The foremost of the party was a man who probably verged upon the mellow age of fifty; but his eagle-eye, and stalwart frame, told that his years sat light upon him. He was what would have been termed a handsome man; but a supercilious curl of his upper lip, and an expression of scornful indifference, which, though apparently suppressed, lingered in his dark hazel eye, added to a brow furrowed by deep lines, and compressed by slumbering passions, which only waited the spur of the moment to be called into action, detracted from the otherwise agreeable character of his features, and effectually forbid any approach to familiarity. A deep and unsightly scar, the effects of a sabre-cut, which, commencing from the right ear, traversed the jaw, injured yet further his good looks. He was habited in a complete suit of black velvet, of the richest texture; the sombreness of which was in some measure relieved by diamond clasps, and small knee-buckles of the same costly stones. A small collar of the finest lawn made its appearance above the doublet; and a black-sheathed “Andrèa Ferrara,” with basket hilt, dangling from his side, and calf-skin boots, completed his costume. This dress, fitting tight to his shape, shewed to advantage the large but perfect symmetry of his person; while the dark brown hair, sprinkled here and there with the grey badge of declining years, cropt close around his temples; and the steeple-crowned hat peculiar to his sect and times, bespoke him, what he was, the friend of Cromwell—the roundhead governor of Antigua. The next person that gained the open ground was Bridget, the beautiful daughter of the governor. If ever there was a personification of extreme loveliness, it was known in Bridget. Scarcely seventeen, her slight but rounded figure, and her sweet, mild face, while it struck the beholder with admiration, and riveted his attention, gave the idea of some embodied sylph. Her complexion was of that ethereal tint of which the poet says— “Oh, call it fair, not pale.”