your Hearths, to your Homes, to your Habeas Corpus, and to all your other
institutions! In one word--to England! Heep-heep-heep! hooray!

Obenreizer's voice had barely chanted the last note of the English cheer,
the speechless friend had barely drained the last drop out of his glass,
when the festive proceedings were interrupted by a modest tap at the
door. A woman-servant came in, and approached her master with a little
note in her hand. Obenreizer opened the note with a frown; and, after
reading it with an expression of genuine annoyance, passed it on to his
compatriot and friend. Vendale's spirits rose as he watched these
proceedings. Had he found an ally in the annoying little note? Was the
long-looked-for chance actually coming at last?

"I am afraid there is no help for it?" said Obenreizer, addressing his
fellow-countryman. "I am afraid we must go."

The speechless friend handed back the letter, shrugged his heavy
shoulders, and poured himself out a last glass of wine. His fat fingers
lingered fondly round the neck of the bottle. They pressed it with a
little amatory squeeze at parting. His globular eyes looked dimly, as
through an intervening haze, at Vendale and Marguerite. His heavy
articulation laboured, and brought forth a whole sentence at a birth. "I
think," he said, "I should have liked a little more wine." His breath
failed him after that effort; he gasped, and walked to the door.

Obenreizer addressed himself to Vendale with an appearance of the deepest
distress.

"I am so shocked, so confused, so distressed," he began. "A misfortune
has happened to one of my compatriots. He is alone, he is ignorant of