the field. I
accoutred myself in the wrestler's garb; I entered the ring. The
shouting of the multitude ceased instantaneously. I gazed upon my
antagonist, he gazed upon me. Our hands fell; we both shook; we were the
image of each other. Three years afterwards I was in Holland. A soldier
was unjustly condemned to die; I saved him; I obtained his pardon. He
was my strange counterpart whom I met in Devonshire. He had the mark of
the rose-bud beneath his chin that I have, and which you say my brother
has."

"And where is he now?" eagerly inquired the colonel.

"Alas! I know not," answered Charles; "nor do I think he lives. Three
days after I had rescued him from unmerited death, I learned that he had
fallen bravely on the field; and whether he be now a prisoner or with
the dead, I cannot tell."

"Surely it was thy brother," said the colonel; "yet how he should be in
Devonshire, or a soldier in the ranks, puzzles me to think. No, no,
Charles, it cannot be; it is a coincidence, heightened by imagination.
Your grandfather has not been kind to me, but he is not capable of the
cruelty which the tale you have told would imply he had exercised
towards the child I entrusted to his care. He hates me, but surely he
could not be cruel to my offspring. You know Morris House?" he added.

"I know it well," replied Charles; "but I never knew in it one who could
be my brother, nor one of my age; neither did I know Mr. Morris to be my
grandfather; nor yet have I heard of him but as one who had injured my
mother while she lived, and who had been the enemy of her parents."

"Enough, enough, my son," said the colonel; "my soul is filled with
words which I cannot utter. I weep for your angel-mother; I weep for my
son, your brother; and I mourn for the unceasing hatred that exists
between your grandsires. But, Charles, we must return to England; we
must do so instantly. I have now fortune enough for you and for your
brother also, if he yet live, and if we can find him. But we must
inquire after and go in quest of him."

Within three months Charles Morris, or Lieutenant Sim as he has hitherto
been called, and his father returned to England together. But instead of
following them, I shall return to George Prescot, the prize-wrestler and
the condemned and pardoned soldier. It has been mentioned that he was
wounded and left upon the field by a retreating army. I have to add that
he was made prisoner, and when his wounds were healed, he was, t