trout in the Teme; ay, and the day after to-morrow there's a cricket-match! But there's some things very curious at the museum now, I've heard say. First turning on the left, up Castle-street, and then inquire at the corner shop, sir.'

No need here to enter into the discussion as to the merits of numerous small, or a few large, museums; Monkmoor, with its old associations, could well supply a collection of its own, in which, as the Boots at the Angel said, were many curious things; and our hero, though no deep antiquarian, got through an hour very pleasantly. The curator, who, outside the door, acted as a stationer, knew something of the things he had in charge, yet not so much as to bore his audience with abstruse lore. There was a good show of fossil remains, of shells and eggs and ferns-all quickly passed over-but the relics found in and about the castle formed the greater, the unique, part of the collection. Quaint old parchments illumined with the names of Dinan and Mortimer and Sidney; mysterious instruments of torture, rusty arms, and armour -all these were there in plenty, and, as signs of the knights of whom but dust and rust remain, they awake in all some interest in the past. One sword-hilt, to which but a couple of inches of blade remained, particularly attracted Walters: it was honoured by a small glass-topped case all to itself, which was, moreover, locked. He inquired its history.

'Well, sir,' explained the old gentleman, as he reverently unlocked the case and drew out the fragment, it was found some twenty years ago near Mortimer's Cross, a battlefield about, if the spot be rightly guessed, ten miles from here. The hilt is said to be of Italian make, and to have be

longed to Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke, who was there defeated by the Yorkists in the Wars of the Roses. But antiquarians say that it was made long before even his time.'

'It must have belonged to some one of mark; for it is, indeed, unique in shape.'

"Yes, the figure crucified upsidedown to form the cross-handle is certainly St. Peter, who was possibly the owner's patron-saint.'

'Is it heavy? May I handle it? Silver was more valuable then than now.'

'Ay, so I've heard. Do you see, there were once the crossed keys surmounting the foot of the cross, but now only two fragments are left to indicate them. A good many have guessed it belonged originally to a crusader, or a knight of some Italian military order.'

'By Jove, I did not see that it was hollow! A rare idea, worthy of Dr. Lynn himself. What a capital hiding-place for your secrets, in the hilt of your sword!'

'Hollow? Good Heavens, so it is! And we've had it twenty years, and never suspected it, though I've cleaned it several times! Now, to think of your finding it out like that!'

Never was antiquarian so as tonished.

'Evidently the old baron's secrets were reserved for me to bring to light,' answered the young man merrily, as he pointed to a tiny roll of parchment lying in the hollow now so curiously discovered. The old Italian craftsman had made the figure to slip up the cross, when a small indentation at the root of the blade was pressed; in the back of the figure was a square cavity, now containing a rolled slip of parchment. Sportively as the discoverer spoke, there was, and naturally too, a shadow of

gravity over his face, and that of the old curator, as they tenderly unrolled the slip concealed by fingers which had struck their final battle-stroke before the Tudors rose to rule over an England as different from our England as could well be imagined. How little could he, who thus intrusted his secret to his own right hand, at the crisis, perhaps, of his fate, imagine how and when and where it would be brought to light! Walters held the scrap up to the light; upon it were rudely scrawled six words of Latin: Quantum a porta, tantum a piscina.' Below, the vague signature, ‘R. DE B.'

as

'As far from the gate from the piscina,' translated Walters, for his companion's benefit. It is evidently a memorandum, and I think of some spot, though intentionally vague. One thing is certain, R. de B. cannot well stand for Jasper Tudor.'

'No,' replied the curator, who had not got the better of his surprise, and would hardly have marvelled now if the blade had appeared and reunited itself to the treasured hilt. To think that I've handled it scores of times myself!'

'Yes, it is plain that I am destined; but I fear it will do me little good; I expect it is the record of the bold baron's plunderreceptacle, though a church seems a funny place for it at first sight. You see there is nothing else-no inscription or crest.'

'The spring is still in working order, or it would not have been found even by you, sir. It will surprise some of our town, who are great archæologists.'

'Perhaps some of them may make something more out of it, for I am not at all versed in such matters. If St. Peter reveal any more of his secret, pray let me know.'

And Walters gave his address to the old gentleman, who gladly promised to do go, and before leaving, took a last glance at the relic, ere, with its parchment safe in its breast, it was again consigned to the glass case. Another half-hour's talk between our two discoverers it would not help us to relate, so we need only follow Walters as he strolls back to his inn, his thoughts naturally full of the odd discovery, and his brain hard at work, seeking some clue which might make it not altogether futile. เ Quantum a porta, tantum a piscina,' he muttered over his fish; so that the waiter begged his pardon, and asked whether he called for port. But, ruminate as he would, nothing came of it. Next morning he continued his route to the Wye; and among old friends, to many of whom he related the incident, it lost much of its freshness. He heard no tidings of fresh discovery from the museum-keeper, and of course made none himself. Yet often in moments of idle thought he caught himself half-unconsciously conning over the old baron's secret, Quantum a porta, tantum a piscina.'

CHAPTER II.

But

A YEAR had gone by, and once more Eustace Walters was speeding down into the country. he was no longer the unencumbered and almost aimless wanderer of last year. He had met with a young lady who was staying with friends in London, had fallen in love with her, and asked her to be his wife. Now he was on his way to be introduced to Beatrice Bruton's mother, her only living relation, and to get a day fixed for the wedding. Of Beatrice's position he knew little, save that, though of

good family, she had been about to go out into the world as a governess; and having once made up his mind to look for no worldly advantage by the match, he had checked all attempts on her part to explain her mother's poverty. Arrived at Frome, he got into a fly with his traps, and was driven over six miles of very hilly country to his betrothed's native village of Brutcombe, and appropriately set down at the Bruton Arms. No sooner had he alighted than a small boy asked him, in broad Somerset, if he were' Mr. Walters, and, being satisfied, led the way down the road, pointed out a lady in the distance, and discreetly vanished. The lovers were not slow to greet one another, and did and said all sorts of foolish things in the middle of the road. But travellers are generally hungry, and hospitality at length led Beatrice to put a stop to our hero's philandering.

Come, Eus, I must take you home. My mother will be wondering what has happened to me.'

This is what has happened to you;' and it had happened about ninety times.

But, Eus,' she replied, clinging to his arm, 'I have something to tell you first. You know how very poor we are; but you remember you would not let me talk about it.'

'And I want you to talk about nothing you dislike now, darling.'

'But I must tell you now. You know my father was in debt all along, and when he died the people sold the hall, which only just satisfied them, so that my mother found herself without a penny, or an acre, save the old castle-ruins, which were worth nothing to any And we had no relations to give us a home, so what was to become of her?'

one.

'And of you, Beatrice?'

'So she had to take a vacancy

in our old almshouses, where she had often visited others. And she is still there, in our family hospital, built only for our dependents. Shall you mind coming there?"

It was odd how the rising pride seemed to stiffen her looks and words. The answer came not in speech, but it satisfied her; and with that trouble off her mind, she told him more about their fallen fortunes until they came upon such a scene as only old countries can show. On the left of the road, which wound round it, was a small mere; on the right rose a mound covered with roofless walls and towers, in one place but a foot above the soil, in another towering up a still frowning mass of masonry. An old gateway gave admission to a steep road that led to the summit, and on one side of this gateway ran a long low Tudor building with thick-shafted windows overgrown by hart's-tongue and ceterach. In its front were four doors, and at the nearest to the road stood an old lady nicely dressed, who was evidently watching for the pair. She came forward and greeted Walters like a countess, ending, after a long look, by kissing him.

My daughter will have told you something of our condition, Mr. Walters,' she said presently. 'I am not ashamed to welcome you under a roof founded by my ancestors, though they little thought that a Bruton's widow would have no other dower-house.'

'My mother and father were cousins,' put in Beatrice as they entered: we are the last of the race. But there is hope yet, dear mother. Eustace does not know the proverb here, that the Brutons have as many lives as a cat.'

The awkwardness of the meeting being once surmounted, few pleasanter little parties sat down to tea in Somersetshire that night

than was assembled in Brutcombe Almshouse, No. 1. Quickly Walters learned more of the curious history of the family whose last descendant he was to wed. The Brutons of Brutcombe had been great in the land from Stephen's time, and until the Wars of the Roses had held the Barony of Wimborne; but then, taking the wrong side, the barony had been lost by attainder, though half the estates came back with the final Tudor victory. They had gone on gathering power, and in the Civil Wars took the right side at the right time; but regarding the King's return as a precedent to be expected in all future contests, they spent much money in abortive Jacobite schemes along with Sir Watkyn Wynn, and more in escaping painful results. This was the beginning of ruin, completed by extravagance. Gradually the lands, once reaching for miles on every side of Brutcombe Keep, had been parted with; and when the last male Bruton died, broken down by debt and regret, the manor-house, for which the castle had been deserted in Elizabeth's time, had passed from the family. His widow, the possessor of a couple of acres of ruins and a few manorial rights, having no relations, had sought shelter in the charity of her ancestors. The name of the family was still great through the country-side, kept up by the relics of grandeur: the church, full of their monuments, and half occupied by their pew; their arms over the village-inn; the castle, famous among sightseers.

Fresh from the realism, the matter-of-factness, of London life, these things seemed to Walters, as he leaned from his window in the little inn and gazed upon the ruins, that seemed vaster by night, like some patchwork dream of past and present, in which the imagina

tion fits-in every improbability. But he was content. If not wealth, yet long descent, in view of which his own family pride dwindled to a shadow, would come with his bride; and, for her mother, he knew that she would accept nothing. From the hands of their fathers could the Brutons accept alms, and from no others.

Next morning Beatrice took him to see the church, of which I need say nothing, save that it was a Somersetshire church, with one of the towers that, mutilated as most of them are, make that county famous. In it, however, he had now a personal interest; it was but a receptacle of past Brutons, whose monuments of all sorts, from stately effigies in stone armour to mural tablets, telling of Quebec and Waterloo cadets, were there. Within the altar-rails were the oldest records of the family; for there had the tablets and brasses been placed which had been taken from the castle chapel, when it had been left to decay nearly half a century after the rest of the pile had been deserted. Right and left, in front of the altar, were two brasses let into the pavement, one of which affected our hero in a curious manner. He could not conceal his surprise; and when Beatrice asked him the reason, only pointed to the portrait, still almost as clear as on the day it was cut. From the inscription below, it simply appeared that it was Aymer de Bruton, lord of Wimborne, who died in the reign of Edward II., and from the crossed legs it was evident that he was a crusader. But it was not either of these facts that astonished Walters. No; but clasped to his breast, so as clearly to be seen, was finely engraved the identical sword whose curious hilt he had examined at Monkmoor a year ago.

'Look at his sword, Beatrice: what an odd one!' he cried.

'Why, Eustace, how clever you are! For that is quite a celebrated sword among us. How did you know anything about it?'

'Celebrated among you! Why, have you got it now?'

'O dear no, it has been lost hundreds of years; but it was presented to this Aymer de Bruton by the Pope, while on the crusade with Edward I. I know he had obliged the Pope in some way; and, as he was one of the greatest of the old lords of Wimborne, this sword was often carried by his descendants.'

And what became of it? asked Walters, fully expecting the confirmation of his surmise, which came indeed.

'It was lost with Ralph de Bruton at Mortimer's Cross. He was a great ally of the Earl of Pembroke, and after his death his sons left the country. Ralph was the last baron, you know.'

'Beatrice, I have seen the sword, or at least the hilt; and the Brutons shall get it back again yet, long as they have lost it,' cried Eustace; and he briefly related the discovery of the sword hilt at the museum, and asked if she could give any clue to the memorandum found in it. She could not; so the two, in some excitement, hastened to Mrs. Bruton, and told her of the curious coincidence. Their feelings cooled during the recital;

not so hers.

"The Bruton motto, "At length," is being fulfilled; Beatrice shall yet bring you a dowry. Listen, and I will explain my ideas.' There was already a touch of the châtelaine about the old lady. It has always been a tradition of our house that the last baron had intrusted to him a large sum of money, raised abroad by himself and other nobles in the West for the Lancastrian cause. This treasure it is said that he concealed as soon

as it was known that the Earl of March intended to intercept them, and before their unsuccessful attempt to join the main body. No doubt this memorandum, concealed in the hilt of the famous sword, relates to this money, to which we should have a good claim.'

And the note refers, doubtless, to the chapel of your castle.'

It is probable. According to family tradition, it was never found there or elsewhere. Now we will make one more attempt.'

'O yes,' cried the younger ones; 'it cannot have come to light for nothing.'

I have little more to tell of this curious chain of chances by which the fifteenth and the nineteenth centuries were so closely brought together. The hilt was at once applied for and obtained. It was found to tally exactly, but for the injuries of time, with that on the brass in Brutcombe church. Search was then made in the chapel at the castle, under the pretence of looking for old coins, as was indeed the case; and there, exactly between the door and the still-remaining piscina, in a straight line, was found the chest of gold coinage, of French make. It amounted to a considerable sum, even in these days; and in her character both as owner of the soil and as lady of the manor, Mrs. Bruton had ho difficulty in appropriating it openly. Eustace Walters did indeed get a well-dowered bride, but her mother required him, on his marriage, to take the name of Bruton. Bruton Hall, and some of the lands around, have been bought back, and there is money to purchase more when a chance comes. Eustace Walters Bruton is a great man in the county; and Mrs. Bruton lives in hope that the long-dormant peerage may yet be revived in his person. Their motto is yet Tandem'-'At length.'