Count de Montfort and his daughter Alice were seated together one evening in what was known as the crimson parlour, a comfortable and somewhat elegant room for the period. It was wainscoted in dark oak, with carpets and hangings of richly-figured crimson cloth from the looms of Avignon. They were enjoying a temporary respite from the incessant bustle and turmoil which had been their daily accompaniment since the day they first occupied the Saxon chieftain's patrimony. Even here, their quiet was unpleasantly disturbed by the roystering merriment of their followers in the distant kitchen, who stoutly maintained their freedom to carouse and drink pretty much as they listed. I take the liberty here to introduce the reader to a more intimate acquaintance with the Count and his beautiful and accomplished daughter. The Count was considerably past middle life, probably not less than fifty-five. His sunburnt countenance, and the stern lines about his mouth and forehead, told eloquently the tale of a soldier's life. For the habits of a rough and unscrupulous life had lent a grim and unfeeling hardness to a visage which had strong evidence of force and character depicted in it. There was also palpable evidence of a spirit ill at ease and clouded with doubt, which made him irritable sometimes to a degree positively cruel to friend or foe. His once jet-black locks were silvering rapidly; but his tall form had lost none of its erectness, and his haughty and imperious demeanour proclaimed him a man used to ruling arbitrarily, and little accustomed to brooking opposition, or the frustrating of his purposes. His daughter, Lady Alice de Montfort, was extremely like him in general appearance. Tall and elegant in carriage, her profuse raven tresses were gathered in silken bands, and from thence fell over her shoulders well-nigh to her girdle. Her face was pale; her features regular, as though chiselled. A pair of lustrous dark eyes glowed from between darker lashes, proclaiming her southern extraction. She was indeed a model of queenly beauty. Like many of her countrywomen of exalted station, her youth had been spent in the seclusion of the convent, where alone an education worthy of the name could be obtained. This secluded life--despite her fiery extraction--had toned down her disposition; whilst the culture and refinement had made her a typical example of the romance and troubadour spirit of song, which we Saxons knew to be developed in the maidens of sunny France. For her, the rough life of the Norman occupation, with its scenes of blood and cruelty, was a daily horror.