"It was a curious pile in the days of which I speak, that old house of Penrhyn, with its uncouth rambling style of architecture, belonging to no age in particular, but a little to all. The principal part of it, however, had been built in Queen Elizabeth's time, and, as I have said, many of the queer gables and twisted chimneys yet remain. Before it lies the sea, and away to the right a chain of magnificent mountains, sweeping into the very heart of Snowdonia. The Denbighshire range, and the long low hills trending away to the mouth of the Dee, give a charm to the landscape, while the broad lands of Penrhyn lie stretched around. The woods of Gloddaeth and Bodysgallen add to the beauty of the scene, and close to the house a chapel, in good repair, the ruins of which still stand, then told of the religious faith of the Pughs of Penrhyn. "Between them and the powerful family of the lords of Gloddaeth a feud existed, and the Sir Roger Mostyn of that day had added to it by forcing his neighbour to remove the stone cross which formed the only ornament of the chapel. The owner of the place, Robert Pugh of Penrhyn, was old, and a mere tool in the hands of a wily priest, Father Guy. This latter was a dangerous man. Bred in the Jesuit `Collegio dei Nobili' at Rome, he had by accident inherited his brother's titles and part of his estates. The rank Sir William Guy never publicly assumed. Wholly absorbed in his religious views he had visited many countries, and had in his fanaticism longed even for the crown of martyrdom. "The small Catholic community, existing by sufferance only in the heart of this wild Welsh land, had attracted his attention, and he had asked and obtained the small chaplainry of Penrhyn, soon acquiring a complete ascendancy over the owner. "The tenants of the place, as well as those of Coetmore, were at his disposal, old Robert Pugh's only son and heir, Henry, being affianced to Lucy Coetmore. Help had been promised by the Earl of Shrewsbury and other Catholic nobles in England, so the fanatic priest had determined to raise the standard of revolt, and thought he saw his way to success." "And Lucy Coetmore, Enrico, was she beautiful?" "You shall see her picture yourself, Isabel. It hangs in the entrance of Plas Coch, on the banks of the Conway;" and Hughes paused, for the memory of the quiet valley and the flowing river, with its grey ruins and old Roman remains, came over him as he glanced at the waste of waters, while their helpless position struck him in contrast with a sickening sensation. "What a curious red star that is down in the horizon!" he remarked. "I could almost fancy it goes out sometimes; but to continue--