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--

"Lucy was a tall stately heiress; her hair was not like yours, Isabel,
but of a golden brown, and her eyes blue and full of melancholy
softness, her complexion of that transparent white and red so seldom
seen united with strong constitutions. The white was the enamelled
white of ivory, and the red was the blush of the wild rose. The charm
of her beautiful face and well-turned head was heightened by the
graceful neck and slender figure. Lucy was a Saxon beauty."

"And did she die young?" languidly asked Isabel.

"She did; leaving one daughter, who married my great grandfather, and
through whom the property came into my family; but now we must leave
Penrhyn for a time, dearest.

"It was ten o'clock in the morning, and Sir Roger Mostyn sat in the
great hall of Gloddaeth. There was the ample fireplace with its
old-fashioned dogs, the panelled and carved oaken walls and roof. There
was a balcony at the further end, where the white-haired harpers played,
and sang tales of war and love; curious antique mottoes were blazoned on
the walls in old Welsh characters. There, too, were the arms of the
Mostyns and the Royal device of the Tudors, with the red dragon grinning
defiance to the world. Sir Roger seemed uneasy as he threw open the
latticed window and let in a glorious flood of sunshine and fresh air
into the ancient hall. On the terrace beyond several children were
playing, while before him, for many a mile, lay his own broad lands.
The woods of Bodysgallen and of Marl were waving in the wind. There
were the grey towers of Conway Castle and the glancing river, the noble
background of the Snowdonian Mountains closing the view, with the
splendid outline of old Penmaenmawr as it sank with one sheer swe