soner; and he looks like a foreigner," observed Mr. Montagu, who had relapsed into one of his fits of abstraction: "I wonder what can bring him there!"
"La! Mr. Montagu, how you talk!" exclaimed his wife, "you know my nephew, Lord Edmund, has just gained a battle, and what can be more natural than that he should have taken prisoners?"
"True," rejoined Mr. Montagu with the utmost naïveté, "I never thought of that!"
"Och, and it's a barbarous custom that of putting chains about the hands of the prisoners," said Father Murphy, "as if it was not bad enough to be a prisoner without looking like one."
"Poor fellow!" cried Clara, "I should like to go and let him loose. He looks very melancholy!"
"How great my nephew Lord Edmund looks!" continued Mrs. Montagu: "I declare if he were a real king he couldn't have a grander appearance. And then to see the poor old gentleman his father, my brother-in-law, Sir Ambrose, sitting there hand-in-hand with the Duke
