Mr. Redmond Barry (better known as Barry Lyndon) tells his uncle the story of a singular encounter at Berlin with Mr. Alan Stuart, called Alan Breck, and well known as the companion of Mr. David Balfour in many adventures. Mr. Barry, at this time, was in the pay of Herr Potzdorff, of his Prussian Majesty’s Police, and was the associate of the Chevalier, his kinsman, in the pursuit of fortune. Berlin, April 1, 1748. UNCLE BARRY,—I dictate to Pippi, my right hand being wounded, and that by no common accident. Going down the Linden Strasse yesterday, I encountered a mob; and, being curious in Potzdorff’s interest, penetrated to the kernel of it. There I found two men of my old regiment—Kurz and another—at words with a small, dark, nimble fellow, who carried bright and dancing eyes in a pock-marked face. He had his iron drawn, a heavy box-handled cut-and-thrust blade, and seemed ready to fall at once on the pair that had been jeering him for his strange speech. “Who is this, lads?” I asked. “Ein Engländer,” answered they. “No Englishman,” says he, in a curious accent not unlike our brogue, “but a plain gentleman, though he bears a king’s name and hath Alan Breck to his by-name.” “Come, come,” says I in German, “let the gentleman go his way; he is my own countryman.” This was true enough for them; and you should have seen the Highlander’s eyes flash, and grow dim again. I took his arm, for Potzdorff will expect me to know all about the stranger, and marched him down to the _Drei Könige_. “I am your host, sir; what do you call for, Mr. Stuart of —?” said I, knowing there is never a Scot but has the name of his kailyard tacked to his own. “A King’s name is good enough for me; I bear it plain. Mr. —?” said he, reddening. “They call me the Chevalier Barry, of Ballybarry.” “I am in the better company, sir,” quoth he, with a grand bow. When a bowl of punch was brought he takes off his hat, and drinks, very solemnly, “To the King!” “Over the water?” I asked. “Nay, sir, on _this_ side,” he said; and I smoked the Jacobite. But to shorten the story, which amuses my tedium but may beget it in you, I asked him if he knew the cards. “I’m just daft when I get to the cartes,” he answered in his brogue, and we fell to piquet. Now my Scot wore a very fine coat, and on the same very large smooth silver buttons, well burnished. Therefore, perceiving such an advantage as a skilled player may enjoy, I let him win a little to whet his appetite, but presently used his buttons as a mirror, wherein I readily detected the strength of the cards he held. Before attempting this artifice, I had solemnly turned my chair round thrice. “You have changed the luck, sir,” says Mr. Breck, or Stuart, presently; and, rising with a mighty grave air, he turned his coat and put it on inside out. “Sir,” says I, “what am I to understand by this conduct?”