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same well-known lineaments, but still most ghastly pale, and phantom-like. There was the same expression of unutterable woe-the same look of tacit reproach and complaining endurance-the very incarnation of the spirit of patient suffering and melancholy resignation. The mysterious form was attired in a deep black garment, which appeared torn, and tattered, and bespattered with mire-the hair was dishevelled, as if blown by the wind-and the bare feet were bleeding, as if from long wandering naked on the flints. The figure stood motionless, and did not seem to change its gesture as on the previous occasion, by pointing to the moon; but the forefinger of the right hand, which hung in a straight line from the shoulder, was pointed fixedly to the earth. Might it be that she would say, "There is my home and my shelter, my grave and my abidingplace?"

What might these things mean? Our hero remained also motionless. The figure spoke not, and he was silent too. He seemed over-awed and weighed down by the presence of the figure-he could not move from his saddle-the spell was on him he was fascinated by some irresistible and preternatural power;-but it was a mystery. He

remained gazing on the figure he knew not how long-the spell was broken by Mahmoud proceeding of his own accord, and unbidden on his journey.

Immediately that Mahmoud moved, our hero pulled his bridle and recalled his steps to the spot where he had just stood, but the animal showed no longer any signs of fear-the phantom was ›no more visible. He rode up to the fountain-there

was no one.

Mahmoud paced quietly and tractably the whole space around it. Our hero examined the trees, and the fountain, but there was nothing in their form or appearance which could have resembled that of a human being; and how could he be mistaken in his Isabelle? He proceeded on his way in a deep and profound melancholy.

CHAPTER XVII.

It was some days after the above ride of our hero from Paris to Montmorency, that a great dinner party happened to be given by our friend Mr. Earthstopper Brush Fivebars, to a number of Englishmen, at the Rocher de Cancale. Bob Tracy, who had managed not yet to get into St. Pelagie, was, of course, one of the principal features of the company, and a number of his old Oxford friends, whom he had chanced to pick up about Paris, were added to the party; Grainger also was there, but not Mullingham; and Fivebars, who since the duel had established an especial intimacy with his principal on that occasion, had been so successful as to prevail on Lord Clanelly, notwithstanding his general dislike of society, and his special reasons at the present moment against it, to be one of the guests.

No legal process had been resorted to against

him in consequence of the fatal duel; for, at the time we write of, such affairs were rather encouraged, than otherwise, by the authorities. "Ce ne sont que de mauvais sujets qui se battent," was one of the cunning maxims of Louis Philippe, and he thought it much better that the wild spirits of the capital should shoot each other in single combat, than that their' pistols should be directed either against himself or his government.

At table, on the present occasion, the excellency of Parisian cooks, and the importance and dignity of the culinary art in general, were dilated on with his usual eloquence and enthusiasm, by George Grainger.

"I forget which of the kings of France it was," said he, "but I believe Henri Quatre, who being engaged in his wars on the eastern frontier of his dominions, and at the point furthest possible removed from the sea, suddenly took it into his head that he would have a turbot for dinner. The nearest fishmarket was miles and miles away. There was a notice given of only two or three hours: what was to be done? A cook of any other nation in the world would have given up the point in despair; in which case I think the king would have been justified in ordering him for immediate execution, without benefit

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of clergy; but the great man who had the superintendance of the great monarch's kitchen, was like his master, not easily to be baffled by circumstance; he recollected that he had an old pair of leather breeches somewhere, packed up in his baggage, and these he determined to convert into a fish. The conception was bold. To present his old leather breeches to be eaten at the monarch's table, was a dangerous experiment: if detected, he knew not how great might be the punishment he should suffer for such an insult. He exerted his utmost art upon the dish, and the odds and ends of the buckskin he made into lobster sauce. The king was delighted; the courtiers all approved; and the cook did not communicate the secret, till he found himself upon his death-bed."

"The style of cooking is rather different here from what it used to be at Christchurch," cried an old Oxonian to Bob Tracy. "Do you remember sending for the manciple there one day, when you wanted something extraordinarily recherché for dinner. 'What can we have at the top of the table, manciple?' was your question. Nothing, sir, can be simpler or nicer than a leg of mutton,' was the reply. Very well, that will do,' was the resigned and philosophic answer. 'And what will you give us for the bot

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