embellishment in those newly erected, and by the neglect of the
jealous precautions required in former days of confusion and
misrule. Thus it was with the village of Lynwood, where, among
the cottages and farm-houses occupying a fertile valley in
Somersetshire, arose the ancient Keep, built of gray stone,
and strongly fortified; but the defences were kept up rather
as appendages of the owner's rank, than as requisite for his
protection; though the moat was clear of weeds, and full of
water, the drawbridge was so well covered with hard-trodden
earth, overgrown at the edges with grass, that, in spite of
the massive chains connecting it with the gateway, it seemed
permanently fixed on the ground. The spikes of the portcullis
frowned above in threatening array, but a wreath of ivy was
twining up the groove by which it had once descended, and the
archway, which by day stood hospitably open, was at night only
guarded by two large oaken doors, yielding to a slight push.
Beneath the southern wall of the castle court were various
flower-beds, the pride and delight of the old seneschal, Ralph
Penrose, in his own estimation the most important personage of
Lynwood Keep, manager of the servants, adviser of the Lady, and
instructor of the young gentleman in the exercises of chivalry.

One fine evening, old Ralph stood before the door, his bald forehead
and thin iron-gray locks unbonneted, and his dark ruddy-brown face
(marked at Halidon Hill with a deep scar) raised with an air of
deference, and yet of self-satisfaction, towards the Lady who stood
on the steps of the porch. She was small and fragile in figure; her
face, though very lovely, was pale and thin, and her smile had in it
something pensive and almost melancholy, as she listened to his
narration of his dealings with a refractory tenant, and at the same