“‘We do,’ said the one to the right. ‘We are bent on a far errand.’
“‘Indeed! may I ask its nature?’
“‘To hear the bat flutter and the owlet scream. Wilt also listen to the music?’
“‘I understand you not, sirs. What mean you?’
“‘We are the guardians of the Red Earth. The guilty tremble at our approach; but the innocent need not fear!’
“‘Two of the night patrole!’ thought I. ‘Very mysterious gentlemen, indeed; but I have heard that the Austrian police have orders to be reserved in their communications. I must get rid of them, however. Good-evening, sirs.’
“I was about to spur my horse, when a cloak was suddenly thrown over my head as if by some invisible hand; I was dragged forcibly from my saddle, my arms pinioned, and my sword wrested from me. All this was the work of a moment, and rendered my resistance useless.
“‘Villains!’ cried I, ‘unhand me—what mean you?’
“‘Peace, cavalier!’ said a deep low voice at my ear; ‘speak not—struggle not, or it may be worse for you; you are in the hands of the Secret Tribunal!’”
During the course of his narrative, Mr Mandeville, as I have already hinted, by no means discontinued his attentions to the brandy-and-water, but went on making tumbler after tumbler, with a fervour that was truly edifying. Assuming that the main facts of his history were true, though in the eye of geography and politics they appeared a little doubtful, it was still highly interesting to remark the varied chronology of his style. A century disappeared with each tumbler. He concentrated in himself, as it appeared to me, the excellencies of the best writers of romance, and withal had hitherto maintained the semblance of strict originality. He had now, however, worked his way considerably up the tide of time. We had emerged from the period of fire-arms, and Mandeville was at this stage medieval.