calais; but if I was Governor just now, to be sure I should not like to take a small trip from Calais, one morning, just to see what sort of a knight I was in Burgundy.

Julia. Who has he in his company?

O'Carrol. Why, madam, why—now dare not I tell who, for fear of offending her.—Company? Why, to be sure I have been in his company:—for want of finer acquaintance, madam, he was e'en forced to put up, half an hour, with an humble friend.

O'Carrol. Troth, lady, one honest potatoe in a garden is worth an hundred beds of your good-for-nothing tulips. Oh! 'tis meat and drink to me to see a friend! and, truly 'tis lucky, in this time of famine, to have one in the house to look at, to keep me from starving. Little did I think, eight years ago, when I came over among fifty thousand brave boys—English, Irish, and else,—to fight under King Edward, who now lies before Calais here, that I should find such a warm soul towards me in a Frenchman's body;—especially when the business, that brought me, was to help to give his countrymen a beating.

Julia. Thy gratitude, O'Carrol, has well repaid the pains my father took in preserving thee.

O'Carrol. Gratitude! fait, madam, begging your pardon, 'tis no such thing; 'tis nothing but showing the sense I have of my obligation. There was I, in the year 1339, in the English camp—on the fields of Vianfosse, near Capelle—which never came to an action; excepting a trifling bit of skirmish, in which my good cruel friends left me for dead out of our lines; when a kind enemy—your father—(a blessing on his friendly heart for it!) picked me up, and set the breath agoing again, that was almost thumped out of my body. He saved my life; it is but a poor commodity;—but, as long as it lasts, by my soul! he and his family shall have the wear and tear of it.

Julia. Thou hast been a trusty follower, O'Carrol; nay, more a friend than follower; thou art entwined in all the interests of our house, and art as attached to me as to my father.

O'Carrol. Ay, troth, Lady Julia, and a good deal more; more shame to me for it; because I am indebted for all to the Governor. I don't know how it may be with wiser nations, but if regard is to go to a whole family, there's a something about the female part of it that an Irishman can't help giving the preference to, for the soul of him.

Julia. But, tell me, who is with my father?

O'Carrol. Indeed that I will not—for a reason.

Julia. And what may the reason be?

O'Carrol. Because, long before he arrived, you bid me never mention his name. It may be, perhaps, the noble gentleman who has just succoured the town.—Well, if I must not say who is with my master, I may say who my master is with.—It is the Count Ribaumont.

Julia. Why should I tremble at