He drew out the sword, which flashed and illuminated the whole room, and called out ‘Rosalba for ever!’ Smith and Jones following him, but quite respectfully this time, and taking the time from His Royal Highness. And now his trunk opened with a sudden pony, and out there came three ostrich feathers in a gold crown, surrounding a beautiful shining steel helmet, a cuirass, a pair of spurs, finally a complete suit of armour. The books on Giglio’s shelves were all gone. Where there had been some great dictionaries, Giglio’s friends found two pairs of jack-boots labelled, ‘Lieutenant Smith,’ ‘--Jones, Esq.,’ which fitted them to a nicety. Besides, there were helmets, back and breast plates, swords, etc., just like in Mr. G. P. R. James’s novels; and that evening three cavaliers might have been seen issuing from the gates of Bosforo, in whom the porters, proctors, etc., never thought of recognising the young Prince and his friends. They got horses at a livery stable-keeper’s, and never drew bridle until they reached the last town on the frontier before you come to Crim Tartary. Here, as their animals were tired, and the cavaliers hungry, they stopped and refreshed at an hostel. I could make a chapter of this if I were like some writers, but I like to cram my measure tight down, you see, and give you a great deal for your money, and, in a word, they had some bread and cheese and ale upstairs on the balcony of the inn. As they were drinking, drums and trumpets sounded nearer and nearer, the marketplace was filled with soldiers, and His Royal Highness looking forth, recognised the Paflagonian banners, and the Paflagonian national air which the bands were playing. The troops all made for the tavern at once, and as they came up Giglio exclaimed, on beholding their leader, ‘Whom do I see? Yes! No! It is, it is! Phoo! No, it can’t be! Yes! It is my friend, my gallant faithful veteran, Captain Hedzoff! Ho! Hedzoff! Knowest thou not thy Prince, thy Giglio? Good Corporal, methinks we once were friends. Ha, Sergeant, an’ my memory serves me right, we have had many a bout at singlestick.’ ‘I’ faith, we have, a many, good my Lord,’ says the Sergeant. ‘Tell me, what means this mighty armament,’ continued His Royal Highness from the balcony, ‘and whither march my Paflagonians?’ Hedzoff’s head fell. ‘My Lord,’ he said, ‘we march as the allies of great Padella, Crim Tartary’s monarch.’ ‘Crim Tartary’s usurper, gallant Hedzoff! Crim Tartary’s grim tyrant, honest Hedzoff!’ said the Prince, on the balcony, quite sarcastically. ‘A soldier, Prince, must needs obey his orders: mine are to help His Majesty Padella. And also (though alack that I should say it!) to seize wherever I should light upon him.’ ‘First catch your hare! ha, Hedzoff!’ exclaimed His Royal Highness. ‘--On the body of GIGLIO, whilome Prince of Paflagonia’ Hedzoff went on, with indescribable emotion. ‘My Prince, give up your sword without ado. Look! we are thirty thousand men to one!’