The ruffians drag the maiden this way and that, evidently undecided as to which road they shall take to their mountains wild. They seem bent upon rending her lovely form into small pieces and running off the opposite sides of the stage with the fragments. Help, oh, help me! she cries. A sudden tumult is heard without. Make way there, make way! is heard, at least two yards from the spot. She shrieks more loudly. I hear his lovèd step without! she cries. And the next moment a figure clad in armour rushes in, and with one blow lays the two ruffians dead upon the stage. His visor is down, and towering in his helmet is a sable plume. It is he, the Knight of the Sable Plume! He supports Edith on one arm; he raises the other aloft to the skies, and the curtain drops upon the picture amidst the admiring plaudits of the audience. Vociferous cries for Fitz! Fitz! bring that hero to the front of the curtain, where he gracefully bows, and wipes his brow languidly with a cambric handkerchief The second act introduces my friend Turk West, in the character of Plantagenet. I am glad to find that he is a favourite with the audience, who clap their hands, and two or three profane ones cry out, 'Bravo, Turk! Go in and win!' I am not aware whether this is a stimulant to him, but he certainly 'goes in' with vigour. The scene in which he appears is described as the grand hall in the castle, and its appointments are two chairs and a brown wooden table of modern manufacture. Very ruthless and very fierce indeed does Turk look, and he is accompanied by the pair of dead ruffians, who now appear as retainers: I recognise them by their buff boots. It is in vain that I endeavour to unravel the plot; the threads slip from me directly I attempt to gather them together. From a lengthy soliloquy indulged in by Plantagenet, I learn that he is not the rightful owner of the battlemented castle. Seventeen years ago he killed a noble prince in cold blood (which popular phrase cannot be a correct one), and murdered his beautiful child, the last, last scion of a noble race. (Here Turk grows magnificent, and 'goes in' with a will.) Oh, agony! He beholds once more their mangled corpses, he sees the death-sweat br-reaking on their brows! The demon of remorse is tearing at his vitals. Oh, would he could recall the past, and restore the two wooden chairs and the table to their rightful owner! During the applause that follows, Turk winks at me, and I am delighted. The low-comedy man and a waiting-maid in short petticoats and wearing an embroidered apron, as was the fashion with waiting-maids in the days of chivalry, play important comic parts in the piece, and send the audience into convulsions of laughter. But the plot has quite baffled me, and I have given up all hope of unravelling it. The Knight of the Sable Plume has been thrown into prison by Plantagenet, after a desperate fight with eight retainers (in slippers), and is released by