Things are now hastening to the catastrophe.

Napoleon flies to London, and, seating himself on the hearth of the Regent, embraces the household gods and conjures him, by the venerable age of George III., and by the opening perfections of the Princess Charlotte, to spare him.

The Prince is inclined to do so; when, looking on his breast, he sees there the belt of the Duke of Brunswick.

He instantly draws his sword, and is about to stab the destroyer of his kinsman.

Piety and hospitality, however, restrain his hand.