e miles down the
river there; and what may they call thee?"

"My name," replied the soldier, "is Charles Sim. I am an orphan; my
parents I never saw. And tell me--for this strange resemblance between
us almost overpowers me--do yours live?"

"Whoy," was the reply, "old Tom Prescot and his woif be alive; and they
zay as how they be my vather and moother, and I zuppose they be; but
zoom cast up to them that they bean't."

No wrestling match took place between them; but hand in hand they walked
round the ring together, while the spectators gazed upon them in silent
wonder.

The ensign presented the youth, who might have been styled his
fac-simile, with the purse subscribed by his brother officers and
himself; and in so doing he offered to double its contents. But the
youth, with a spirit above his condition, peremptorily refused the
offer, and said--

"No, master--thank you the zame--I will take nothing but what I have
won."

Charles was anxious to visit "old Tom Prescot and his wife," of whom the
stranger had spoken; but the company to which he belonged was to march
forward to Plymouth on the following day, and there to embark. His
brother officers also dissuaded him from the thought.

"Why, Sim," said they, "the likeness between you and the conqueror of
the ring was certainly a very pretty coincidence, and your meeting each
other quite a drama. But, my good fellow," added they, laughing, "take
the advice of older heads than your own--don't examine too closely into
your father's faults."

Three years passed, and Charles, now promoted to the rank of a
lieutenant, accompanied the Duke of York in his more memorable than
brilliant campaign in Holland. A soldier was accused of having been
found sleeping on guard; he was tried, found guilty, and condemned to be
shot. A corporal's guard was accompanying the doomed soldier from the
place where sentence had been pronounced against him to the
prison-house, from whence he was to be brought forth for execution on
the following day. Lieutenant Sim passed near them. A voice exclaimed--

"Master! master!--save me! save me!"

It was the voice of the condemned soldier. The lieutenant turned round,
and in the captive who called to him for assistance he recognised the
Devonshire wrestler--the strange portrait of himself. And even now, if
it were possible, the resemblance between them was more striking than
before; for, in the stranger, the awkwardness of the peasant had given