“I find,” said he, “you are a little given to the sin of authorship which I renounce. If the anecdotes I have given you of my story are of any interest, you may make use of them; but come down to Doubting Castle and see how we live, and I’ll give you my whole London life over a social glass; and a rattling history it shall be about authors and reviewers.”
If ever I visit Doubting Castle, and get the history he promises, the Public shall be sure to hear of it.
PART THIRD
THE ITALIAN BANDITTI
THE INN AT TERRACINA
Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!
“Here comes the estafette from Naples,” said mine host of the inn at Terracina, “bring out the relay.”
The estafette came as usual galloping up the road, brandishing over his head a short-handled whip, with a long knotted lash; every smack of which made a report like a pistol. He was a tight square-set young fellow, in the customary uniform—a smart blue coat, ornamented with facings and gold lace, but so short behind as to reach scarcely below his waistband, and cocked up not unlike the tail of a wren. A cocked hat, edged with gold lace; a pair of stiff riding boots; but instead of the usual leathern breeches he had a fragment of a pair of drawers that scarcely furnished an apology for modesty to hide behind.
The estafette galloped up to the door and jumped from his horse.
“A glass of rosolio, a fresh horse, and a pair of breeches,” said he, “and quickly—I am behind my time, and must be off.”