_Mr. Chainmail_.—Very true; hearts, heads, and arms have all degenerated, most sadly. We can no more feel the high impassioned love of the ages, which some people have the impudence to call dark, than we can wield King Richard’s battleaxe, bend Robin Hood’s bow, or flourish the oaken graft of the Pindar of Wakefield. Still we have our tastes and feelings, though they deserve not the name of passions; and some of us may pluck up spirit to try to carry a point, when we reflect that we have to contend with men no better than ourselves. _Captain Fitzchrome_.—We do not now break lances for ladies. _Mr. Chainmail_.—No; nor even bulrushes. We jingle purses for them, flourish paper-money banners, and tilt with scrolls of parchment. _Captain Fitzchrome_.—In which sort of tilting I have been thrown from the saddle. I presume it was not love that led you from the flotilla? _Mr. Chainmail_.—By no means. I was tempted by the sight of an old tower, not to leave this land of ruined castles, without having collected a few hints for the adornment of my baronial hall. _Captain Fitzchrome_.—I understand you live _en famille_ with your domestics. You will have more difficulty in finding a lady who would adopt your fashion of living, than one who would prefer you to a richer man. _Mr. Chainmail_.—Very true. I have tried the experiment on several as guests; but once was enough for them: so, I suppose, I shall die a bachelor. _Captain Fitzchrome_.—I see, like some others of my friends, you will give up anything except your hobby. _Mr. Chainmail_.—I will give up anything but my baronial hall. _Captain Fitzchrome_.—You will never find a wife for your purpose, unless in the daughter of some old-fashioned farmer. _Mr. Chainmail_.—No, I thank you. I must have a lady of gentle blood; I shall not marry below my own condition: I am too much of a herald; I have too much of the twelfth century in me for that. _Captain Fitzchrome_.—Why, then your chance is not much better than mine. A well-born beauty would scarcely be better pleased with your baronial hall than with my more humble offer of love in a cottage. She must have a town-house, and an opera-box, and roll about the streets in a carriage; especially if her father has a rotten borough, for the sake of which he sells his daughter, that he may continue to sell his country. But you were inquiring for a guide to the ruined castle in this vicinity; I know the way and will conduct you. The proposal pleased Mr. Chainmail, and they set forth on their expedition. CHAPTER XIII. THE LAKE—THE RUIN. Or vieni, Amore, e quà meco t’assetta. ORLANDO INNAMORATO.