It appears that almost as the coach drew up there arrived from the westward a post- chaise conveying a young naval officer from Plymouth, with despatches and (I regret to tell it) a flag.

His Britannic Majesty has captured another of our frigates; and the high spirited young gentleman was making the most of it in all innocence, and without an idea that his triumph could offend anyone in Axcester.

Unfortunately, on his way up the street, he waved the captured tricolor under the nose of your brother's _protege_, M.Raoul--" "M.

Raoul!" Dorothea caught her breath on the name.
"And M.Raoul leapt into the chaise, then and there wrested the flag from him--the more easily no doubt because he expected nothing so little and holding it aloft, challenged him to mortal combat.
Theatrically, and apart from the taste of it (I report only from hearsay), the coup must have been immensely successful.

When I arrived, your brother was restoring peace, the young Briton holding out his hand--swearing he was sorry, begad! but how the deuce was he to have known ?--and M.Raoul saving the situation, and still demanding blood with a face as long as an Alexandrine: "_'Ce drapeau glorieux auquel, en sanglotant, Se prosternent affaises vos membres, veterans!'_ "'Vary sorry, damitol, shake hands, beg your pardon.'" The Vicomte forgot his languor, and burlesqued the scene with real talent.
Dorothea, however, was not amused.
"You say my brother is at 'The Dogs,' Monsieur?
I think I will go to him." "You must allow me, then, to escort you." "Oh, the street is quite safe.