“The queen must come back from Aranjuez, or that king must be disposed of,” Rafael exclaimed, as a yellow-faced amabassador from Spain, General the Duke of Olla Podrida, left him. “Which shall it be, my Codlingsby?” Codlingsby was about laughingly to answer--for indeed he was amazed to find all the affairs of the world represented here, and Holywell Street the centre of Europe--when three knocks of a peculiar nature were heard, and Mendoza starting up, said, “Ha! there are only four men in the world who know that signal.” At once, and with a reverence quite distinct from his former nonchalant manner, he advanced towards the new-comer. He was an old man--an old man evidently, too, of the Hebrew race--the light of his eyes was unfathomable--about his mouth there played an inscrutable smile. He had a cotton umbrella, and old trousers, and old boots, and an old wig, curling at the top like a rotten old pear. He sat down, as if tired, in the first seat at hand, as Rafael made him the lowest reverence. “I am tired,” says he; “I have come in fifteen hours. I am ill at Neuilly,” he added with a grin. “Get me some eau sucree, and tell me the news, Prince de Mendoza. These bread rows; this unpopularity of Guizot; this odious Spanish conspiracy against my darling Montpensier and daughter; this ferocity of Palmerston against Coletti, makes me quite ill. Give me your opinion, my dear duke. But ha! whom have we here?” The august individual who had spoken, had used the Hebrew language to address Mendoza, and the Lord Codlingsby might easily have pleaded ignorance of that tongue. But he had been at Cambridge, where all the youth acquire it perfectly. “SIRE,” said he, “I will not disguise from you that I know the ancient tongue in which you speak. There are probably secrets between Mendoza and your Maj--” “Hush!” said Rafael, leading him from the room. “Au revoir, dear Codlingsby. His Majesty is one of US,” he whispered at the door; “so is the Pope of Rome; so is . . .”--a whisper concealed the rest. “Gracious powers! is it so?” said Codlingsby, musing. He entered into Holywell Street. The sun was sinking. “It is time,” said he, “to go and fetch Armida to the Olympic.” PHIL FOGARTY. A TALE OF THE FIGHTING ONETY-ONETH. BY HARRY ROLLICKER. I.