The first rays of the morning sun were brilliantly reflected by the polished arms of Ryno and Idallan, as they rode gaily forth in search of adventures. It was not their first similar excursion. As usual with errant knights, they had struck down many a dragon, vanquished many a giant, and rescued many a damsel from the clutches of wicked magicians. Delicate arms had clasped their knees in gratitude, tender bosoms had feverishly beat against their iron breastplates, ruby lips had pledged them in golden cups of the juice of the Syracusan grape, and yet their hearts remained cold and impenetrable as the pure steel of their armor. The delightful consciousness of freedom, strength, and youthful spirits, spoke in their every movement. Stately and beautiful they passed on their way, their sharp lances resting quietly upon their right stirrups, their swords peacefully clinking in their scabbards, and their hands carelessly holding their highly ornamented bridle reins. Suddenly they heard female voices uttering distressing cries for help. The steeds snorted and pricked up their ears; the knights involuntarily drew a tighter rein, seized their lances, and applied the spur; and thus they darted forward with perfect indifference whether this new adventure should be crowned with wounds or kisses, blows or treasures, a martyr's chains, or an hymeneal altar. Their panting chargers soon bore them to a forest filled with oaks of a thousand years, whence had proceeded those outcries, which were now subsiding to sobs so low as to be almost lost to the ear. At length a green meadow opened upon them through the wood, and there, enclosed by a circle of Moors, stood two powerless maidens of angelic beauty, bound to a tree. An old, meagre, yellow monster, in the rich dress of the east, appeared to be feasting himself with gazing upon their charms. He had just drawn a dagger from his girdle and was about to approach one of the maidens, when Ryno and Idallan burst upon them from the thicket with the suddenness of the lightning's flash, and the fury of the storm. Knight-errant like, without asking any questions, they nailed six of the Moors to the nearest oaks with their lances, and then, (as if Vulcan had sent his cyclops to the work,) their blows fell like hail upon the astonished Moors. Courage, strength, knowledge of the use of arms, and the consciousness of a good cause, enabled them quickly to overpower their venal opponents. Those, who were not killed by the sword or trampled down by the horses, threw away their weapons and fled. Only the horrid looking yellow old man kept his ground, and he was busily employed in drawing strange characters in the air with a black wand. 'You lose your pains!' cried Idallan, laughing. 'You must know, sir wizard, that our arms, tempered by the fairy Diamanta, fear no magic charm, and that only superior natural power can prevail against them.'