any heart less stout than beats behind the vest of Montague Tigg.
The task of rasping so hirsute a customer seemed to sit heavy on
the soul of Poll, and threatened to exhaust the resources of his
limited establishment. The barber went forth to command, as I
presume, a fresher strop, or more keenly tempered steel, and
glittering cans of water heated to a fiercer heat. No sooner was
the coast clear than the street-door opened, and my stranger was
joined by a mantled form, that glided into Poll's emporium. The
new-comer doffed a swart sombrero, and disclosed historic features
that were not unknown to the concealed observer--meaning me. Yes,
David, that aquiline beak, that long and waxed moustache, that
impassible mask of a face, I had seen them, Sir, conspicuous
(though their owner be of alien and even hostile birth) among
England's special chivalry. The foremost he had charged on the
Ides of April (I mean against the ungentlemanly Chartist throng)
and in the storied lists of Eglinton. The new-comer, in short, was
the nephew of him who ate his heart out in an English gaol (like
our illustrious Chiv)--in fact, he was Prince Louis N- B-.

Gliding to the seat where, half-lathered, the more or less ancient
Mariner awaited Poll's return, the Prince muttered (in the French
lingo, familiar to me from long exile in Boulogne):

"Hist, goes all well?"

"Magnificently, Sire!" says the other chap.

"Our passages taken?"

"Ay, and private cabins paid for to boot, in case of the storm's