A black
female slave, richly dressed, stood behind her with
a chowry, or cow's tail, having a silver handle,
which she used to keep off the flies. From the
mode in which she was addressed by those who
spoke to her, this lady appeared a person of too
much importance to be affronted or neglected, and
yet one with whom none desired further communication
than the occasion seemed in propriety to
demand.
She did not, however, stand in need of attention.
The well-known captain of an East Indian vessel
lately arrived from Britain was sedulously polite
to her; and two or three gentlemen, whom Hartley
knew to be engaged in trade, tended upon her
as they would have done upon the safety of a rich
argosy.
``For Heaven's sake, what is that for a Zenobia?''
said Hartley, to the gentleman whose whisper
had first attracted his attention to this lofty
dame.
``Is it possible you do not know the Queen of
Sheba?'' said the person of whom he enquired, no
way loath to communicate the information demanded.
``You must know, then, that she is the
daughter of a Scotch emigrant, who lived and died
at Pondicherry, a sergeant in Lally's regiment.
She managed to marry a partisan officer named
Montreville, a Swiss or Frenchman, I cannot tell
which.
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