The old man stood, and, holding the lamp above his head, gazed in respectful admiration at the grim figure of a Knight in armor. There might have been little to charm the lover of painting in the execution of the picture, and the mere castle-builder could scarcely have indulged his fancy in weaving a story from the countenance of the portrait, for the vizor was down, and he stood in all the unmoved sternness of his iron prison, with his glaived hands elapsed upon the cross of a long straight sword. Tate gazed on him for some moments. Heaven knows with what qualities of mind or person the old man had endowed him, for while to others he was only Sir Gavin Darcy, first Knight of Gwynne, Tate in all likelihood had invested him with traits of character and appearance, of which that external shell was the mere envelope. “We're going, Sir Gavin,” muttered the old man, as if addressing the portrait; “'tis the ould stock is laving the place, never to see it more; 't is your own proud heart will be sorry to-day to look down upon us. Ah, ah!” muttered he, “the world is changed; there was times when a Darcy would n't quit the house of his fathers without a blow for it--aud they say we are better now!” With a heavy sigh he passed on, and stood before the next picture. “Yes, my Lady,” said he, “ye may well cry that lost the two beautiful boys the same morning, fighting side by side; but there's heavier grief here now: the brave youths sleep in peace and in honor; but we have no home to shelter us!” With a slow step and bent-down head, he tottered on, and, placing the lamp upon the floor, crossed his arms upon his breast. “'Tis you that can help us now,” said he as he cast a timid and imploring glance at the goodly countenance and rotund figure of Bernhard Emmeric, fourth Abbot of Gwynne; “'tis your reverence can offer a prayer for your own blood that's in sore trouble and distress. Do it, my Lord; do it in the name of the Vargin. Smiling and happy you look, but it 's sorrowful your heart is in you to see what's going on here. Them, them was the happy days, when it was n't the cry of grief was heard beneath this roof, but the heavenly chants of holy men, and the prayers of the blessed mass.” He knelt down as he said this, and with trembling lips and tearful eyes recited some verses from his breviary. This done, he arose, and, as if with renovated courage, proceeded on his way.