lodging, and it was not without a longer parley than ordinary with the old porter that I succeeded in gaining admittance. Leaning against the wall to steady himself and keep up appearances, the brave man, with a bayonet in his hand, contented himself by jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of a soldier, who, seated on one of the stone benches of the vestibule, rose up eagerly at my approach. A peakless shako, too small for the head it covered, tottered on the top of a dense thatch of thick yellow hair. A uniform coat of thick cloth, and a pair of trowsers as large as the shako was small; shoes, whose upper leather had long parted company from the sole, not only allowing the toes to be seen, but also ventilating on the most approved principles the wearer's feet, and a complexion of a bright copper color, all served to stamp the man as a lépero who had been torn away, by the exigencies of the service, from following his profession of sleeping in the sun on the pavement. However, a sort of picaresque and arrogant bearing about the fellow showed that he was not insensible to his profession, and to the splendor of his military dress. The soldier, who was the asistente of Don Blas, had been sent by him with a letter to me. I recognized, in fact, his handwriting. The note ran thus:
"My dear Friend,—I have just read with much emotion, in a French novel that you lately lent me, a story of two friends, who, when in need, aided one another with their purse and their sword. As I require some money at present, I should be obliged by your sending with the bearer, in whom I have every confidence, an ounce of gold, which I shall restore to you
