d there what always happens. They melted away like snow before
the sun, as the trembling notes of a trumpet were heard outside the
house--chapel and outbuildings being surrounded by the royal troops.

"Sir Roger had no wish to make prisoners, his only desire was to break
up the plot; so in the confusion all made their escape except one, and
that was my ancestor, the master of Penrhyn, who scorned to fly.

"Even the old priest was hustled away, still vomiting excommunications
and threats. The chapel was dismantled, and the master of Penrhyn so
heavily fined, that one by one his broad lands melted away, and were
lost by his attachment to the Catholic faith."

"And Lucy?" asked Isabel; "your tale is worth nothing without her."

"Oh, Lucy was our saviour. She married the young heir of Penrhyn,
inherited the estates of Coetmore, and they passed to us."

"And the old priest--what was Father Guy's fate, Enrico? Do you know?"

"Indeed, yes. His was a curious one. The country I speak of is now a
populous neighbourhood. A large watering place has sprung up there, and
the white houses and terraces of Llandudno replace the fishermen's huts
of St Tudno's time; but few who go there now either know of or care for
the curious deeds of the past.

"The `Wyvern,' the cutter which had brought the Irish Catholics from the
Isle of Man, still lay in the bay under the shelter of the little Orme.

"It is a curious spot, Isabel, and has a beautiful pebbly beach; the
water is deep, and the Orme falls in one sheer sweep into the sea there,
so that when the wind is from the north and east, the waves strike its
base, and the foam flies scores of yards up its sides. A mass of rock
has tumbled down, and lies in picturesque confusion in the centre of the
bay. There are strange caves and holes in the rocks, and when the
cutter sailed all supposed the priest had gone too.

"Days passed, and quiet crept again over the grand old land of
Creuddyn."

"You speak as if you like the country, Enrico?"

"And so I do," replied Hughes, warmly. "I was born among its fine old
mountains, and I love its old-fashioned, brave, honest-hearted race; but
to continue. Days had passed when some fishermen at sea noticed a
spiral wreath of smoke issuing from the face of the lesser Orme.

"They talked of this over the fire at night. Some laughed at the tale,
but others of the older men remembered to have heard of a cave in the
flanks of the mountain, long