‘What an extraordinary story!’ said Smith and Jones, two young students, Giglio’s especial friends. ‘Ha! what is this?’ Giglio went on, reading-- ‘SECOND EDITION, EXPRESS.--We hear that the troop under Baron Spinachi has been surrounded, and utterly routed, by General Count Hogginarmo, and the soidisant Princess is sent a prisoner to the capital. ‘UNIVERSITY NEWS.--Yesterday, at the Schools, the distinguished young student, Mr. Giles, read a Latin oration, and was complimented by the Chancellor of Bosforo, Dr. Prugnaro, with the highest University honour--the wooden spoon.’ ‘Never mind that stuff,’ says GILES, greatly disturbed. ‘Come home with me, my friends. Gallant Smith! intrepid Jones! friends of my studies--partakers of my academic toils--I have that to tell which shall astonish your honest minds.’ ‘Go it, old boy!’ cries the impetuous Smith. ‘Talk away, my buck!’ says Jones, a lively fellow. With an air of indescribable dignity, Giglio checked their natural, but no more seemly, familiarity. ‘Jones, Smith, my good friends,’ said the PRINCE, ‘disguise is henceforth useless; I am no more the humble student Giles, I am the descendant of a royal line.’ ‘Atavis edite regibus, I know, old co--’ cried Jones. He was going to say old cock, but a flash from THE ROYAL EYE again awed him. ‘Friends,’ continued the Prince, ‘I am that Giglio, I am, in fact, Paflagonia. Rise, Smith, and kneel not in the public street. Jones, thou true heart! My faithless uncle, when I was a baby, filched from me that brave crown my father left me, bred me, all young and careless of my rights, like unto hapless Hamlet, Prince of Denmark; and had I any thoughts about my wrongs, soothed me with promises of near redress. I should espouse his daughter, young Angelica; we two indeed should reign in Paflagonia. His words were false--false as Angelica’s heart!--false as Angelica’s hair, colour, front teeth! She looked with her skew eyes upon young Bulbo, Crim Tartary’s stupid heir, and she preferred him.’ Twas then I turned my eyes upon Betsinda--Rosalba, as she now is. And I saw in her the blushing sum of all perfection; the pink of maiden modesty; the nymph that my fond heart had ever woo’d in dreams,’ etc. etc. (I don’t give this speech, which was very fine, but very long; and though Smith and Jones knew nothing about the circumstances, my dear reader does, so I go on.) The Prince and his young friends hastened home to his apartment, highly excited by the intelligence, as no doubt by the ROYAL NARRATOR’S admirable manner of recounting it, and they ran up to his room where he had worked so hard at his books. On his writing-table was his bag, grown so long that the Prince could not help remarking it. He went to it, opened it, and what do you think he found in it? A splendid long, gold-handled, red-velvet-scabbarded, cut-and-thrust sword, and on the sheath was embroidered ‘ROSALBA FOR EVER!’