carved in all the quaint devices of art, then in its childhood: but the arms of the family, the crest, and the motto, were conspicuous every where. Around were those memorials to which time gives such value—several complete suits of armour, each belonging to some honourable name, whose deeds were the theme of legendary story. The dark plumes yet waved over each helmet, the slight feather outlasting the stalwart warrior on whose head it had once danced: a fragile thing, yet more enduring than its master. There were stands, too, of curious arms—some strange and foreign-looking eastern cimiters, whose crooked steel had been brought from Palestine: others, of a more recent date, had equally their history. There were the short heavy carbines, and the richly mounted pistols, which had done their duty in the parliamentary wars, when the Courtenayes followed the fortunes of the ill-fated Charles. The gallant history came down to the present time; for there were the colours which his father had taken from a French
