But another reign brought different scenes. Upon the disputes of Charles and the Parliament, a strong garrison was again supported in the tower, and the costly velvet which had decked the “Progress” of James, through the ponderous gateway, was removed from the trampling hoof of the war steed. The Parliamentary army besieged it, but it made a bold defence, until, by accident, the magazine of powder in the strongest battlement, was ignited; and as the assailants were making a vigorous effort, all at once three of the buttresses were blown up, and Cromwell’s troops were masters of Houghton Tower, having taken all the garrison as prisoners. Their governor, Sir Gilbert, had fallen in the assault. His son Richard was heir, and the rightful lord of the tower, but he was confined in a dungeon, along with his youngest daughter, Anne--for all her sisters were married. But the wily Cromwell, when he was compelled to lead his troops to Ireland, secretly advised his officers in the garrison to give out that they were willing to conspire against the Parliament, and to return to their allegiance, in order that he might be privy to every intended movement of the Royalists. The plot was successful. As soon as Cromwell had departed from England, (he never had resided in the tower,) this resolution was made known, and to prove its sincerity, Sir Richard Houghton was restored to his claims as governor of Houghton Tower, which was once more considered as a strong-hold of the Royalists; while virtually it was in the power of spies, who secretly conveyed all intelligence of any loyal movement which was, or had been concerting,--to the General. The scene of our Legend opens in the year 1651, on a beautiful evening towards the end of August, when the setting rays of the autumn sun fell, with a luxurious light, on the grey fortresses, and the floating banner. The fair Anne was walking alone, on the eastern battlement which overlooked the valley. She was of slight proportions, and her age could not have exceeded sixteen, though she was possessed of a mind nobly accomplished, in which genius and passion were now beginning to develope themselves, in beauty and power. Her features were eminently noble, and beautiful; yet changing to every expression, as if they themselves thought and felt. In one mood, she might have sat to the painter, for a true image of the laughing and innocent Hebe; one who would have danced away an immortality in smiles, with no other wreathes than her own beautiful hair, and no other company than her own thoughts and love: more gay and gladsome than a child of earth,--the genius of witchery. In another, for that of Melancholy, her long dark locks hanging over a face so pale, with the colour and the life of hope dashed from it, as was hope itself, from her mind. Her form was moulded in the most perfect symmetry of beauty,--not luxurious, but spiritual.