Mr. Chainmail.—You are nearer the mark than you suppose. Even from those battlements a heroine of the twelfth century has looked down on me.
Captain Fitzchrome.—Oh! some vision of an ideal beauty. I suppose the whole will end in another tradition and a ballad.
Mr. Chainmail.—Genuine flesh and blood; as genuine as Lady Clarinda. I will tell you the story.
Mr. Chainmail narrated his adventures.
Captain Fitzchrome.—Then you seem to have found what you wished. Chance has thrown in your way what none of the gods would have ventured to promise you.
Mr. Chainmail.—Yes, but I know nothing of her birth and parentage. She tells me nothing of herself, and I have no right to question her directly.
Captain Fitzchrome.—She appears to be expressly destined for the light of your baronial hall. Introduce me in this case, two heads are better than one.
Mr. Chainmail.—No, I thank you. Leave me to manage my chance of a prize, and keep you to your own chance of a—
Captain Fitzchrome.—Blank. As you please. Well, I will pitch my tent here, till I have filled my portfolio, and shall be glad of as much of your company as you can spare from more attractive society.
Matters went on pretty smoothly for several days, when an unlucky newspaper threw all into confusion. Mr. Chainmail received newspapers by the post, which came in three times a week. One morning, over their half-finished breakfast, the Captain had read half a newspaper very complacently, when suddenly he started up in a frenzy, hurled over the breakfast table, and, bouncing from the apartment, knocked down Harry Ap Heather, who was coming in at the door to challenge his supposed rival to a boxing-match.