There were several other groups of sight-seers waiting in the ante-room for guides to conduct them. And presently these guides appeared, bringing out parties they had been attending. One of them beckoning our friends to follow him, led them straightways into a vast hall, some hundred feet in length by thirty in breadth, dimly lighted on each side by stained glass windows and decorated on the walls and ceiling with the most curious and valuable military trophies and emblems. In glass cases under these windows were exhibited such wonders of warlike workmanship as are nowhere else gathered together—helmets, gauntlets, shields, swords, spears, lances and other specimens of armor, won from many a battle-field, stormed fortress, or sacked city, of all ages of history and all countries of the world. And each curious specimen had its equally curious history or legend. Yet our party scarcely glanced at any of these or heard a word of the explanation uttered by their guide. For down the centre of the vast hall, drawn up as in line of battle, was a grim array of equestrian figures, clothed in complete steel, being a line of the old kings of England from the time of Edward the First to the time of James the Second, each man and horse in the armor of his day. “This,” said the guide, pausing before the first figure, that stood upon an elevated platform at the head of the line, “is Edward the First, in the same armor he is said to have worn on his invasion of Scotland. You perceive he is represented as in the act of drawing his sword. Observe, if you please, sir, this beautiful specimen of chain armor.” Thus the guide went on with his explanation of these equestrian effigies of the old kings, calling the attention of his hearers to the most remarkable features of the exhibition and gaining their interest. Each member of this party was deeply absorbed in the subject, but none so deeply as was Drusilla. Her susceptible nature received all the influence, imbibed all the inspiration of the scene. Her vivid imagination carried her centuries back to the storied age in which all these dead and gone heroes lived and acted. “Henry the Sixth,” said the guide, pausing before the effigy of that unhappy king. “Notice, if you please, sir, this splendid specimen of scale-armor, sometimes called flexible armor.” Drusilla gazed on, drinking in every word that fell from this oracle’s lips and deep in the romance of mediæval history when, suddenly looking up, she uttered a half-suppressed cry. Gone were the middle ages with their tales of chivalry and minstrelsy! Vanished king and page, and knight and squire! With her was only the present—the intensely real present! For there, not ten feet from her, stood her husband, Alexander Lyon, Lord Killcrichtoun! His back was turned towards her. He stood over one of the glass cases before the stained-glass window, examining a curious Etruscan helmet.