“Her eyes, her air, her action, every movement and every word prognosticate sagacity, that will not be deceived: then what a pipe? Good Heaven, if that voice, which is so shrill whilst only warbling Spanish tonadillas, that to me are unintelligible, shall be roused to exert itself in plain English argumentation, farewel to all repose! nor peace, nor quiet shall I ever know. How am I sure she is not a Jewess? She may, for aught that I can tell, be lineally descended from that wicked king, who put to death all the innocents; and if so, how shall I escape? Happy Devereux, he is on the seas: would I were on them too, or under them, rather than what I may be, aye, and shall be if that sharp-eyed widow sets her wits to work. I begin to think I made a wrong choice, and should have taken my chance of turning out with the son, rather than of turning in where I shall have no chance at all. There seems nothing left for me but to fall extremely sick, and that I may really be so without feigning, I will instantly call in a Portuguese physician, and (which is more than any patient less desperate will promise) I am resolute to take his physic. Ah, where is my good friend and countryman Llewellyn? My poor wife followed his prescriptions, and behold! here am I in his livery, black as the hands of man can make me. Ah Llewellyn, Llewellyn, in Wales it was quite enough for me to endure your company; I never wished to be your patient till now that I am in Lisbon, and under sentence of a dose more bitter and against my palate than you ever mixed--But what if John De Lancaster should come upon my call? There would be a champion worthy of my cause: Glendowr’s magic could not conjure up a braver or a stouter spirit. He is young, not married, not, like me, bent to the yoke, but free, untrammeled and untamed. I’ll cherish hope; I’ll feed upon the thought that my brave boy will come, and vex myself no more.” Whilst this sad ditty was in recitation Devereux was wafted swiftly over the ocean, favoured by a freshening gale, that blowed direct for England, as if impatient to salute the mother of the winds and mistress of the waves, amidst which she sits safe and encircled on her chalky throne. Mean time our John De Lancaster, from whose society we have unwillingly been separated for some short while, could hardly count the hours, so quick they passed, when with his loved Amelia by his side, _They fled away with down upon their feet_.