THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

of an East Indian vessel lately arrived from Britain was sedulously polite to her; and two or three gentlemen, whom Hartley knew to be engaged in trade, tended upon her as they would have done upon the safety of a rich argosy.

      “For Heaven’s sake, what is that for a Zenobia?” said Hartley, to the gentleman whose whisper had first attracted his attention to this lofty dame.

      “Is it possible you do not know the Queen of Sheba?” said the person of whom he enquired, no way both to communicate the information demanded. “You must know, then, that she is the daughter of a Scotch emigrant, who lived and died at Pondicherry, a sergeant in Lally’s regiment. She managed to marry a partisan officer named Montreville, a Swiss or Frenchman, I cannot tell which. After the surrender of Pondicherry, this hero and heroine—But hey—what the devil are you thinking of?—If you stare at her that way, you will make a scene; for she will think nothing of scolding you across the table.”

      But without attending to his friend’s remonstrances, Hartley bolted from the table at which he sat, and made his way, with something less than the decorum which the rules of society enjoin, towards the place where the lady in question was seated.

      “The Doctor is surely mad this morning”—said his friend Major Mercer to old Quartermaster Calder.

      Indeed, Hartley was not perhaps strictly in his senses; for looking at the Queen of Sheba as he listened to Major Mercer, his eye fell on a light female form beside her, so placed as if she desired to be eclipsed by the bulky form and flowing robes we have described, and to his extreme astonishment, he recognised the friend of his childhood, the love of his youth—Menie Gray herself!

      To see her in India was in itself astonishing. To see her apparently under such strange patronage, greatly increased his surprise. To make his way to her, and address her, seemed the natural and direct mode of satisfying the feelings which her appearance excited.

      His impetuosity was, however, checked, when, advancing close upon Miss Gray and her companion, he observed that the former, though she looked at him, exhibited not the slightest token of recognition, unless he could interpret as such, that she slightly touched her upper lip with her forefinger, which, if it happened otherwise than by mere accident, might be construed to mean, “Do not speak to me just now.” Hartley, adopting such an interpretation, stood stock still, blushing deeply; for he was aware that he made for the moment but a silly figure.

      He was the rather convinced of this, when, with a voice which in the force of its accents corresponded with her commanding air, Mrs. Montreville addressed him in English, which savoured slightly of a Swiss patois,—”You have come to us very fast, sir, to say nothing at all. Are you sure you did not get your tongue stolen by de way?”

      “I thought I had seen an old friend in that lady, madam,” stammered Hartley, “but it seems I am mistaken.”

      “The good people do tell me that you are one Doctors Hartley, sir. Now, my friend and I do not know Doctors Hartley at all.”

      “I have not the presumption to pretend to your acquaintance, madam, but him”—

      Here Menie repeated the sign in such a manner, that though it was only momentary, Hartley could not misunderstand its purpose; he therefore changed the end of his sentence, and added, “But I have only to make my bow, and ask pardon for my mistake.”

      He retired back accordingly among the company, unable to quit the room, and enquiring at those whom he considered as the best newsmongers for such information as—”Who is that stately-looking woman, Mr. Butler?”

      “Oh, the Queen of Sheba, to be sure.”

      “And who is that pretty girl, who sits beside her?”

      “Or rather behind her,” answered Butler, a military chaplain; “faith, I cannot say—Pretty did you call her?” turning his opera-glass that way—”Yes, faith, she is pretty—very pretty—Gad, she shoots her glances as smartly from behind the old pile yonder, as Teucer from behind Ajax Telamon’s shield.”

      “But who is she, can you tell me?”

      “Some fair-skinned speculation of old Montreville’s, I suppose, that she has got either to toady herself, or take in some of her black friends with.—Is it possible you have never heard of old Mother Montreville?”

      “You know I have been so long absent from Madras”—

      “Well,” continued Butler, “this lady is the widow of a Swiss officer in the French service, who after the surrender of Pondicherry, went off into the interior, and commenced soldier on his own account. He got possession of a fort, under pretence of keeping it for some simple Rajah or other; assembled around him a parcel of desperate vagabonds, of every colour in the rainbow; occupied a considerable territory, of which he raised the duties in his own name, and declared for independence. But Hyder Naig understood no such interloping proceedings, and down he came, besieged the fort and took it, though some pretend it was betrayed to him by this very woman. Be that as it may, the poor Swiss was found dead on the ramparts. Certain it is, she received large sums of money, under pretence of paying off her troops, surrendering of hillforts, and Heaven knows what besides. She was permitted also to retain some insignia of royalty; and, as she was wont to talk of Hyder as the Eastern Solomon, she generally became known by the title of Queen of Sheba. She leaves her court when she pleases, and has been as far as Fort St. George before now. In a word, she does pretty much as she likes. The great folks here are civil to her, though they look on her as little better than a spy. As to Hyder, it is supposed he has ensured her fidelity by borrowing the greater part of her treasures, which prevents her from daring to break with him—besides other causes that smack of scandal of another sort.”

      “A singular story,” replied Hartley to his companion, while his heart dwelt on the question, How it was possible that the gentle and simple Menie Gray should be in the train of such a character as this adventuress?

      “But Butler has not told you the best of it,” said Major Mercer, who by this time came round to finish his own story. “Your old acquaintance, Mr. Tresham, or Mr. Middlemas, or whatever else he chooses to be called, has been complimented by a report, that he stood very high in the good graces of this same Boadicea. He certainly commanded some troops which she stills keeps on foot, and acted at their head in the Nawaub’s service, who craftily employed him in whatever could render him odious to his countrymen. The British prisoners were intrusted to his charge, and, to judge by what I felt myself, the devil might take a lesson from him in severity.”

      “And was he attached to, or connected with, this woman?”

      “So Mrs. Rumour told us in our dungeon. Poor Jack Ward had the bastinado for celebrating their merits in a parody on the playhouse song,

      ‘Sure such a pair were never seen,

      So aptly formed to meet by nature.’“

      Hartley could listen no longer. The fate of Menie Gray, connected with such a man and such a woman, rushed on his fancy in the most horrid colours, and he was struggling through the throng to get to some place where he might collect his ideas, and consider what could be done for her protection, when a black attendant touched his arm, and at the same time slipped a card into his hand. It bore, “Miss Gray, Mrs. Montreville’s, at the house of Ram Sing Cottah, in the Black Town.” On the reverse was written with a pencil, “Eight in the morning.”

      This intimation of her residence implied, of course, a permission, nay, an invitation, to wait upon her at the hour specified. Hartley’s heart beat at the idea of seeing her once more, and still more highly at the thought of being able to serve her. At least, he thought, if there is danger near her, as is much to be suspected, she shall not want a counsellor, or, if necessary, a protector. Yet, at the same time, he felt the necessity of making himself better acquainted with the circumstances of her case, and the persons with whom she seemed connected. Butler and Mercer had both spoke to their disparagement; but Butler was a little of a coxcomb, and Mercer a great deal of a gossip. While he was considering what credit was due to their testimony, he was unexpectedly encountered by a gentleman