to the trim cockaded little man, that he might carry home that
instrument of vengeance, deliberately wiped his wet mustachios, and
giving Julian one last kick, let the fellow part in peace.




CHAPTER XVI.

HOW CHARLES FARED.


HAVING thus found protectors for poor Emily, and disposed of her
assailant to the entire satisfaction of all mankind, let us turn
seawards, and take a look at Charles.

Now, "no earthly power,"--as a certain ex-chancellor protested--shall
induce me to do so mean a thing as to open Charles's letters, and spread
them forth before the public gaze. Doubtless, they were all things
tender, warm, and eloquent; doubtless, they were tinted rosy hue, with
love's own blushes, and made glorious with the golden light of
unaffected piety. I only read them myself in a reflected way, by looking
into Emily's eyes; and I saw, from their ever-changing radiance, how
feelingly he told of his affections; how fervently he poured out all his
heart upon the page; how evidently tears and kisses had made many words
illegible; how wise, sanguine, happy, and religious, was her own devoted
Charles.

Of the trivial incidents of voyaging, his letters said not much: though
cheerful and agreeable in his floating prison, with the various exported