mance. I told you I had deemed it convenient to make a few days tour on foot among the mountains of Westmoreland, with Dudley, a young English artist, with whom I have formed some acquaintance. A fine fellow this, you must know, Delaserre—he paints tolerably, draws beautifully, converses well, and plays charmingly on the flute; and, though thus well entitled to be a coxcomb of talent, is, in fact, a modest unpretending young man. Upon our return from our little tour, I learned that the enemy had been reconnoitring. Mr Mervyn's barge had crossed the lake, I was informed by my landlord, with the squire himself and a visitor.
'What sort of person, landlord?'
'Why, he was a dark officer-looking mon, at they called colonel—Squoire Mervyn questioned me as close as had I been at sizes—I had a guess, Mr Dawson' (I told you that was my feigned name)—'But I tould him nought of your vagaries, and going outa-laking in the mere a-noights—
