over the castle, from the dungeons below to the cell-like
rooms in the topmost towers. She led him through state bedrooms,
in which had slept many a warlike Welsh prince, whose bones could
scarcely be in worse order than the magnificence which once had
sheltered them. She piloted him down long galleries with arcades on
one side, like a cloister, and a row of rooms on the other wherein the
retainers of ancient princes of the house of Penrhyn had been wont to
rest their thews after a hard day's fight. She slid back panels and
conducted him up by secret ways to gloomy rooms, thick with cobwebs,
where treasure had been hid, and heads too loyal to a fallen king had
alone felt secure on their trunks. She led him to chambers hung with
tapestries wrought by fair, forgotten grandmothers, who over their
work had dreamed their eventless lives away. She showed him the
chapel, impressive in its ancient Norman simplicity and in its ruin,
and the great smoke-begrimed banqueting-hall, where wassails had been
held, and beauty had thought her lord a beast.

"Well," she demanded, as they paused at length on the threshold of the
picture-gallery, "what do you think of my father's castle?"

"Your father's castle is the most consistent thing I have seen for
a long time: it is an artistically correct setting for your father's
daughter. The chain of evolution is without a missing link. And
what is better, the last link is uncorroded with the rust of modern
conventions. Seriously, your castle is the most romantic I have ever
seen. The nineteenth century is forgotten, and I am a belted Knight of
Merrie England who has stormed your castle and won you by his prowess.
You stood in your window, high up in your tower, and threw me a rose,
while your father stalked about the ramparts and swore that my bones
should whiten on the beach. I raised the rose to my lips, dashed
across the drawbridge, and hurled my lance at the gates. About my head
a shower of barbs and bullets fell, but I heeded them not. Behind me
thundered my retainers, and under their onslaught the mighty gates
gave way with a crash, and the castle was ours! We trampled into
the great hall, making it ring with our shouts and the clash of our
shields. Your father's men fled before us, but he calmly descended the
staircase and confronted us with his best Welsh stare. 'I fear ye not,
villains,' he cried. 'Barbarians, English dogs! I defy ye. Do your
worst. My daughter and I for death care no