_Captain Fitzchrome_.—Well, your ballad is very pleasant: you shall show me the scene, and I will sketch it; but just now I am more interested about your love. What heroine of the twelfth century has risen from the ruins of the old castle, and looked down on you from the ivied battlements? _Mr. Chainmail_.—You are nearer the mark than you suppose. Even from those battlements a heroine of the twelfth century has looked down on me. _Captain Fitzchrome_.—Oh! some vision of an ideal beauty. I suppose the whole will end in another tradition and a ballad. _Mr. Chainmail_.—Genuine flesh and blood; as genuine as Lady Clarinda. I will tell you the story. Mr. Chainmail narrated his adventures. _Captain Fitzchrome_.—Then you seem to have found what you wished. Chance has thrown in your way what none of the gods would have ventured to promise you. _Mr. Chainmail_.—Yes, but I know nothing of her birth and parentage. She tells me nothing of herself, and I have no right to question her directly. _Captain Fitzchrome_.—She appears to be expressly destined for the light of your baronial hall. Introduce me in this case, two heads are better than one. _Mr. Chainmail_.—No, I thank you. Leave me to manage my chance of a prize, and keep you to your own chance of a— _Captain Fitzchrome_.—Blank. As you please. Well, I will pitch my tent here, till I have filled my portfolio, and shall be glad of as much of your company as you can spare from more attractive society. Matters went on pretty smoothly for several days, when an unlucky newspaper threw all into confusion. Mr. Chainmail received newspapers by the post, which came in three times a week. One morning, over their half-finished breakfast, the Captain had read half a newspaper very complacently, when suddenly he started up in a frenzy, hurled over the breakfast table, and, bouncing from the apartment, knocked down Harry Ap Heather, who was coming in at the door to challenge his supposed rival to a boxing-match. Harry sprang up, in a double rage, and intercepted Mr. Chainmail’s pursuit of the Captain, placing himself in the doorway, in a pugilistic attitude. Mr. Chainmail, not being disposed for this mode of combat, stepped back into the parlour, took the poker in his right hand, and displacing the loose bottom of a large elbow chair, threw it over his left arm as a shield. Harry, not liking the aspect of the enemy in this imposing attitude, retreated with backward steps into the kitchen, and tumbled over a cur, which immediately fastened on his rear. Mr. Chainmail, half-laughing, half-vexed, anxious to overtake the Captain, and curious to know what was the matter with him, pocketed the newspaper, and sallied forth, leaving Harry roaring for a doctor and tailor, to repair the lacerations of his outward man.