Nothing would persuade them that you were not Lucien Buonaparte, or the iron mask, or something of that sort, if they took it into their heads." Mr.O'Leary was as good as his word.

In a species of French, that I'd venture to say would be perfectly intelligible in Mullingar, he contrived to explain to the maire that I was neither a runaway nor a swindler, but a very old friend of his, and consequently sans reproche.

The official was now as profuse of his civilities as he had before been of his suspicions, and most hospitably pressed us to stay for breakfast.

This, for many reasons, I was obliged to decline--not the least of which was, my impatience to get out of my present costume.

We accordingly procured a carriage, and I returned to the hotel, screened from the gaze but still accompanied by the shouts of the mob, who evidently took a most lively interest in the entire proceeding.
I lost no time in changing my costume, and was about to descend to the saloon, when the master of the house came to inform me that Mrs.Bingham's courier had arrived with the carriage, and that she expected us at Amiens as soon as possible.
"That is all right.