''
He retired back accordingly among the company,
unable to quit the room, and enquiring at those
whom he considered as the best newsmongers for
such information as---``Who is that stately-looking
woman, Mr Butler?''
``Oh, the Queen of Sheba, to be sure.''
``And who is that pretty girl, who sits beside
her?''
``Or rather behind her,'' answered Butler, a
military chaplain; ``faith, I cannot say---Pretty did
you call her?'' turning his opera-glass that way---
``Yes, faith, she is pretty---very pretty---Gad, she
shoots her glances as smartly from behind the old
pile yonder, as Teucer from behind Ajax Telamon's
shield.''
``But who is she, can you tell me?''
``Some fair-skinned speculation of old Montreville's,
I suppose, that she has got either to toady
herself, or take in some of her black friends with.
---Is it possible you have never heard of old Mother
Montreville?''
``You know I have been so long absent from
Madras''---
``Well,'' continued Butler, ``this lady is the
widow of a Swiss officer in the French service, who,
after the surrender of Pondicherry, went off into
the interior, and commenced soldier on his own
account. He got possession of a fort, under pretence
of keeping it for some simple Rajah or other;
assembled around him a parcel of desperate vagabonds,
of every colour in the rainbow; occupied a
considerable territory, of which he raised the duties
in his own name, and declared for independence.
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