{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_14416/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_14416","id":"gutenberg_14416","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14416","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Scottish Borders (Scotland) -- Fiction"],"text":"STORIES OF THE BORDER MARCHES\n\n[Illustration]\n\nBY JOHN LANG\nAND JEAN LANG\n\n\nLONDON: T.C. & E.C. JACK LTD.\n67 LONG ACRE, W.C., AND EDINBURGH\n\n1916\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nThe quotation that speaks of \"Old, unhappy, far-off things, and battles\nlong ago,\" has grown now to be hackneyed. Yet, are not they those \"old,\nunhappy, far-off things\" that lure us back from a very commonplace and\nutilitarian present, and cause us to cling to the romance of stories\nthat are well-nigh forgotten?\n\nIn these days of rushing railway journeys, of motor cars, telegrams,\ntelephones, and aeroplanes, we are apt to lose sight of the tales of\nmore leisurely times, when lumbering stage-coaches and relays of willing\nhorses were our only means of transit from one kingdom to the other.\n\nBecause the \"long ago\" means to us so infinitely valuable a possession,\nwe have striven to preserve in print a few of the stories that still\nremain--flotsam and jetsam saved from the cruel rush of an overwhelming\ntide.\n\nOne or two of the tales in this volume are perhaps not quite so familiar\nas is the average Border story, and some may contain less of violence\nand of bloodshed than is common. Yet it must be owned that it is no easy\ntask to divorce the Border from its wedded mate, violence.\n\n     JOHN LANG.\n     JEAN LANG.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nTHE WHITE LADY OF BLENKINSOPP      1\n\nDICKY OF KINGSWOOD      17\n\nSTORM AND TEMPEST      28\n\nGRISELL HOME, A SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY HEROINE      45\n\nKINMONT WILLIE      66\n\nIN THE DAYS OF THE '15      82\n\nSEWINGSHIELDS CASTLE, AND THE SUNKEN TREASURE OF\n   BROOMLEE LOUGH      108\n\nTHE KIDNAPPING OF LORD DURIE      115\n\nTHE WRAITH OF PATRICK KERR      132\n\nTHE LAIDLEY WORM OF SPINDLESTON-HEUGH      136\n\nA BORDERER IN AMERICA      147\n\nBORDER SNOWSTORMS      164\n\nTHE MURDER OF COLONEL STEWART OF HARTRIGGE      187\n\nAULD RINGAN OLIVER      195\n\nA LEGEND OF NORHAM      208\n\nTHE GHOST OF PERCIVAL REED      223\n\nDANDY JIM THE PACKMAN      231\n\nTHE VAMPIRES OF BERWICK AND MELROSE      237\n\nA BORDER MIDDY      244\n\nSHEEP-STEALING IN TWEEDDALE      256\n\nA PRIVATE OF THE KING'S OWN SCOTTISH BORDERERS      271\n\nHIGHWAYMEN IN THE BORDER      282\n\nCIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE      295\n\nILLICIT DISTILLING AND SMUGGLING      304\n\nSALMON AND SALMON-POACHERS IN THE BORDER      322\n\nTHE GHOST THAT DANCED AT JETHART      342\n\nA MAN HUNT IN 1813      346\n\nLADY STAIR'S DAUGHTER      351\n\n\n\n\nSTORIES OF THE BORDER MARCHES\n\nTHE WHITE LADY OF BLENKINSOPP\n\n\nAmong the old castles and peel towers of the Border, there are few to\nwhich some tale or other of the supernatural does not attach itself. It\nmay be a legend of buried treasure, watched over by a weeping figure,\nthat wrings its hands; folk may tell of the apparition of an ancient\ndame, whose corpse-like features yet show traces of passions unspent; of\nsolemn, hooded monk, with face concealed by his cowl, who passes down\nthe castle's winding stair, telling his beads; they whisper, it may be,\nof a lady in white raiment, whose silken gown rustles as she walks. Or\nthe tale, perhaps, is one of pitiful moans that on the still night air\necho through some old building; or of the clank of chains, that comes\nringing from the damp and noisome dungeons, causing the flesh of the\nlistener to creep.\n\nThey are all to be found, or at least they _used_ all to be found,\nsomewhere or other in the Border, by those who love such legends. And,\nperhaps, nowhere are they more common than amongst the crumbling,\ngrass-grown ruins of Northumberland.\n\nAway, far up the South Tyne, and up its tributary the Tipalt Burn, close\nto the boundary of Cumberland, there stands all that is left of an\nancient castle, centuries ago the home of an old and once powerful\nfamily. The building dates probably from early in the fourteenth\ncentury. In the year 1339 \"Thomas de Blencansopp\" received licence to\nfortify his house on the Scottish Border, and it is supposed that he\nthen built this castle.\n\nTruly that was a part of England where a man had need be careful in his\nbuilding if he desired to sleep securely and with a whole skin, for on\nall sides of him were wild and turbulent neighbours. From the strenuous\nday of the old Romans, who built across those hills that long line of\nwall, which stands yet in parts solid and strong, for centuries the\ncountryside was lawless and unruly, the inhabitants \"ill to tame,\" and\nevery man a freebooter. The Thirlwalls, the Ridleys, the Howards of\nNaworth, the wild men of Bewcastle; the Armstrongs, Elliots, Scotts, and\nothers across the Border, they were all of them--they and their\nforebears to the earliest times--of the stuff that prefers action,\nhowever stormy, to inglorious peace and quiet, and the man who \"kept up\nhis end\" in their neighbourhood could be no weakling.\n\nWhether the Blenkinsopps were strong enough permanently to hold their\nproperty intact among such neighbours one does not know, but at any\nrate, in 1488 John de Blenkinsopp and his son Gerrard committed the\ncastle to the custody of Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, Warden of\nthe East and Middle Marches. Percy's care of the building, however, does\nnot seem to have been particularly zealous, or else \"the false Scottes\"\nhad again, as was their wont, proved themselves to be unpleasant\nneighbours, for in 1542 the place is described as \"decayed in the Roof,\nand not in good reparation.\"\n\nBefore this date, however, there had been at least one of the\nBlenkinsopp family on whose reputation for daring and strength no man\nmight cast doubt. Far and wide, Bryan de Blenkinsopp was known for his\ndeeds in war; he was counted gallant and brave even amongst the bravest\nand most gallant, and his place in battle was ever where blows fell\nthickest. But it is said that he had one failing, which eventually\nwrecked his life--he was grasping as any Shylock. Love of money was his\nundoing.\n\nIn spite of many chances to do so, in spite of the admiration in which\nhe was universally held, Bryan de Blenkinsopp had never married. He was\ngreatly admired, and yet, for a certain roughness and brutality in him,\ngreatly feared, by many women, and he had been heard many a time\nscoffingly to say that only would he bring home a wife when he had found\na woman possessed of gold sufficient to fill a chest so large that ten\nof his men might not be able to carry it into his castle. Brides of this\ncalibre did not then grow in profusion on either side of the Border, and\nhad he continued to live uninterruptedly in his own country, no doubt\nBryan de Blenkinsopp might have remained to the end unmarried. But:\n\"When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till\nI was married.\" In that, Bryan might have anticipated _Benedick_, as\nwell as in the resolution. \"Rich she shall be, that's certain.\" He went\nabroad to the wars. Perhaps he was with Henry V at Agincourt, and\nthenceforward, till the king's death in 1422, saw more of France than of\nEngland. In any case, to the unbounded wonder of the countryside, when\nat length he did return, Bryan brought back with him a foreign bride to\nBlenkinsopp. And what added to the wonder, the bride brought with her a\nchest of treasure so heavy that twelve of Bryan's retainers could with\ndifficulty bear it into the castle.\n\nNaturally, all this gave rise to endless talk; what prattling little\nbusybody but would relish so succulent a morsel! Ere long the local\ngossip-mongers revelled in a perfect feast of petty scandal. Stories in\nminute detail spread quickly from mouth to mouth. The eccentricities and\nshortcomings of the foreign bride were a priceless boon to the scanty\npopulation of the district; in castle and in peel tower little else for\na time was talked of. To begin with, the mere fact that she was a\nforeigner, and that neither she nor any of her immediate followers could\nspeak English, told heavily against the lady in the estimation of the\ncountryside. Then, hardly anyone ever saw her (which in itself was an\noffence, and the cause of still further tattle). She was very little,\nfolk said who professed to be well informed, and her face and hands\nshowed strangely brown against the white robes that she habitually wore;\nher eyes were like stars; her temper quick to blaze up without due\ncause. Backstairs gossip, no doubt; but there were even pious souls who,\nin strictest confidence, went so far as to hazard the opinion that the\nlady was not quite \"canny\"; she might, they thought, quite possibly turn\nout to be an imp of the Evil One sent with her gold to wile Bryan's soul\nto perdition. The belief was not more fantastic than many another that\nprevailed at that day, and later; and the fact that she was never known\nto go to mass, nor had been seen to cross the threshold of a sacred\nbuilding, lent some weight to it. This was the kind of \"clash\" that\nfloated about the countryside.\n\nBut assuredly there was this much foundation for talk: Bryan and his\nforeign bride were far from happy together. As time went on, their\nquarrels, indeed, became notorious. It was whispered that the fount from\nwhich flowed all the trouble was nothing more nor less than that chest\nof gold which the bride had brought for dowry. The lady, folk said,\nwould not surrender it to her husband; no matter how he stormed. _She_\nwas not of the kind that tamely submits, or cringes before a bully; on\nthe contrary, she ever gave back as good as she received. Finally,\nthings came at length to such a pitch, that the lady and her foreign\nservants, it was said, at dead of night had secretly dug a great hole\nsomewhere in the huge vaulted dungeons of the castle, and had there\nburied her gold and the rich jewels which now she hated as the cause of\nher troubles.\n\nThen, a little later, followed the climax--after violent scenes, Bryan\nhimself disappeared, as if to show that, the treasure being somewhere\nbeyond his ken, or out of his reach, he had no further use for the wife.\nHe might, no doubt, have resorted to poison, or to the knife, in order\nto revenge himself; or he might have so made life a burden to her--as is\ndone sometimes, one is told, even by modern husbands--that she would\nhave been glad to lick his hand like a whipped spaniel, and to have\nowned up, perhaps, to the place where she had hid the gold. But if he\nkilled her, her secret might die with her, or the servants who were in\nher confidence might themselves secure the treasure. Again, she had\nplenty of spirit, and, indeed, rather seemed to enjoy a fight, and it\nwas possible that bullying might not cause her to try to conciliate him\nby revealing the whereabouts of the hidden treasure. So Bryan took the\ncourse that he judged would make things the most unpleasant for his\nwife, and which would at the same time rid him of her. He simply\ndisappeared.\n\nAnd now the poor little lady, fierce enough in quarrel, and bitter\nenough in tongue, was inconsolable. In spite of all--it is one of the\nmost inscrutable of the many inscrutable points in the nature of some\nwomen--in spite of all, she had loved her great, strong, brutal,\nbullying husband, and probably was only jealous of the gold because he\nhad showed too plainly that in his estimation it, and not she, came\nfirst. Her days, unhappy enough before, were now spent in fruitless\nmisery, waiting for him who returned never again. A year and a day\npassed, and still no tidings came to her of Bryan de Blenkinsopp. The\ndeserted wife could bear no longer her life in this alien country, and\nshe, too, with all her servants, went away. Folk, especially those who\nhad always in their hearts suspected her of being an imp of Satan, said\nthat no man saw them go. Probably she went in search of her husband; but\nwhether or not she ever found him, or whether she made her way back to\nthe land from which she had come, none can say, for from that day to\nthis all trace is lost of husband and of wife. Only the tale remained in\nthe country people's minds; and probably it lost nothing in the telling\nas the years rolled on.\n\nThe story of the White Lady of Blenkinsopp became one to which the\ndwellers by Tyneside loved to listen of a winter's evening round the\nfire, and it even began to be whispered that she \"walked.\" More than one\ndweller in the castle claimed to have seen her white-robed figure\nwandering forlorn through the rooms in which she had spent her short,\nunhappy wedded life. Perhaps it may have been due to her influence that\nby 1542 the roof and interior had been neglected and allowed to fall\ninto decay.\n\nYet though shorn of all its former grandeur, for some centuries the\ncastle continued to be partly occupied, and as late as the first quarter\nof last century, in spite of the dread in which the White Lady had come\nto be held, there were families occasionally living in the less ruined\nparts of the building.\n\nAbout the year 1820 two of the more habitable rooms were occupied by a\nlabouring man with his wife and their two children, the youngest a boy\nof eight. They had gone there, the parents at least well knowing the\nreputation of the place; but weeks had passed, their rest had never in\nany way been disturbed, and they had ceased to think of what they now\nconsidered to be merely a silly old story. All too soon, however, there\ncame a night when shriek upon shriek of ghastly terror rang in the ears\nof the sleeping husband and wife, and brought them, with sick dread in\ntheir hearts, hurrying to the room where their children lay.\n\n\"Mither! mither! oh mither! A lady! a lady!\" gasped the sobbing\nyoungest boy, clinging convulsively to his mother.\n\n\"What is't, my bairn? There's never a lady here, my bonny boy. There's\nnobody will harm ye.\"\n\nBut the terrified child would not be comforted. He had seen a lady, \"a\nbraw lady, a' in white,\" who had come to his bedside and, sitting down,\nhad bent and kissed him; she \"cried sore,\" the child said, and wrung her\nhands, and told him that if he would but come with her she would make\nhim a rich man, she would show him where gold was buried in the castle;\nand when the boy answered that he dare not go with her, she had stooped\nto lift and carry him. Then he had cried out, and she had slipped from\nthe room just as his father and mother hurried in.\n\n\"Ye were dreamin', my bonny lamb,\" cried the mother; and the parents,\nafter a time, succeeded in calming the child and in getting him again to\nfall asleep. Night after night, however, as long as the boy remained in\nthat room, this scene was re-enacted; the same terror-stricken screams,\nthe same hurried rush of the parents, the same frightened tale from the\nquivering lips of the child. Dreams, no doubt, induced by some childish\nmalady; a common enough form of nightmare, suggested by previous\nknowledge of a story likely to impress children. But to the day of his\ndeath--and he died an old man, a successful colonist, prosperous and\nrespected, a man in no way prone to superstitious weakness--the dreamer\never maintained that it was something more than a dream that had come to\nhim those nights in Blenkinsopp Castle. He could feel yet, he said, and\nshuddered to feel, the clasp of her arms and the kiss on his cheek from\nthe cold lips of the White Lady; and the dream, if dream it were, was\nnot due to suggestion, for he was conscious of no previous knowledge of\nthe legend.\n\nThe White Lady of Blenkinsopp has fled now, scared from her haunt by the\nblack smoke of tall chimneys and the deep--throated blare of steam\nhooters; coal dust might well lay a more formidable spectre than that of\na Lady in White. But no man has ever yet discovered the whereabouts of\nher hidden treasure, though many have sought.\n\nSeventy or eighty years ago, there came to the inn of a neighbouring\nvillage a lady, who confided to the hostess of the inn that in a dream\nshe had seen herself find, under a certain stone, deep in the dungeon of\na ruined castle, a chest of gold; and Blenkinsopp, she said, answered in\nevery detail to the castle of her dream. Assuredly, she thought, to her\nnow was to be revealed the long-sought burial-place of the White Lady's\ntreasure. But patiently though the dreamer waited on and importuned the\ncastle's owner, permission to make a systematic search among the ruins\nwas too hard to obtain, and the disheartened seer of visions departed,\nand returned no more. And so the hidden treasure to this day remains\nhidden; no prospector has yet lit on that rich \"claim,\" no \"dowser\" has\npoised his magic hazel twig above its bed, nor has clairvoyant revealed\nits whereabouts.\n\nBut rumour had it once that the long-sought hiding-place was found.\nOrders had been given that the vaults of the castle should be cleared of\nrubbish, and fitted up as winter quarters for cattle, and as the workmen\nproceeded with their task they came on a low doorway, hitherto unknown,\non a level with the bottom of the keep. This doorway gave on a narrow\npassage, leading no man knew whither. The report flew abroad that here\nat last was the Lady's vault, and people flocked to see what might be\nseen. None dared venture far along this passage, till one, bolder than\nthe rest, taking his courage in both hands, went gingerly down the way\nso long untrod by human foot. The passage was narrow and low, too low\nfor a man to walk in erect; after a few yards it descended a short\nflight of steps, and then again went straight forward to a door so\ndecayed that only a rusted bolt, and one rust-eaten hinge, held it in\nplace. Beyond this door, an abrupt turn in the passage, and then a\nflight of steps so precipitous that the feeble beam of his lantern could\ngive the explorer no help in fathoming their depth; and when this\nlantern was lowered as far as it was in his power to do so, the flame\nburned blue and went out, killed by the noxious gases that stagnant\ncenturies had breathed. Dizzy and frightened, the explorer with\ndifficulty groped his way back to the fresher air of the vault, and no\npersuasion could induce him, or any of his fellows, to venture again so\nfar as to that long flight of steps. The employer of those labourers was\na man entirely devoid of curiosity or of imagination, possessed of no\ninterest whatsoever in archaeology; so it fell out that the passage was\nclosed, without any further effort being made to discover to what\nmysteries it might lead.\n\nAbout the year 1845, one who then wrote about the castle visited the\nplace, and found that boys had broken a small hole in the wall where the\npassage had been built up. Through this hole they were wont to amuse\nthemselves by chucking stones, listening, fascinated, to the strange\nsounds that went echoing, echoing through the mysterious depths far\nbelow. Here, say some, lies the buried treasure of the White Lady of\nBlenkinsopp. But there are not wanting unsympathetic souls, who pride\nthemselves on being nothing if not practical, who pretend to think that\nthis hidden depth is nothing more mysterious than the old draw-well of\nthe castle.\n\nThis story of the White Lady is not the only legend of the supernatural\nwith which the old family of Blenkinsopp is connected.\n\nWhere Tipalt Burn falls into Tyne, stand on the opposite bank the ruins\nof Bellister Castle. There, many hundred years ago, dwelt a branch of\nthe Blenkinsopps. To Bellister there came one night at the gloaming a\nwandering harper, begging for shelter from the bitter northerly blast\nthat gripped his rheumatic old joints, and sported with his failing\nstrength. He was a man past middle age, with hair thin and grey, and a\nface worn and lined; his tattered clothes gave scant protection from\ninclement weather. As was the custom in those times, the minstrel's\nwelcome was hearty. Food and drink, and a seat near the fire, were his,\nand soon his blood thawed, the bent form of the man seemed to\nstraighten, and his eye kindled as, later in the evening, \"high placed\nin hall, a welcome guest,\" he touched his harp and sang to the company.\nYou could scarcely now recognise the weary, bent, old scarecrow that but\ntwo hours back had trailed, footsore and tired, across the castle\ndrawbridge. The change was astonishing, and many jested with the harper\non the subject.\n\nBut one there was who noticed, and who did not jest. They were\nincreasingly uneasy looks that the lord of the castle from time to time\nthrew towards the minstrel. What, he pondered unquietly, caused this\namazing change in the appearance of one who so lately had seemed to be\nalmost on the verge of the grave? Was he in truth the frail old man he\nhad pretended to be, or had he overacted his part, and was he no\nminstrel, but an enemy in disguise? The lord's looks grew blacker and\nmore black, and ever more uneasy as the evening proceeded; and the more\nhe suspected, the more he drank to drown the disquiet of his mind. At\nlength his unease became so marked that unavoidably it communicated\nitself to the rest of the company. Even the rough men-at-arms desisted\nfrom their boisterous jests, and spoke beneath their breath. The harper\nglancing around as the silence grew, and finding the lord's black looks\never upon him, trailed off at last in his song and sat mute, with\nuncertain fingers plucking at the strings of his instrument. The company\nbroke up, glad to escape from the gloom of their lord's glances, and\nsomebody showed the old man to a rude chamber, where a bundle of pease\nstraw was to serve him for bed.\n\nBut the lord of Bellister sat on, \"glooming\" morbidly to himself. Bitter\nfeud existed between him and a neighbouring baron. Had he not cause to\ndistrust that baron, and to believe that means neither fair nor\nhonourable might be employed by his enemy to wipe out the feud? What if\nthis self-styled harper should turn out to be no minstrel after all, but\na hired assassin, a follower of that base churl, his hated foe! To\nsuspect was to believe. In his excited, drink-clouded brain wrath sprang\nup, fully armed. He would speedily put an end to that treacherous\nscheme; his enemies should learn that if one can plot, another may have\ncunning to bring to naught such treachery. And little mercy should be\nshown to the base tool of a baser employer.\n\n\"Bring hither quickly to me that minstrel,\" he called. \"And it will be\nthe better for some of you that there be no delay,\" he muttered beneath\nhis breath, with a threatening blow of his fist on the table.\n\nOf old his servants and dependants had learned the lesson that it was\nwell not to linger over the carrying out of their passionate lord's\norders. But in this instance, speed was of no avail; they were obliged\nto return, to report to a wrathful master that the bird had flown; the\nplace was empty, the old man gone. Threatening glances and black looks\nhad scared him; without waiting for rest, he had fled while yet there\nwas time, less afraid of exposure to a wild and stormy night than to\nfind himself in the clutches of a petty tyrant.\n\nThat the man had fled was to Blenkinsopp quite convincing proof that his\nsuspicions were justified. Immediate pursuit was ordered. \"Lay the\nsleuth hounds on his trail without an instant's delay. Let _them_ deal\nwith him!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLess than a mile away, by some willows that once marked a ford in the\nriver, men hurrying after the baying hounds came up too late. Echoing\nacross the heath, an agonised shriek rang on their ears, drowned by the\nsnarling as of wild beasts. Lying on its back on the river bank, head\nand shoulders in the shallow stream, the man-hunters found but a frail,\nmutilated body that had once been the wandering old minstrel.\n\nThis was what gave rise to the legend of the Grey Man of Bellister. Ever\nsince that hideous night, at intervals the \"Grey Man\" has been wont to\nappear to belated travellers along that road. Near the clump of willows\nhe might first be seen, hurrying, hurrying, his long grey cloak flying\nin the wind. And woe to him on whom he chanced to turn and look; his\nwild eye and torn face, his blood-clotted beard, would freeze with\nhorror those who gazed, and disaster or death followed hard on the track\nof the vision.\n\nIt is a hundred years now, and more, since last the \"Grey Man\" was seen.\nPerhaps his penance for sins committed on earth is ended; or perhaps it\nis that against railways, and drainage, and modern scoffings, he and his\nlike cannot stand. He is gone; but even yet, about the scene where once\nas a man the old minstrel fled for dear life, there hangs at the dead\ntime of night a sense of mystery and awe. As the chilly wind comes\nwailing across the everlasting hills, blending its voice with the\nmelancholy dirge of the river, one may almost believe that through the\ngloom there passes swiftly a bent, hurrying figure. Perhaps it is but\nthe swaying of a branch near by, that so startlingly suggests the waving\nin the wind of a threadbare cloak.\n\n\n\n\nDICKY OF KINGSWOOD\n\n\nYour Border ruffian of the good old days was not often a humorist. Life\nto him was a serious business. When he was not reiving other people's\nkye, other people were probably reiving his; and as a general rule one\nis driven to conclude that he was not unlike that famous Scotch terrier\nwhose master attributed the dog's persistently staid and even melancholy\ndisposition to the fact that he \"jist couldna get enough o' fechting.\"\n\nIn olden times, \"fechting\" was the Border man's strong point; but in\nlater, and perhaps less robust, days there were to be found some who\ntook a degenerate pride in getting by craft what their fathers would\nhave taken by force. Of such, in the early days of the eighteenth\ncentury, was Dicky of Kingswood. Had he lived a hundred or a hundred and\nfifty years earlier, Dicky would no doubt have been a first-class\nreiver, one of the \"tail\" of some noted Border chieftain, for he lacked\nneither pluck nor strength. But in his own day he preferred the\n_suaviter in modo_ to the _fortiter in re_; his cunning, indeed, was not\nunworthy of the hero of that ancient Norse tale, \"The Master Thief,\" and\nin his misdeeds there was not seldom to be found a spice of humour so\ndisarming that at times his victims were compelled to laugh, and in\nlaughter to forget their just resentment; and with the perishing of\nresentment, to forego their manifest duty and that satisfaction which\nvirtue should ever feel in the discomfiture of vice. Compounding a\nfelony, we should call it now. And no doubt it was. But in those days,\nwhen the King's writ ran with but halting foot through the wild Border\nhills, perhaps least said was soonest mended.\n\nKingswood lies just across the river from Staward Peel, but Dicky dwelt\ngenerally at the latter place--in former days an almost unassailable\nstronghold, standing on a bold eminence overlooking Allen Water, some\nmiles to the east of Haltwhistle. Here of old, when beacon-fires blazed\non the hill-tops, \"each with warlike tidings fraught,\" flashing their\nwarning of coming trouble from \"the false Scottes,\" the people of these\nregions were wont to hurry for safety, breathlessly bearing with them\nwhatsoever valuables they prized and had time to save. Many a treasure\nis said to lie here, buried, and never again dug up, because those who\nalone knew where to look had perished in defence of the Peel. Truly, if\nthe troubled spirits of those slain ones yet wander, brooding over\nhidden chattels and lost penates, they are not greatly to be pitied, for\na spot more beautiful, one less to be shunned if our spirits _must_\nwander, it would be hard to find in all Northumberland or in all\nEngland. Not distant would they be, too, from good company, for away to\nthe north across the Tyne, in a mighty cavern in the rock--below what\nonce was the castle of Sewing Shields--does not local tradition tell\nthat Arthur and his knights lie asleep, waiting the inevitable day when\nEngland's dire need shall bring them again to life, to strike a blow for\nthe land they loved. And along that noble line of wall which spanned\nEngland from sea to sea, might they not perchance foregather--some dark\nand stormy night, when snow drives down before a north-east wind--with\nthe dim forms of armoured men, wraiths of the Roman legions, patrolling\nonce more the line that they died to defend?\n\nDicky of Kingswood was making for home one day in early spring. He was\noutside the radius of his usual field of operations, far to the east of\nKingswood and Staward, plodding along with the westering sun in his\neyes, and thinking ruefully that he had come a long way for nothing.\nSometimes it is convenient for gentlemen of Dicky's habits to visit\nforeign parts, or parts, at least, where their appearance may not\nattract undue notice--for such as he are often of modest and retiring\ndisposition. On this occasion he had so far done no business of profit,\nand Dicky was depressed. He would fain turn a more or less honest penny\nere he reached home, if it might but be done quietly.\n\nLate in the day came his chance. Grazing in a neighbouring lush pasture\nwere two fine fat bullocks. Dicky paused to look, and the more he\nlooked, the more he admired; the more he admired, the more he coveted.\nThey were magnificent beasts, seldom had he seen finer; nothing could\nbetter suit his purpose. Such beasts would fetch a high price\nanywhere--they _must_ be his. So, with what patience he could command,\ntill darkness should come to his aid, Dicky discreetly retired to a\nneighbouring copse, where, himself unseen, he might feast his eyes on\nthe fat cattle, and at the same time make sure that if they did happen\nto be removed from that particular pasture, at least he would not be\nignorant of their whereabouts. But the bullocks fed on undisturbed. No\none came to remove them; only their owner stood regarding them for a\nwhile. Darkness fell, and the call of an owl that hooted eerily, or the\ndistant wail of a curlew, alone broke the stillness. Then up came\nDicky's best friend, a moon but little past the full. Everything was in\nhis favour, not a hitch of any kind occurred; quietly and without any\nfuss the great fat beasts began to make their slow way west across the\nhills for Cumberland.\n\nMorning came, bringing with it a great hue and cry on that farm bereft\nof its fat cattle, and things might chance to have fared ill with Dicky\nhad he not adroitly contrived to lay a false trail, that headed the\nfurious owner in hasty pursuit north, towards Tweed and Scotland.\nMeanwhile, in due time--not for worlds would Dicky have overdriven\nthem--the bullocks and their driver found themselves in Cumberland, near\nby Lanercost. There, as they picked their leisurely way along, they\nencountered an old farmer riding a bay mare, the like of which for\nquality Dicky had never seen. His mouth watered.\n\n\"Where be'st gangin' wi' the nowt?\" asked the farmer.\n\n\"Oh, to Carlisle,\" said Dicky.\n\n\"Wad ye sell?\"\n\n\"Oh aye!\" answered Dicky. \"For a price. But the beasts are good.\"\n\n\"Yes, they were good,\" admitted the farmer. And Dicky must come in, and\nhave a drink, and they'd talk about the oxen. So in they went to the\nfarmer's house, and long they talked, and the more they talked the more\nthe farmer wanted those bullocks; but the more he wanted them the more\nhe tried to beat Dicky down. But Dicky was in no haste to sell; he could\ndo better at Carlisle, said he; and the upshot, of course, was that he\ngot the price he asked. And then said Dicky, when the money was paid,\nand they had had another drink or two, and a mighty supper:\n\n\"That was a bonnie mare ye were riding.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" said the farmer. \"An' she's as good as she's bonnie. There's no\nher like in a' Cumberland.\"\n\n\"Wad ye sell?\"\n\n\"Sell!\" cried the farmer. \"No for the value o' the hale countryside. Her\nlike canna be found. Sell! Never i' this world.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" said Dicky, \"I canna blame ye. She's a graund mare. But\nthey're kittle times, thir; I wad keep her close, or it micht happen\nyour stable micht be empty some morning.\"\n\n\"Stable!\" roared the fanner boisterously. \"Hey! man, ah pit her in no\nstable. She sleeps wi' me, man, in my ain room. Ah'm a bachelor, ah am,\nan' there's non' to interfere wi' me, and ivvery nicht she's tied to my\nain bed-post. Man, it's music to my ear to hear her champin' her corn a'\nthe nicht. Na, na! Ah trust her in no stable; an' ah'd like to see the\nthief could steal her awa' oot o' my room withoot wakenin' me.\"\n\n\"Well, maybe ye're right,\" said Dicky. \"But mind, there's some cunnin'\nanes aboot. Ye'll hae a good lock on your door, nae doot?\"\n\n\"Aye, I _have_ a good lock, as ye shall see,\" cried the farmer, caution\nswamped in brandy and good fellowship. \"What think ye o' that for a\nlock?\"\n\n\"Uhm--m!\" murmured Dicky reflectively, carefully scrutinising lock and\nkey--and he was not unskilled in locks. \"Aye, a good lock; a very good\nlock. Yes, yes! Just what you want; the very thing. They'll no pick\nthat.\"\n\n\"No! They'll never pick _that_. Ho! Ho!\" laughed the complacent farmer.\n\nThen Dicky said he \"maun be steppin'. It was gettin' late.\" And so,\nafter one more drink, and another \"to the King, God bless him,\" and yet\none more to \"themselves,\" and a fourth, just to see that the others went\nthe right way and behaved themselves, the two parted, the best and\ndearest of friends.\n\nIt might have been the outcome of a good conscience, or perhaps it was\nthe soothing thought that he had made a good bargain, and had got those\nbullocks at a figure lower than he had been prepared to pay; or,\npossibly, it may only have been the outcome of that extra last glass or\ntwo that he had had with Dicky. But whatever it was, the fact remained\nthat the farmer's slumbers that night were very profound, his snoring\nheavier than common. Towards morning, but whilst yet the night was dark,\ndreaming that he and the mare were swimming a deep and icy river, he\nwoke with a start. Everything was strangely still; even the mare made no\nsound. And--surely it must be freezing! He was chilled to the bone. And\nthen, on a brain where yet sang the fumes of brandy, it dawned that he\nhad absolutely no covering on him. Sleepily he felt with his hands this\nway and that, up and down. To no purpose. His blankets must certainly\nhave fallen on the floor, but try as he might, no hand could he lay on\nthem. Slipping out of bed to grope for flint and steel wherewith to\nstrike a light, with soul-rending shock he ran his forehead full butt\nagainst the open door of his room.\n\n\"De'il tak' it! What's this?\" he bellowed. It was inconceivable that he\nhad forgotten to close and lock that door before getting into bed,\nhowever much brandy he might have drunk overnight. What was the meaning\nof it? At last a light, got from the smouldering kitchen fire, revealed\nthe hideous truth--his room was empty, the cherished mare gone! The door\n(as he had found to his cost) stood wide open; along the floor were\ncarefully spread his blankets, and over them no doubt the mare had been\nled out without making noise sufficient to awaken even a light sleeper,\nlet alone one whose potations had been deep as the farmer's.\n\nLights now flashed and twinkled from room to room, from house to stable\nand byre, and back again, as the frenzied, cursing farmer and his\nservants tumbled over each other in their haste to find the lost animal.\nIt is even said that one servant lass, in her ardour of search, was\nfound looking under the bed in an upstairs room--scarcely a likely\ngrazing ground for any four-footed animal (unless perhaps it might be a\nnight-mare). But whether she expected to find there the lost quadruped,\nor the man guilty of its abduction, tradition says not. At any rate, all\nthat any of the searchers found--and that not till broad daylight--was\nthe print of the good mare's hoofs in some soft ground over which she\nhad been ridden fast. And no one had heard even so much as the smallest\nsound.\n\nThe day was yet young, and the breeze played gratefully cool on Dicky's\nbrow, as, fearless of pursuit, he rode contentedly along towards home a\nfew hours later. Skirting by Naworth, thence up by Tindale Tarn and down\nthe burn to South Tyne, he had now come to the Fells a little to the\nsouth and east of Haltwhistle. To him came a man on foot; and, said he:\n\n\"Have ye seen onny stray cattle i' your travels? I've lost a yoke o' fat\nbullocks.\"\n\n\"What micht they be like?\" asked Dicky innocently; for he had no\ndifficulty in recognising the farmer from whom he had stolen the beasts,\nthough the latter, having never set eyes on Dicky, had no idea of whom\nhe was talking to.\n\n\"Oh,\" said the man, \"they were fine, muckle, fat beasts, red, baith o'\nthem, ane wi' a bally face, an' the tither wi' its near horn sair turned\nin.\" And some other notable peculiarities the farmer mentioned, such as\nmight strike a man skilled in cattle.\n\n\"We-el,\" answered Dicky thoughtfully, \"now that ye mention it, I believe\nI did see sic a pair, or twa very like them, no later agone than\nyesterday afternoon. If I'm no mista'en, they're rinnin' on Maister\n----'s farm, no far frae Lanercost.\"\n\n\"Man, ah'm that obleeged to ye. But ah'm that deid tired wi' walkin',\nseekin' them, ah canna gang that far,\" said the farmer. \"That's a gey\nguid mare ye're ridin'. Ye wadna be for sellin' her, likely?\"\n\n\"Oh aye, I'll sell. But she's a braw mare; there's no her like i' the\ncountryside, or in a' Northumberland. I'll be wantin' a braw price.\"\nDicky was always ready for a deal, and in this instance of course it\nsuited him very well to get rid of his steed.\n\nSo, after some chaffering, Dicky was promised his \"braw price,\" and he\naccompanied the farmer home to get the money. A long way it was. The\nfarmer perforce walked, but Dicky, with native caution, rode, for, said\nhe, in excuse to his companion:\n\n\"I'm loth to part wi' my good auld mare, for I've never owned her like.\nSae I'll jist tak' a last bit journey on her.\"\n\nIn due course Dicky got his money, and food and drink, as much as he\ncould swallow, into the bargain. Then the farmer rode away for\nLanercost; and Dicky, of course, remembered that he had business in a\ndifferent part of the country.\n\nSure enough, when the farmer reached Lanercost there were his bullocks\ncontentedly grazing in a field, while contemplatively gazing at them\nstood an elderly man, with damaged face.\n\nUp rode the farmer on the mare.\n\n\"Here!\" shouted he angrily, \"what the de'il are ye doin' wi' my\nbullocks?\"\n\n\"Wh-a-at?\" bellowed the other with equal fury. \"_Your_ bullocks! And be\nd----d to ye! If it comes to that, what the de'il are _ye_ doin' ridin'\nmy mare? I'll hae the law o' ye for stealin' her, ye scoondrel! Come\n_doon_ oot o' my saiddle afore ah pu' ye doon.\" And the two elderly men,\neach red in the face as a \"bubbly jock,\" both spluttering and almost\nspeechless with rage, glared at each other, murder in their eyes.\n\nThen came question and answer, and mutual explanation, and gradually the\ncomic side of the affair struck them; each saw how the other had been\ndone, and they burst into roar after roar of such laughter as left them\nweak and helpless. They had been properly fooled. But the fat bullocks\nwere recovered, and the well-loved mare, even if the money paid for each\nwas gone. And after all, he laughs best who laughs last. But they saw no\nmore of Dicky of Kingswood.\n\n\n\n\nSTORM AND TEMPEST\n\n\nWhen we think of \"the Border,\" the picture that rises to mind is usually\none of hill and dale, of peat-hag and heathery knoll, of brimming burns\nthat tumble headlong to meet the embrace of rivers hurrying to their\nrest in the great ocean. One sees in imagination the solemn,\nround-shouldered hills standing out grim in the thin spring sunshine,\ntheir black sides slashed and lined with snow; later, one pictures these\nhills decked with heartsease and blue-bells a-swing in the summer\nbreeze, or rich with the purple bloom of heather; and, again, one\nimagines them clothed in November mists, or white and ghost-like,\nshrouded in swirling clouds of snow.\n\nBut there is another part of the Border which the inland dweller is apt\nto forget--that which, in sweep upon sweep of bay, or unbroken line of\ncliff, extends up the coasts of Northumberland and Berwickshire. That is\na part of the Border which those who are not native to it know only in\nthe months of summer, when the sea is sapphire-blue, when surf creams\nsoftly round the feet of limpet-covered rocks, and the little wavelets\nlaugh and sparkle as they slide over the shining sands. It is another\nmatter when Winter with his tempests comes roaring from the North. Where\nare then the laughing waters and the smiling sunlit sands? Swallowed up\nby wild seas with storm-tossed crests, that race madly landward to dash\nthemselves in blind fury on shoreless cliffs, or sweep resistless over a\nshingly beach.\n\nIt is a cruel coast in the winter time, and its children had need be\nstrong men and fearless, for they who make their living on the face of\nits waters surely inherit a share greater than is their due of toil and\ndanger; they, verily, more than others \"see the works of the Lord, and\nHis wonders in the deep.\" From earliest times when men first sailed the\nseas this coast has taken heavy toll of ships and of human lives, and in\nthe race that it has bred, necessarily there has been little room for\nweaklings; their men are even to this day of the type of the old\nVikings--from whom perhaps they descend--fair-bearded and strong,\nblue-eyed and open of countenance. And their women--well, there are many\nwho might worthily stand alongside their countrywoman, Grace Darling,\nmany who at a pinch would do what she did, and \"blush to find it fame.\"\n\nYet one must admit that, as a whole, this community was not always keen\nto save ship and crew from the breakers, nor prone to warn vessels off\nfrom dangerous reef or sunken rock. In days long gone by, if all tales\nare true, the people of these coasts had no good reputation among\nsailors, and their habits and customs were wont to give rise to much\nfriction and ill-will betwixt England and Scotland. It is certain that\nin 1472 they plundered the great foreign-going barge built by Bishop\nKennedy of St. Andrews--the greatest ship ever seen in those days--when\nshe drove ashore one stormy night off Bamborough. And of her passengers,\none, the Abbot of St. Colomb, was long held to ransom by James Carr, a\ndeed the consequences of which, in those days of an all-powerful Church,\nmight be dreadful to contemplate. Pitscottie says the \"Bishop's Barge\"\ncost her owner something like \u00a310,000 sterling. Perhaps the harvest\nreaped by Bamborough when she came ashore may have encouraged\nNorthumbrians to adopt this line of business in earnest, for by 1559 we\nread that \"wreckers\" were common down all that coast; and their prayer:\n\"Let us pray for a good harvest this winter,\" contained no allusion to\nthe fruits of the field.\n\nIn 1643 there was a Scottish priest, Gilbert Blakhal, confessor in Paris\nto the Lady Isabelle Hay, Lord Errol's daughter, who in the course of a\njourney to his native land visited Holy Island, and in the account of\nhis travels he makes mention of the ways of the island's inhabitants,\nand of their prayer when a vessel was seen to be in danger. \"They al sit\ndowne upon their knees and hold up their handes, and say very devotely,\n'Lord, send her to us. God, send her to us.' You, seeing them upon\ntheir knees, and their handes joyned, do think that they are praying for\nyour sauvetie; but their myndes are far from that. They pray, not God to\nsauve you, or send you to the porte, but to send you to them by\nship-wrack, that they may gette the spoile of her. And to showe that\nthis is their meaning, if the ship come wel to the porte, or eschew\nnaufrage (shipwreck), they gette up in anger, crying: 'The Devil stick\nher; she is away from us.'\" Father Blakhal does not pretend that with\nhis own ears he heard the Holy Islanders so pray. It was told to him by\nthe Governor of the island. But, then, this Governor, Robin Rugg by\nname, was \"a notable good fellow, as his great read nose, full of\npimples, did give testimony.\" Perhaps he exaggerated, or it was but one\nof his \"merry discourses.\" Yet I think he told the truth in this\ninstance. To \"wreck\" was the habit of the day, and by all coastal\npeoples the spoil of wrecks was regarded as not less their just due than\nwas the actual food obtained by them from the sea. On our own coasts and\nin our islands until quite recent times such was undoubtedly the case,\njust as in savage lands it continues to be the case to this day; and the\ndistinction is a fine-drawn one between doing nothing to prevent a\nvessel from running into danger which would result in profit to the\nspectators, and the doing of a something, greater or less--say the\nshowing of a light, or the burning of a beacon--which may make it\ncertain that the same vessel shall go where she may be of \"the greatest\ngood to the greatest number\"--the \"greatest number\" in such instances\nbeing always, of course, the wreckers. A wrecked vessel was their\nlegitimate prey, and the inhabitants of many coastal parts are known to\nhave deeply resented the building of lighthouses where wrecks were\nfrequent. In his notes to _The Pirate_, Sir Walter Scott mentions that\nthe rent of several of the islands in Shetland had greatly fallen since\nthe Commissioners of Lighthouses ordered lights to be established on the\nIsle of Sanda and the Pentland Skerries. And he tells of the reflection\ncast upon Providence by a certain pious island farmer, the sails of\nwhose boat were frail from age and greatly patched: \"Had it been _His_\nwill that a light hadna been placed yonder,\" said he, with pious\nfervour, \"I wad have had enough of new sails last winter.\"\n\nThen as to the saving of life--in those days, and well on into the\neighteenth century, it was believed to be a most unlucky thing to save a\ndrowning person; he was sure eventually to do his rescuer some deadly\ninjury. A similar belief, as regards the ill luck, prevails in China to\nthis day; nothing will induce a Chinaman to help a drowning man from the\nwater. In our own case, probably this superstition as to ill luck\noriginated in the obvious fact that if there were no survivor from a\nwreck, there could be no one to interfere with the claim made by the\nfinders to what they considered their lawful due. If a vessel drove\nashore on their coast, that surely was the act and the will of God, and\nit was not for them to question His decrees or to thwart His intentions.\n\nMany, since the days of the wreckers, have been the ships cast away\nalong that rugged coast-line which starts southward from the grim\npromontory of St. Abb's Head, and runs, cruelly rock-girt or stretched\nin open bay of yellow sand, away past Berwick and down by Holy Island.\nMany have been the disasters, pitiful on occasion the loss of life. But\nnever, since history began, has disaster come upon the coast like to\nthat which befell the little town of Eyemouth in the early autumn of\n1881, never has loss of life so heartrending overwhelmed a small\ncommunity. Once the headquarters of smuggling on our eastern coast, and\nbuilt--as it is well known was also built a certain street of small\nhouses in Spittal--with countless facilities for promoting the\noperations of \"Free Trade,\" and with \"bolt-holes\" innumerable for the\nsmugglers when close pressed by gangers, Eyemouth is still a quaint\nlittle town, huddling its strangely squeezed-up houses in narrow lanes\nand wynds betwixt river and bay. There, too, as at a northern town\nbetter known to fame than Eyemouth,\n\n     \"The grey North Ocean girds it round,\n     And o'er the rocks, and up the bay,\n     The long sea-rollers surge and sound,\n     And still the thin and biting spray\n     Drives down the melancholy street.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTruly, in Eyemouth it is not alone spray that drives. So close a\nneighbour is the protecting sea-wall to some of the houses that turn\nweather-beaten backs on the bay, that at high tide during a\nnorth-easterly gale the giant seas, breaking against the wall, burst\nalso clear over the houses, hurling themselves in torrents of icy water\ninto the street beyond. And up the width of one little street that runs\nto the bay, and past its barricaded doors, you may see sometimes billows\nthat have overleapt the wall come charging, to ebb with angry swish and\nlong-drawn clatter of shingle as the waves suck back. It is a strange\nsight, and it causes one to wonder what manner of men they are who dwell\nhere, who draw their living from the bosom of a sea that thus harshly\ntreats its children. Yet it is a sea that can be kindly enough; and in\nthe long, golden summer evenings, when the brown-sailed fishing-boats in\nendless procession draw out from the \"haven under the hill,\" to vanish\nseaward in the deepening twilight, you would scarce believe that a thing\nso gentle could be guilty of treachery, or ever could arise in sudden\nmad frenzy to slay those who had trusted it.\n\nYet that was what happened that terrible Friday, the 14th of October\n1881. No summer's morning could have dawned more peaceful and fair. And\nhere we were but in mid-October, when the woods are in their glory and\nScotland looks still for the settled weather of her \"Indian summer\";\nthere should yet be ample measure of quiet days and nights ere winter\ngales rumble in the chimneys and wail through the rigging of boats lying\nweather-bound in harbour.\n\nA cloudless day, sea of deepest blue, without even the faintest\ncat's-paw to wrinkle its shining face; a morning warm, genial, windless,\nreminiscent of fairest summer, such a day as landsmen rejoice in,\nfeeling that it is good to be alive. But the glass came tumbling down,\nthe sea heaved sullenly in the oily calm, seething around the bared\nfangs of jagged rocks, drawing back with threatening snarl or snatching\nirritably at the trailing sea-weed; and high aloft the gulls wheeled,\nclamouring. Old men amongst the fishers looked askance. Why did they not\ntake warning? Alas! The year had been a lean year; the weather latterly\nhad been bad, and for near on a week the boats had been unable to go\nout. The fish were there for the taking. Prices now were good. And \"men\nmust work\" even if \"women must weep.\" So it befell that boat after boat\nput out from harbour and headed over the windless sea, dragged,\ngalley-like, by the clumsy sweeps, till, clear of the land, the fanning\nof a light air from the south-west gave her gentle steerage way. Soon\nnot a boat was left in port; even those whose weather-wise \"skeely\" old\nskippers had counselled caution, at length, against their will and\nbetter judgment, were shamed into starting. After all, it was no great\ndistance they were going; with ordinary luck they might be back before\nmuch wind came. And if the worst came to the worst and they were caught\nout at sea, why, the boats were weatherly craft, manned by the best of\nseamen, and an hour or two at the most would see them fight their way\nback to port. It was all in the day's work. Nothing venture, nothing\nwin. If one may take a risk, so may another. It does not do to stand\nidle in the background whilst one's neighbour by superior daring secures\nthe prize we also sorely need.\n\nSo by 9 A.M. the last boat of the five and forty had got to sea. Before\nmidday all had made an offing of eight or ten miles, and had started to\nshoot their lines. Folk who had watched them creep out of the harbour\nnow gave no further heed, save perhaps that wives may chance to have\ncast anxious looks seaward now and again. But none dreamt of evil.\n\nThen of a sudden, as the morning passed, some on shore became aware of a\nstrange, death-like stillness that had fallen over all things, a feeling\nof gloom and oppression in the air. The sun indeed still shone unclouded\nover the land, but away out at sea to the north-east there was a\nhorrible canker of blackness that was eating up the sky, and that\nalready had hid from sight, as by a wall, those boats that lay farthest\nfrom the land, whilst those still visible could be seen hurriedly\nletting everything go by the run. Then the blackness shut down over all,\nand men could but guess what was going on behind that terrible veil.\nOver the town, as people deserted their houses and hurried to cliff or\nsea wall, or wherever there seemed possibility of gaining sight or\nknowledge of the fleet, the same horror of darkness came rushing; wind\nraved and screamed, and already a sea, indescribable in its appalling\nfury, was raging into the bay, the crests, cut off as with a knife,\nflying through the air like densest smoke. Rain scourged and blinded,\nthe driving spray lashed beyond bearing the faces of those who, dread in\ntheir souls, peered through their sheltering hands, trying vainly to\npenetrate the smother to windward. A few hundred yards of raging water,\na blurred vision of rushing, tumbling seas; tumultuous, deafening roar\nof surf, the tortured scream of wind; and that was all. It was as if one\nmight try to gaze into the mouth of hell.\n\nThen through this Hades of waters, rolling, tumbling, pitching, buried\nalmost in the breaking seas, into the bay came rushing three yawls,\nmanned by crab-fishers from St. Abb's, past the Hurcar Rock, and round\nsafely into the harbour; then a large Eyemouth fishing-boat, and\nanother, and another, and then a pause of sickening suspense, and two\nmore large boats from St. Abb's fought their way to safety. Men began\nfaintly to pluck up heart. If these had come out of the jaws of death,\nwhy not the others? But now again they hoped with ever sinking hearts,\nfor minutes passed and there came no more. Then, even as they strained\ntheir eyes despairingly, there came one into the bay that failed to get\nfar enough to windward. Down on the rock behind the breakwater she\ndrove, helpless, and went to pieces. Another took the same road, and\nsmashed to atoms almost at the pierhead, so near, and yet so far from\nhuman aid, that the voices of both crews could be heard by the helpless,\ndistracted spectators--white-lipped men, wailing women, who clustered\nthere by the rocks in impotent agony. One struggling drowning man fought\nhard--it is said that the outermost of a chain of rescuers once even\ntouched his hand. But no help was possible, no human power could have\ndrawn those helpless men from that raging cauldron; against such wind no\nrocket could fly, near these rocks no lifeboat could live. Even if she\ncould have lived, there was no crew to man her; all were away with the\nfleet.\n\nIt was near low water now, and into the bay came driving a big boat that\nrushed on the rocks at Fort Point, pounded there a brief second, and was\nhurled by the following sea on to the beach, so nearly high and dry that\nher crew, by the aid of lines, were readily saved. And then into view\nthrough the welter came staggering a new boat, one whose first trip it\nwas, sore battered, but battling gallantly for life, and making\nwonderful weather of it. Yet, even as hope told the flattering tale of\nher certain safety, there came racing up astern a sea, gigantic even in\nthat giant sea, raced her, caught her, and, as it passed ahead, so\ntilted her bows that the ballast slid aft, and down she sank by the\nstern, so near to safety that betwixt ship and shore wife might\nrecognise husband and husband wife.\n\nAs at Eyemouth, so it was all down the coast. At Burnmouth, at Berwick\n(though no boat belonging to Berwick that day was out), at Goswick Bay,\nand elsewhere, boat after boat, driven before the fury of the gale, was\nforced over by wind and sea, and sunk with all her crew, or was dashed\nto pieces on the shore.\n\nNight fell on Eyemouth; and, God, what a night! \"In Rama was there a\nvoice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning; Rachel\nweeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are\nnot.\"\n\nBy little and little, by ones and twos, boats, battered and with sails\ntorn to ribbons, with crews exhausted and distraught, kept arriving\nduring the Saturday and Sunday, bringing men, as it were, back from the\ndead. One or two, under bare poles, had ridden the gale out at sea,\nlying up into the wind as near as might be, threshing through those\nawful seas hour after hour, buried almost, sometimes, in the seething\ncauldron, or struck by tons of solid water when some huge mountain of a\nwave, toppling to its fall, rushed at her out of the blackness. From\nminute to minute the men never knew but that the next roaring billow\nwould engulf them also, as already they had seen it roll over and\nswallow up their neighbours.\n\nIt was the skipper of the _White Star_ that told afterwards how, before\nthe tornado burst--as some said, \"like a clap of thunder\"--the first\nthing to take his attention from the shooting of his lines was boats on\nthe weather side of him hurriedly shortening sail, or letting all run.\nTo the nor'ard, from horizon almost to zenith, already the sky was black\nas ink, the sea beneath white with flying spume. Then like magic the sea\ngot up, and the _White Star_ turned to run for Eyemouth, with the\n_Myrtle_ in company. But darkness and the fierce turmoil of waters\nforced them to lay to in order to make certain of their position. As\nthey lay, pitching fearfully and many times almost on their beam ends\nfrom the violence of the wind, a foaming mountain of water came\nthundering down on the _White Star_, so that for a brief moment all\nthought that she was gone; and almost as she shook herself free, just\nsuch another tremendous wave struck the _Myrtle_, and rolled her over\nlike a walnut-shell skiff, a child's plaything. As the _White Star_ rose\non successive waves, her crew twice afterwards saw the _Myrtle_ heave up\nher side for a second ere she went to the bottom, but of her seven\nhands no man was ever seen again. Head-reaching into the wind, the\n_White Star_ gradually made her perilous way, presently passing yet\nanother boat floating bottom up, her rigging trailing in the water\naround her, but no bodies visible anywhere. Of the rest of the fleet, no\nsign. Four and forty hours later the _White Star_ reached safety at\nNorth Shields. Other boats that also headed for the open sea were even\nlonger in coming to port, but all, as they drew farther and farther from\nland, found weather less terrible, a sea less dangerous, than that from\nwhich by the skin of their teeth they had escaped. Some of the smitten\ncraft drove far to the south before the wind, and after escapes many and\nincredible, reached a haven of safety, with men worn and dazed, but not\nall with crews complete; too many paid toll to the sea with one or more\nlives. For as long as a day and a half, there were skippers who sat,\nunrelieved, at the tiller of their boat, an awful weight of\nresponsibility on their shoulders, human lives depending on their nerve\nand skill. Some of these men had to be carried ashore, when at length\nthey reached safety; the legs of one were found to be so twisted and\nwedged in beneath his seat, that it was only with the greatest\ndifficulty and pain that he was got out of the boat.\n\nThere was one boat that found refuge at Shields on the Sunday. She\narrived too late to permit of a telegram being sent announcing her\nsafety, but in time to allow her crew--or what was left of it--to catch\na late train to the north, and the solemn, echoing tramp of their heavy\nfeet at midnight in the silent street of Eyemouth brought the stricken\npeople from their beds with a start, and with vague apprehension of\nfresh disaster. But their dread was turned to rejoicing, except for the\nfamily of that man who came home never again. In all, on that Sunday\nnight it was known that sixty-four of the men of Eyemouth had perished,\nand seventy-one were still missing. Of these but a handful ever\nreturned. Eyemouth alone lost one hundred and twenty-nine--the men of\nwhole families, almost of clans, swept away. Truly to her that day was\nas of old had been Flodden Field to Scotland. The total number of men\nwho perished along this coast in that hurricane was one hundred and\neighty-nine.\n\nWill the terror of that time ever be forgotten, or its horror wiped out\nfrom the town of Eyemouth? In the face of disaster such as that, smaller\nhappenings appear for the time almost insignificant. Yet it was but the\nother year that another great gale on that coast brought disaster most\npitiful. A Danish steamer, feeling her way to the Firth of Forth in\nweather thick with fog and with a great gale blowing, mistaking her\nposition, came creeping in the darkness close in to the little village\nof St. Abb's. Nearer and nearer to the people, snug in their warm,\nwell-lit houses, came the roar of her fog-horn. And then, from the\nneighbourhood of a treacherous rock--awash at low water--and little more\nthan a stone's throw from the village houses, there rushed up a rocket,\nand a flare was seen dimly burning. In the heavy sea, the steamer had\nbrought her bows with a mighty crash on to that sunken rock, and there\nshe lay, the great seas sweeping her from stem to stern. Rockets from\nthe cliff that overlooked the wreck could not reach her in that fierce\nwind; the life-boat, when it arrived from Berwick, could not live in the\nbroken water near to her. All was done that man could do to rescue the\nperishing men in that hapless vessel; but that \"all\" in the end amounted\nto just nothing. Helpless, the watchers listened with sick hearts to the\ncries of her doomed crew and to the deep baying of a great hound that\nwas on board the doomed ship; helpless, they gazed in impotent agony at\nthe despairing signals made. In the morning she was still there, but the\ncries were fainter, the faces seen fewer, the vessel more often buried\nunder breaking seas. Then the cries ceased. And when daylight came a\nsecond time, where the hull had been there was now but white, raging\nwater, and seas that spouted high in air from a black rock that showed\nits cruel head at intervals. And of the crew there was found no sign.\nOnly to and fro on the shore there ran a great white dog, that would let\nno man approach it, that would take no food from strange hands. Day and\nnight, like a lost spirit, to and fro between Eyemouth and St. Abb's\nHead trotted the great white hound, never resting. And ever when a sail\nhove in sight, or a steamship passed near in, he would run hurriedly to\nthe farthest projecting point, and throwing back his head, wail\npiteously for the drowned sailors, his friends.\n\n\n\n\nGRISELL HOME, A SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY HEROINE\n\n\nThe Merse has given many a gallant man to the mother-country, oftentimes\na fighter, now and again a martyr, but no fairer flower has ever\nblossomed in that stretch of land that has the North Sea for one of its\nboundaries, and looks across fertile plains to the long, blue line of\nCheviots in the south, than one whose name must ever find a sure place\nin the hearts of those whom courage and fortitude, sweetness and merry\nhumour, exquisite unselfishness, and gay uncomplainingness in the face\nof dire emergency are things to be honoured and held dear.\n\nGrisell Home was the eldest of eighteen children, two of whom died in\ninfancy. She was born at Redbraes Castle--now Marchmont--on December 25,\n1665. There is a belief that Christmas babies always have an extra large\nshare of the nature of Him who was born on Christmas Day; and truly\nGrisell Home was one of those who never seemed to know the meaning of\nSelf. Her father, Sir Patrick Home, a man of strong character and large\nfortune, was known to be a rigid Presbyterian, no friend to the house of\nStuart, and he was regarded by the Government of his day as \"a factious\nperson.\" His great friendship with his neighbour, Robert Baillie of\nJerviswoode, in no way increased the favour with which either of those\ngood men was regarded in high places. Jerviswoode and Home were\n\"suspects,\" and being known as close allies, where one was supposed to\nbe plotting, the other was always expected to be at his back.\n\nTo be the eldest of so large a brood must have been a sobering thing for\nany little girl, but Grisell shouldered her responsibilities with a\nhappy heart, and united with that happy, child-like heart the wisdom and\ndiscretion of a woman. She was only twelve when she was chosen as\nmessenger from her father to his friend Mr. Baillie, who was then in\nprison in Edinburgh. Over lonely Soutra Hill (where highway robbery and\nmurder were things not unknown), it was no easy or pleasant ride from\nMarchmont to the Port of Edinburgh; and here the bleaching skulls of\nmartyred covenanters gave to those who entered the town grim warning of\nthe risks of nonconformity. Doubtless little Grisell had been provided\nby her parents with a suitable escort, but, even so, her heart must have\nbeat faster as she went up the High Street to where the \"Heart of\nMidlothian\" then stood, and asked to see Mr. Robert Baillie, her\nfather's friend. The bright-eyed, slim little maid, with her chestnut\nhair and exquisite complexion, must have been as unexpected a sight in\nthat gloomy place as a wild rose in a desert. None could suspect her of\nmeddling with affairs of State, or of tampering with the prisoners of\nhis gracious Majesty. Thus Grisell Home was able successfully to carry a\nletter of advice and information, and to bring back to her father in the\nMerse tidings of a blameless martyr.\n\nWith his father in prison that day was Baillie's son, George, a boy one\nyear older than Grisell. He had been, as were many of the well-born lads\nof his time, at his studies in Holland, reading law, when his father was\nput in prison, but hastened home on hearing the news. Boys wore swords,\nand not Eton jackets, in George Baillie's day. He had, as his daughter\nafterwards wrote of him, \"a rough, manly countenance\"; and from that day\nuntil the day of her death that face, which she knew first as a boy's,\nwas more beautiful to Grisell Home than any other face on earth. Several\ntimes afterwards was Grisell sent as bearer of important letters from\nher father to him whose son, in days still long to come, was to be her\nhusband, and never once was the douce little messenger suspected.\n\nNot many months later her own father was a prisoner in Dumbarton Castle,\nand during the fifteen months in which he lay there, Grisell was still\nthe messenger, not only to him, but to his friends in various parts. Her\nearly childhood may have been unharassed, but Grisell Home's girlhood\nwas a careful and anxious one. On the discovery of the Rye House Plot,\nBaillie of Jerviswoode and Home of Polwarth, innocent men both, were\ndenounced as traitors to their King. Baillie was taken, and after\nseveral months of imprisonment in London, so heavily loaded with chains\nthat his health completely broke down, he was brought by sea to\nEdinburgh in stormy November weather which kept the ship a fortnight on\nits way. A dying man when he was put in the Tolbooth, he yet had to\nundergo many exhausting examinations and a farcical trial, with \"Bluidy\nMackenzie\" for chief inquisitor, and on Christmas Eve, 1684, he\ngallantly and cheerfully met a martyr's death at the Market Cross of\nEdinburgh.\n\nSir Patrick Home's denunciation was longer in coming than that of his\nfriend, and not until November 1684 was the warrant for his apprehension\nissued. He, good man, had no desire for martyrdom; moreover, at that\ntime he already possessed ten children, whose future as orphans was\nlikely to be wretched, and so Sir Patrick sought concealment from the\nhounds of the law. Foiled in laying hold of him, the law seized his\neldest son, Patrick, and cast him into prison. Two days after\nJerviswoode's death, the lad petitioned the Privy Council for release.\nHe was but \"a poor afflicted young boy,\" he said, loyal to his\nprinciples and with a hatred of plots, and only craved liberty that he\nmight \"see to some livelihood for himself\" and \"be in some condition\" to\nhelp and serve his disconsolate mother and the rest of his father's ten\nstarving children. Most grudgingly was the boon bestowed, and not until\nthe boy had obtained security for his good behaviour to the extent of\ntwo thousand pounds sterling was he allowed to return to the Merse.\n\nMeantime Redbraes Castle was constantly kept under supervision. Scarcely\na week passed without a party of redcoats clattering up the drive,\ninterrogating the servants, tramping through all the rooms, hunting\nround the policies, and doing everything in their power to make things\nunpleasant for the wife and children of this attainted rebel. To only\ntwo people in the house, and to one out of it, was the secret of Sir\nPatrick Home's hiding-place known. With the help of a faithful friend\nand retainer, Jamie Winter, the carpenter, Lady Home and her daughter\nGrisell had one dark night carried bed and bedclothes to the\nburying-place of the Homes, a vault under Polwarth Church, a mile from\nRedbraes. A black walnut folding-bed, exactly underneath the pulpit from\nwhich the minister of Polwarth preached every Sunday, was the fugitive's\nresting-place at night, while for a month he saw no more daylight than\nwas able to reach him from a slit at one end of the vault. The ashes of\nhis ancestors were scarcely lively company, but Sir Patrick found \"great\ncomfort and constant entertainment\" by repeating to himself Buchanan's\nLatin Version of the Psalms. Each night, too, the prisoner was cheered\nby a visit from his daughter Grisell. Through an open glen by the\nSwindon Burn, down what is called The Lady's Walk, Grisell nightly came\nto the vault with her little store of provisions. She was an\nimaginative, poetic little maid, and the whisper of the wind in the lime\ntrees that grew on either hand would make her shiver, and yet more\nloudly would her heart thump when in the darkness she stumbled over the\ngraves in the kirkyard, and remembered all the tales she had ever heard\nof bogles and of ghosts. That lonely walk in the night must always have\nbeen full of terrors, yet Grisell's love for her father was so great\nthat she steadfastly braved them all. One fear only she had--that of the\nsoldiers. The wind moaning through the trees or rustling the long grass,\nthe sound of a rabbit or some other wild thing in the bracken, the\nsudden bark of a dog,--all these made her sure that some spy had found\nout her secret, and sent her running as fast as her little legs could\ncarry her to try to save her father from his captors. The first night\nshe went was the worst, for the minister kept dogs, and the manse was\nnear the church, and even her light footfall was sufficient to set every\none of them a-barking. But Lady Home sent for the minister next day, and\nupon the pretence of one of them being mad, persuaded their owner to\nhang them all. Grisell and her father had the same sunny nature, and\nboth dearly loved a joke, and each amusing little incident of the day\nwas saved up by the former to be told while the prisoner made a meal on\nthe food which she brought with her. Many a hearty laugh they had\ntogether in that dark, dismal place, and often Grisell stayed so late\nthat she had to run up the glen, so as to get home before day dawned.\nThe difficulties she encountered in securing food enough for her father\nwithout arousing the suspicion of the servants was always a subject for\njest, for, more often than not, the only possible means of getting the\nfood was by surreptitiously conveying it, during a meal, from her own\nplate into her lap. Her amazing appetite was bound to be commented upon,\nbut never did she surprise her brothers and sisters more than on a day\nwhen the chief dish at dinner was her father's favourite one--sheep's\nhead. While the younger members of the family were very busy over their\nbroth, Grisell conveyed to her lap the greater part of the head. Her\nbrother Sandy, afterwards Lord Marchmont, dispatched his plateful first,\nlooked up, and gave a shout of amazement.\n\n\"Mother!\" he cried, \"will ye look at Grisell! while we have been eating\nour broth, she has eaten up the whole sheep's heid!\"\n\n\"Sandy must have an extra share of the next sheep's heid,\" said the\nlaughing father when he heard the tale.\n\nDuring the month that Sir Patrick Home lay hid in the vault, it was not\nonly by collecting food for him by day, and by taking it to him by\nnight, that his young daughter gave proof of her devotion. In a room of\nwhich Grisell kept the key, on the ground floor at Redbraes Castle, she\nand Jamie Winter worked in the small hours, making a hiding-place for\nthe fugitive. Underneath a bed which drew out they lifted up the boards,\nand with their hands, scraped and burrowed in the earth to make a hole\nlarge enough for a man to lie in. To prevent making a noise they used no\ntools, and as they dug out the earth it was packed in a sheet, put on\nJamie's back, and carried, Grisell helping, out at the window into the\ngarden. Not a nail was left upon her fingers when the task was\ncompleted, and a sorely unslept little maid she must have looked at the\nend of a month's foraging by day and hard work by night, with that\nnerve-tearing walk as a beginning to her nightly labours. The hole being\nready, Jamie Winter conveyed to it a large deep wooden box which he had\nmade at home, with air-holes in the lid, and furnished with mattress and\nbedding, and this was fitted into the place made for it. It was then\nGrisell's duty to examine it daily, and to keep the air-holes clean\npicked, and when it had for some weeks stood trial of no water coming\ninto it from its being sunk so low in the ground, Sir Patrick one night\ncame home. For a couple of weeks only was Redbraes his sanctuary, for,\non Christmas Day, upon Grisell lifting the boards as usual to see that\nall was well with the lair that her father was to retire to in case of a\nsudden surprise, the mattress bounced to the top, the box being full of\nwater. The poor child nearly fainted from horror, but Sir Patrick\nremained quite calm.\n\n\"Obviously,\" he said to his wife and daughter, \"we must tempt Providence\nno longer. It is now fit and necessary for me to go off and leave you.\"\nLater in the day, news brought by the carrier confirmed him in his\nresolution. Baillie of Jerviswoode had been hanged in Edinburgh on the\nprevious day, and his head now adorned a spike on the Nether Bow. The\ndeath of his best friend was a great shock to Sir Patrick, perhaps an\neven greater one to Lady Home, and to little Grisell, for could not\ntheir imagination readily paint a picture of _their_ dear \"traitor\"\nhanging where his friend had hung. No time was to be lost, and Grisell\nat once began work on her father's wardrobe, and in the coming days and\nnights, with anxious fingers, made such alterations in his clothing as\nseemed necessary for a disguise.\n\nMeantime a friend and neighbour of Sir Patrick's, John Home of\nHalyburton, had \"jaloused\" that his namesake was not hidden so far\nafield as some imagined, and when, one cold January afternoon, he heard\nthe clatter of hoofs on the high-road and saw the red coats of the\ndragoons, he had a stab at his heart at the thought of another good son\nof the Merse going to martyrdom.\n\n\"Where do you ride to-day?\" he asked, when the party came up.\n\n\"To take Polwarth at Redbraes,\" they said.\n\n\"Is it so?\" said Home. \"Then I'll go with you myself and be your guide.\nBut come your ways into the house and rest you a little, till I get\nready for the road.\"\n\nNothing loth, the troopers followed him, and were still contentedly\ntesting the quality of the contents of his big case-bottles when a groom\ngalloped off to Redbraes. Halyburton's message to Lady Home of Polwarth\nwas a brief one, for when she opened his envelope there was nothing\nthere to read--only a little feather fluttered out, giving as plainly\nthe advice to instant flight as pages of words might have done.\n\nThere was nothing for it but to take another into their secret. John\nAllen, the grieve, was sent for, and fainted dead away when he heard\nthat his master was in the house instead of being in safety in foreign\nlands, and that the dragoons were even then on his tracks. He, too, had\nvisions of a figure dangling from a gibbet, and of a head on the Nether\nBow--and small blame to him, worthy man.\n\nIt was then the darkening, and Allen's instructions were at once to tell\nhis fellow-servants that he had received orders to sell three horses at\nMorpeth Fair, and to be off on the road without further delay.\n\nSir Patrick took farewell of his wife and of Grisell, climbed out of a\nwindow, met the grieve near the stables, and was off in the darkness,\nwith as little noise as might be. It was a sorrowful parting, but when,\nnot long after he was gone, the dragoons rode up to Redbraes, Lady Home\nand her daughter were glad indeed that he was away.\n\nSomewhat regretting their prolonged enjoyment of the hospitality of Home\nof Halyburton, the search-party thoroughly ransacked every hole and\ncorner of Redbraes Castle. Inside they could find no trace nor pick up\none crumb of information, but from an outside servant they heard of John\nAllen's departure, Morpeth way, with three horses.\n\n\"_Horses,_ indeed! for Morpeth Fair?\" the dragoon officer hooted at the\nthought. \"Boot and saddle, lads!\" he called to his men; \"we'll run the\ntraitorous fox to earth long before he gets to Berwick!\" At a canter\nthey were off down the drive, the contents of Halyburton's case-bottles\nstill warming their hearts and giving extra zest to their enterprise. It\nwas a dark night, and they were thick black woods that they rode\nbetween, but they had not ridden very many miles when they were able to\nmake out, some way in front of them, the outlines of two horses.\n\n\"We've got him, lads!\" cried the officer; \"run him down at last. Worry,\nworry, worry!\"\n\nBut instead of the horses in front breaking into a gallop at the sound\nof pursuit, they were pulled up short by the roadside, and instead of\nthere being two riders there was only one, leading an unsaddled horse.\nMore exasperating than all to the ardour of the hunters was the fact\nthat in place of the thin, clever face of Sir Patrick Home being the one\nto confront them, the round, scared face of a Berwickshire peasant\nstared at them in dismay. In vain did the officer question, bully,\ncross-examine. John Allen was unshakeable. He was gaun tae Morpeth Fair\ntae sell the horse. Na, he didnae ken where the maister was. Sure's\ndaith he didnae ken. Aye, he left Redbraes mebbes twa hour sin', in the\ndarkening. No amount of hectoring, no quantity of loudly--shouted oaths\ncould move the grieve from his tale. \"A wuss a _did_ ken whaur he is,\"\nhe said, \"but _a_ dinnae ken.\" Finally he had to be given up as\nhopeless, and the dragoons rode back, a little shamefacedly and cursing\ntheir luck. John Allen, his honest face still full of scared amazement,\nrode slowly on. Every now and again he would check his horse, look round\nand listen, mutter to himself bewilderedly, shake his head, and go on\nonce more. The clatter of the dragoons had not long died away when,\ncoming towards him from the other direction, he heard the regular beat\nof a horse's hoofs. It was no strange horse, he soon realised, nor was\nthe rider a stranger. The gay smile that his face so often wore\nirradiated Home of Polwarth's when he heard his servant's greeting.\n\n\"Eh, losh me, Polwarth!\" he said, \"a never had sic a gliff in a' _ma_\ndays! Here a' em, thinking aye that ye was riding no far ahint us, and\nwhen a hears a gallopin' an' turns roond, ye've santed, an' here's a\npack o' thae bluidy dragoons that wad blast ye black in the face an'\nspeir the inside oot o' a wheelbarra. Man, where were ye? It's naething\nshort o' a meericle?\"\n\nNor was it much short of a miracle, as Sir Patrick acknowledged. He had\nfollowed Allen at first as the grieve had thought, but his mind was full\nof the parting he had just gone through and of the misty future before\nhim, and when his thoughts came back with a jerk to the actualities of\nthe present, he heard the rush of a winter river and found that he was\nclose by the side of the Tweed. It was some time before he could exactly\nfind his bearings, but he did so at last, and, after some reconnoitring,\nfound a place that could be safely forded. Once across the river, he\nrode quickly back towards Redbraes, hoping that by good fortune he might\nyet meet with Allen, and so neatly escaped the soldiers who pursued him.\nThe high-road after this was no longer deemed safe, and the rest of his\nride to London was done on bye-ways and across the moors. In two days\nhonest John returned to Redbraes and brought to the sad hearts of Lady\nHome and Grisell the joyful news that Sir Patrick had not fallen into\nthe hands of the dragoons, as they had greatly feared, but was now\nsafely on his way to England. As a travelling surgeon, calling himself\nDr. Wallace, Sir Patrick Home worked his way south, bleeding patients\nwhen need be, prescribing homely remedies when called upon to do so.\nNone ever penetrated his disguise, and he was able to cross from London\nto France and journey, on foot from France to Holland with complete\nsuccess.\n\nYears afterwards, when Sir Patrick was Earl of Marchmont, Chancellor of\nScotland, and President of the Privy Council, it was his lot to have to\ntry for his life a certain Captain Burd. And during the trial there came\nback to him like a flash the old days when, in company with another\nwayfarer, he tramped the long French roads, unwinding themselves like\nwhite ribbons before him, between the avenues of stiff, tall, silvery\npoplars on to the flat, windmill-dotted Dutch country, with the\nbrown-sailed boats that seemed to sail along the fields. And here, in\nCaptain Burd, he recognised the companion of those often weary, often\nhungry days, when pockets were empty, fortunes at dead-low tide, and\nScotland and wife and children very far away. In public the Chancellor\ntreated his old friend with severity, but arranged with his son, Sir\nAndrew Home, then a young lawyer, to see Captain Burd alone. Timidly and\nnervously, with downcast eyes, the poor man repeated the tale to which\nthe Chancellor had already listened. In silence he heard it again, and\nthen: \"Do you not know me?\" he asked, smiling.\n\n\"God's wounds! Dr. Wallace!\" cried Captain Burd, and fell with tears of\njoy on the neck of the Chancellor, who was readily and gladly able to\nprove the innocence of his old companion.\n\nNo sooner had Sir Patrick Home left Scotland than his estates were\nforfeited and given to Lord Seaforth, and although Lady Home went by sea\nto London, and there for a long time did all possible to obtain from\nGovernment an adequate allowance for the support of her family of ten,\n\u00a3150 a year was all that she was able to secure. Of course Grisell was\nher companion there, and her companion also when she sailed to Holland\nto join Sir Patrick. Of the ten, a little girl, Julian by name, had to\nbe left behind with friends as she was too ill to travel, and when\nGrisell had safely handed over her mother and brothers and sisters to\nher father's care, she returned to Scotland alone, to act as escort to\nthe little sister, \"to negotiate business, and to try if she could pick\nup any money of some that was owing to her father.\" The brave and\ncapable little woman of business, having managed affairs to her\nsatisfaction, secured, for the passage, a nurse for the sister, who was\nstill a weakly invalid. Moreover, the voyage to Holland, being in those\ndays more than just the affair of a night, a cabin-bed--the only one in\nthe ship, apparently--was engaged for Julian, and a good store of\nprovisions laid in. But when the ship had sailed, Grisell found that the\ncabin-bed had been separately engaged and paid for by four other ladies,\nand at once these four began a violent dispute as to which should have\nit. \"Let them be doing,\" said a gentleman, who had to share the cabin\nwith the rest, \"you will see how it will end.\"\n\nSo the disappointed little maid had to arrange a bed on the floor as\nbest she could for herself and her sister, with a bag of books that she\nwas taking to her father for pillow, while two ladies shared the bed and\nthe others lay down where they could find room. Any place where they\ncould lie flat must have been welcome, for a storm was brewing, and as a\ncradle the North Sea usually leaves a good deal to be desired. As they\nall lay, in fairly sickening discomfort, in the cabin, lit only by an\nevil-smelling oil-lamp that swayed back and forwards with each roll, the\nheavy step of the captain was heard coming down the companion way.\nGrisell had expected honesty from her fellow-travellers, and her store\nof provisions was laid out in what she had considered a convenient\nplace. It did not take the captain long to devour every scrap of what\nhad been meant to last the girls and their maid for days. His gluttonous\nmeal over, he tramped up to the bed.\n\n\"Turn out! turn out!\" he said to the women who lay there, and having\nundressed himself lay down to snore in that five time's paid for\nsleeping-place. It must have been somewhat of a comfort--if, indeed,\ncomfort was to be found in anything that night--that the captain did not\nlong enjoy his slumbers. A fierce gale began to blow, and during the\nfurious storm that never abated for many an hour to come, the captain\nhad to remain, drenched to the skin, on deck, working and directing with\nall his might, in order to save his ship. They never saw him again until\nthey landed at the Brill. That night the two girls set out on foot to\ntramp the weary miles to Rotterdam, a gentleman refugee from Scotland,\nwho had come over in the same boat, acting as their escort. The stormy\nweather of the North Sea had followed them to land. It was a cold, wet,\ndirty night, and Julian Home, still frail from illness, soon lost her\nshoes in the mud. There was but one solution to the difficulty. The\ngentleman shouldered their baggage along with his own; Grisell\nshouldered her sister, and carried her all the rest of those weary\nmiles. At Rotterdam they found Sir Patrick Home and his eldest son\nawaiting them, to take them on to their new home in Utrecht, and wet and\ncold and tiredness were all forgotten at the sight of those dear faces,\nand Grisell \"felt nothing but happiness and contentment.\"\n\nFor three years and a half they lived in Utrecht, and once again during\nthat time Grisell voyaged to Scotland to see to her father's business\naffairs. It is difficult to discover what, during the rest of that time,\nshe did not do for her parents and family. There were many Scottish\nrefugees then in Holland, and the Homes kept open house, and spent\nnearly a fourth part of their income on a mansion sufficiently\ncommodious to allow of their hospitalities. This made it impossible for\nthem to keep any servant save a little girl who washed the dishes, and\nconsequently Grisell acted as cook, housekeeper, housemaid, washerwoman,\nlaundress, dressmaker, and tailoress. Twice a week she sat up at night\nto do the family accounts. Daily she rose before six, went to the market\nand to the mill to see their own corn ground, and--in the words of her\ndaughter, who proudly tells the tale--\"dressed the linen, cleaned the\nhouse, made ready the dinner, mended the children's stockings and other\nclothes, made what she could for them, and in short did everything.\" She\nwas very musical and loved playing and singing, but when, for a small\nsum, a harpsichord was bought, it was her younger sister, Christian, who\nwas the performer, and by it \"diverted\" her parents, and the girls had\nmany a joke over their different occupations. Yet even with all her\nother work she found time to take an occasional lesson in French and\nDutch from her father along with the younger ones, and even wrote a book\nof songs--many of them half written, broken off in the middle of a\nsentence as a pot boiled over or an iron grew hot enough to use. Some\nof them are dear to us still. Do we ever think of all the hardships that\nwere nobly endured by a Scottish girl two hundred years ago when we\nquote the words of her exquisite song?--\n\n     \"Were na my heart licht, I wad dee.\"\n\nOf all her brothers and sisters, her eldest brother, Patrick, was her\nclosest friend, and, when he became one of the Prince of Orange's\nGuards, Grisell had extra labours, for the Guards wore little point-lace\ncravats and cuffs, and many a night she sat up to have these in such\nperfect order that no dandy officer in the service could compete with\nthe young Scottish soldier. An added happiness to those happy, busy days\ncame to Grisell through her brother's fellow-guardsman and greatest\nfriend, for George Baillie, the lad she first met in the Tolbooth, gave\nhis heart to her that day within the gloomy prison walls, and they were\nlovers still when, after forty-eight years of married life, death came\nto part them.\n\nWith the accession of the Prince of Orange the merry, light-hearted days\nin Holland came to an end. There was probably no poorer Scottish family\nto be found in all Holland. There was certainly no happier one. When\nthey came home they were prosperous once again, and honours were\nshowered upon Sir Patrick Home. Grisell was asked to become a maid of\nhonour to the Princess but she preferred to go back to the quiet country\nlife at Redbraes. Already, during their least prosperous days, Grisell's\nbeauty and charm had made at least two Berwickshire gentlemen \"of\nfortune and character\" beg for her hand, and it was to her parents'\nregret that she refused them both, because her heart was already in the\nkeeping of a penniless guardsman in the Dutch service. Only poverty kept\nthem apart, and when King William gave back to George Baillie his lands,\nthere was no other obstacle in the way, and they were married forthwith.\nThey were man and wife for forty-eight years, \"in all of which time,\"\nwrites their daughter, \"I have often heard my mother declare that they\nnever had the shadow of a quarrel, or misunderstanding, or dryness\nbetwixt them--not for a moment\"; and that, \"to the last of his life, she\nfelt the same ardent and tender love and affection for him, and the same\ndesire to please him in the smallest trifle that she had at their first\nacquaintance.\" To the day his last illness began, her husband never went\nout without her going to the window to watch him till he was out of\nsight of those kind, bright, beautiful eyes, through which shone as\nbeautiful a soul as any that ever made the earth a better and a happier\nplace for having been in it.\n\nGrisell Home was Lady Grisell Baillie when, in 1703, her mother died.\n\n\"Where is Grisell,\" she asked, almost with her latest breath. And when\nLady Grisell came and held her hand the old lady said, \"My dear Grisell,\nblessed be you above all, for a helpful child you have been to me.\"\n\nLady Grisell Baillie lived through the '15 and the '45, and those who\nsuffered in the first of those years had the kindest of friends and\nhelpers in her large-minded husband and in herself. She was eighty at\nthe time of the '45, but during that year and during the next, when her\ndeath took place, she helped by every means in her power those who had\nsuffered from fighting for a cause that was dear to their hearts. She\nalways remembered what she herself had gone through. \"Full of years, and\nof good works,\" as her somewhat pompous epitaph has it, Lady Grisell\nBaillie died in December 1746, and was buried at Mellerstain on the day\nupon which she should have celebrated her eighty-second birthday. And\nsurely the angels who, on that first Christmas Eve, long, long ago, sang\nof \"Peace on earth--goodwill towards men,\" must have been very near when\nshe, who was a Christmas baby, and whose whole long life had been one of\nlove and of peace, of goodwill and of charity to others, was laid in the\nearth as the snowflakes fell, on Christmas Day, one hundred and\nsixty-eight years ago.\n\n\n\n\nKINMONT WILLIE\n\n\nA venerable and highly respected Scottish professor of literature was\nonce asked what was his ruling passion--his heart's desire? If the\nsecrets of his soul could be laid bare, what, above all, would be found\nto be his predominant wish? The question was an indiscreet one, but he\nwas tolerant. He tightly compressed his gentle mouth, and firmly\nreadjusted his gold-rimmed glasses.\n\n\"I _wish_\" said he, \"to be a corsair.\"\n\nIt would have been interesting to know how many of a following he would\nhave had from sedate academic circles had he been given his heart's\ndesire and had sailed down the Clyde with the raw head and bloody bones\nshowing on the black flag that flew at his mast-head. How many of us are\nthere with whom law-abiding habits, decorous respectability, form but a\nthin covering of ice over unplumbed depths of lawless desire? Not long\nsince, when a wretched criminal case in which the disappearance of a\npearl necklace was involved, was agitating every Scottish club and\ntea-table, a charming old Scottish lady, whose career from childhood up\nhas been one of unblemished virtue, was heard to bemoan the manner of\ncommission of the crime. \"She did it _very_ stupidly. Now, if _I_ had\nbeen doing it I should\"--And her astounded auditors listened to an able\nexposition of the way in which she would successfully have eluded\njustice. Is it the story of the villain who is successfully tracked to\nhis doom that attracts us most? or that of the great Raffles and his\nkind whose villainies almost invariably escape detection, and who\nburgles with a light and easy touch and the grace and humour of a Claude\nDuval? Let us be honest with ourselves. How many of us really wish to be\ncorsairs? Which of us would _not_ have been a reiver in the old reiving\ndays? Have we not noticed in ourselves and other Borderers an undeniable\ncomplacency, a boastful pride in a mask of apology that would not\ndeceive an infant, when we say, \"Oh yes; certainly a good many of my\nancestors were hanged for lifting cattle.\" And, however \"indifferent\nhonest\" we ourselves may be, which of us does not lay aside even that\nmost futile mask and boast unashamedly when we can claim descent from\none of those princes among reivers--Wat o' Harden, Johnnie Armstrong, or\nKinmont Willie?\n\nWilliam Armstrong, better known as Kinmont Willie, lived in the palmiest\ndays of the Border reivers. The times of purely Scottish and purely\nEnglish kings were drawing to a close, and with one monarch to rule over\nBritain the raider could no longer plead that he was a patriot who\nfought for king and country when he made an incursion over the Cheviots,\nburned a few barns and dwelling-houses, lifted some \"kye and oxen,\"\nhorses, and goats, and what household gear and minted money he could lay\nhands on, slew a man or two, and joyously returned home.\n\nBut with Elizabeth still on the English throne, and with Queen Mary, and\nafterwards her son, reigning in Scotland, the dance could go merrily on,\nand when we look at those days in retrospect it seems to us that the\nlast bars of the music, the last turns in the dance, went more rapidly\nthan any that had gone before.\n\nIn Kinmont Willie's lifetime the Wardens of the Marches had but little\nleisure. It was necessary for them to be fighting men with a good head\nfor figures, for on the days of truce when the Wardens of the Scottish\nand English Marches met to redd up accounts, not only had they to work\nout knotty arithmetical problems with regard to the value of every sort\nof live stock, of buildings, of \"insight,\" and the payment of such\nbills, but they had to have expert knowledge in fair exchange of a\nScottish for an English life, an English for a Scotch. Little wonder if\ntheir patience sometimes ran short, as did that of a Howard of Naworth\nupon one famous occasion. He was deeply engrossed in studies that had no\nbearing upon Border affairs when an officer came to announce the\ncapture of some Scottish moss-troopers, and to ask for the Warden's\ncommands with regard to them. The interruption was untimely, and Lord\nHoward was exasperated. \"Hang them, in the devil's name!\" he said\nangrily, and went on with his studies. A little later he felt he could\nbetter give his mind to the consideration of the case, and sent for his\nofficer. \"Touching the prisoners,\" said he, \"what have you done with\nthem?\"\n\nProud of being one of those who did not let the grass grow beneath their\nfeet, the officer beamingly responded: \"Everyone o' them's hangit, my\nlord!\"\n\nIt was a March day in 1596, when a Wardens' meeting took place at\nDayholm, near Kershopefoot. The snow was still lying in the hollows of\nthe Cheviots, the trees were bare, the Liddel and the Esk swollen by\nthaws and winter rains; but weather was a thing that came but little\ninto the reckoning of the men of the Marches unless some foray was\nafoot. They got through the business more or less satisfactorily, and\nproceeded to ride home before the day of truce should be ended. From\nsunrise on the one day until sunset on the next, so the Border law\nordained, all Scots and Englishmen who were present at the Wardens'\nmeeting should be free of scathe. Now the Warden of Liddesdale at that\ntime was Sir Walter Scott of Branxholme, laird of Buccleuch. He was one\nof the greatest men of his century; a \"fyrebrande,\" according to Queen\nElizabeth, and a fierce enemy according to those who incurred his\nenmity; but, according to all others, a man of perfect courage,\nstainless loyalty and honour, charming wit, and great culture. He never\nspared an enemy nor turned his back on a friend, and he was a born\nwinner of hearts and leader of men. Amongst his retainers was Kinmont\nWillie, and as Willie rode from the Wardens' meeting, along the banks of\nthe Liddel, in company with only three or four men, a body of two\nhundred English horsemen, commanded by Salkeld, Warden of the Eastern\nMarch, marked him from across the water. Truce or no truce, the chance\nseemed to them one that was too good to lose. Speedily some of them\npushed on ahead, and an ambush was laid for Kinmont Willie. He and his\nfriends were naturally totally unprepared for such a dastardly attack,\nbut it took them but little time to gather their wits, and Willie gave\nthem a good run for their money. For nearly four miles they chased him,\nbut ran him down at length. After some hard giving and taking, he had to\nacknowledge his defeat, and, pinioned like a common malefactor--arms\ntied behind him, legs bound under his horse's belly--they rode with him\ninto Carlisle town.\n\nThe news of the treacherous taking of his follower was not long in\nreaching Buccleuch, who at once raised an angry protest. Scrope, the\nEnglish Warden, received this with an evasive and obviously trumped-up\ncounter-charge of Kinmont Will having first broken truce. Moreover, he\nsaid, he was a notorious enemy to law and order, and must bear the\npenalty of his misdeeds. This was more than the bold Buccleuch could\nstomach.\n\n     \"He has ta'en the table wi' his hand,\n     He garr'd the red wine spring on hie--\n     'Now Christ's curse on my head,' he said,\n     'But avenged of Lord Scrope I'll be!\n     O, is my basnet a widow's curch?\n     Or my lance a wand o' the willow-tree?\n     Or my arm a ladye's lilye hand,\n     That an English lord should lightly me?'\"\n\nNo time was lost in making an appeal to King James, which resulted in an\napplication to the English Government. But while the English authorities\nquibbled, paltered, and delayed--with a little evasion, a little extra\nred-tapism, a little judicious procrastination--the days of Kinmont\nWillie were being numbered by his captors. The triumph of putting an end\nto the daring deeds of so bold a Scottish reiver when they had him\nsafely in chains in Carlisle Castle, was one that they were not likely\nlightly to forego. It would be indeed a merry crowd of English Borderers\nthat flocked to Haribee Hill on the day that Will of Kinmont dangled\nfrom the gallows.\n\nBuccleuch saw that he had no time to lose. He himself must strike at\nonce, and strike with all his might.\n\nThe night of April 13, 1596, was dark and stormy. All the Border burns\nand rivers were in spate; the winds blew shrewd and chill through the\nglens of Liddesdale, and sleet drifted down in the teeth of the gale.\nThe trees that grew so thick round Woodhouselee bent and cracked, and\nsent extra drenching showers of rain down on the steel jacks of a band\nof horsemen who carefully picked their way underneath them, on to the\nsouth. Buccleuch was leader, and with him rode some forty picked men of\nhis friends and kinsmen, to meet some hundred and fifty or so of other\nchosen men. Scotts, Elliots, Armstrongs, and Grahams were there, and\nalthough Buccleuch had requested that only younger sons were to risk\ntheir lives in the forlorn hope that night, Auld Wat o' Harden and many\nanother landowner rode with their chief. \"Valiant men, they would not\nbide,\" says Scott of Satchells, whose own father was one of the number.\nKinmont Willie's own tower of Morton, on the water of Sark, about ten\nmiles north of Carlisle, was their rallying point. Buccleuch had\narranged every detail most carefully at a horse-race held at Langholm a\nfew days before, and one of the Grahams, an Englishman whose countrymen\nwere not yet aware that the Graham clan had allied themselves to that of\nthe Scotts, had conveyed his ring to Kinmont Willie to show him that he\nwas not forgotten by his feudal lord. One and all, the reivers were well\narmed, \"with spur on heel, and splent on spauld,\" and with them they\ncarried scaling ladders, picks, axes, and iron crowbars. The Esk and\nEden were in furious flood, but no force of nature or of man could stay\nthe reivers' horses that night.\n\n     \"We go to catch a rank reiver\n     Has broken faith wi' the bauld Buccleuch.\"\n\nThat was the burden of their thoughts, and although they well knew that\nere the dawning each one of them might be claiming the hospitality of\nsix feet of English sod, their hearts were light. To them a message that\nthe fray was up was like the sound of the huntsman's horn in the ears of\na thoroughbred hunter.\n\n     \"'Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads,\n     Wi' a' your ladders, lang and hie?'\n     'We gang to berry a corbie's nest,\n     That wons not far frae Woodhouselee.'\"\n\nNo light matter was it to harry that corbie's nest. Carlisle Castle was\na strong castle, strongly garrisoned, and to make a raid on an English\ntown was a bold attempt indeed. But fear was a thing unknown to the\nBorder reivers, and the flower of them rode with Buccleuch that\nnight--close on his horse's heels Wat o' Harden, Walter Scott of\nGoldielands, and Kinmont's own four stalwart sons--Jock, Francie,\nGeordie, and Sandy. As the dark night hours wore on, sleet and wind were\nreinforced by a thunderstorm.\n\n     \"And when we left the Staneshaw-bank,\n     The wind began full loud to blaw,\n     But 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet,\n     When we came beneath the castle wa'.\"\n\nWhen the besiegers reached the castle they found some of the watch\nasleep, and the rest sheltering indoors from the storm. The outside of\nthe castle was left to take care of itself. It was dismaying to find the\nscaling ladders too short to be of any use, but a small postern gate was\nspeedily and quietly undermined. Drifting sleet, growling thunder, and\nthe wails of the wind drowned all sounds of the assault, and soon there\nwas no further need for concealment, for the lower court of the castle\nwas theirs. The guard started up, to find sword-blades at their throats;\ntwo of them were left dead, and the rest were speedily overpowered.\nBuccleuch, the fifth man in, gave the command to proclaim aloud their\ntriumph:\n\n     \"'Now sound out trumpets!' quoth Buccleuch;\n     'Let's waken Lord Scroope right merrilie!'\n     Then loud the Warden's trumpet blew--\n     _'O wha daur meddle wi' me?'_\"\n\nWhile Buccleuch himself kept watch at the postern, two dozen stout\nmoss-troopers now rushed to the castle gaol, a hundred yards from the\npostern gate, forced the door of Kinmont Willie's prison, and found him\nthere chained to the wall, and carried him out, fetters and all, on the\nback of \"the starkest man in Teviotdale.\"\n\n\"Stand to it!\" cried Buccleuch--so says the traitor, a man from the\nEnglish side, who afterwards acted as informer to the English\nWarden--\"for I have vowed to God and my Prince that I would fetch out of\nEngland, Kinmont, dead or alive.\"\n\nShouts of victory in strident Scottish voices, the crash of picks on\nshattered doors and ruined mason-work, and that arrogant, insolent,\noft-repeated blast from the trumpet of him whom Scrope described in his\nreport to the Privy Council as \"the capten of this proud attempt,\" were\nnot reassuring sounds to the Warden of the English Marches, his deputy,\nand his garrison. Five hundred Scots at least--so did Scrope swear to\nhimself and others--were certainly there, and there was no gainsaying\nthe adage that \"Discretion is the better part of valour.\" So, in the\nwords of the historian, he and the others \"did keip thamselffis close.\"\n\nBut no sooner had the rescue party reached the banks of the Eden than\nthe bells of Carlisle clanged forth a wild alarm. Red-tongued flames\nfrom the beacon on the great tower did their best, in spite of storm and\nsleet, to warn all honest English folk that a huge army of Scots was on\nthe war-path, and that the gallows on Haribee Hill had been insulted by\nthe abduction of its lawful prey.\n\n     \"We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank,\n     When a' the Carlisle bells were rung,\n     And a thousand men on horse and foot,\n     Cam' wi' the keen Lord Scroope along.\n\n     Buccleuch has turn'd to Eden Water,\n     Even where it flow'd frae brim to brim,\n     And he has plunged in wi' a' his band,\n     And safely swam them through the stream.\n\n     He turned them on the other side,\n     And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he--\n     'If ye like na' my visit in merry England,\n     In fair Scotland come visit me!'\n\n     All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope,\n     He stood as still as rock of stane;\n     He scarcely dare to trew his eyes,\n     When through the water they had gane.\n\n     'He is either himsel' a devil frae hell,\n     Or else his mother a witch maun be;\n     I wadna' have ridden that wan water\n     For a' the gowd in Christentie.'\"\n\nAt a place called \"Dick's Tree,\" not far from Longtown, there still\nstands the \"smiddy\" where lived the blacksmith who had the honour of\nknocking off Kinmont Willie's fetters. Sir Walter Scott has handed on\nthe story of the smith's daughter who, as a little child, was roused at\ndaybreak by a \"sair clatter\" of horses, and shouts for her father,\nfollowed, as the smith slept soundly, by a lance being thrust through\nthe window. Looking out in the dim grey of the morning, the child saw\n\"more gentlemen than she had ever seen before in one place, all on\nhorseback, in armour, and dripping wet--and that Kinmont Willie, who sat\nwoman-fashion behind one of them, was the biggest carle she ever\nsaw--and there was much merriment in the party.\"\n\nFurious was the hive of wasps that Buccleuch brought about his head by\nthus insultingly casting a stone into the English bike. The wrath of\nQueen Elizabeth was unappeasable. Scrope found it sounded better to\nmultiply the number of the raiders by five, but Scottish tongues were\nnot slow to tell the affronting truth, and the Englishmen of Carlisle\nhad the extra bitterness of being butts for the none too subtle jests of\nevery Scot on the Border. The success of so daring a venture made the\nScottish reivers arrogant. Between June 19 and July 24 of that year, the\nspoils of the western Marches were a thousand and sixty-one cattle and\nninety-eight horses, and some thirty steadings and other buildings,\nmostly in Gilsland, were burned. The angry English made reprisals. It\nwas in one of them that the Scots who were taken were leashed \"like\ndoggis,\" and for this degradation Buccleuch and Ker of Cessford made the\nEnglish pay most handsomely. Together those \"twoo fyrebrandes of the\nBorder\" led an incursion into Tynedale, where, in broad daylight, they\nburned three hundred steadings and dwelling-houses, many stables, barns,\nand other outhouses, slew with the sword fourteen of those who had been\nin the Scottish raid, and brought back a handsome booty.\n\nKing Jamie was in a most uncomfortable position. Queen Elizabeth\ndemanded Buccleuch's punishment, and he argued. She nagged, and he\nwriggled. Finally, after continual angry remonstrances from the insulted\nEnglish monarch, he had to give in, and Buccleuch and Ker had both, at\ndifferent periods, to suffer imprisonment for the sin, in the virgin\nQueen's eyes, of the rescue of Kinmont Willie, and of its bloody\nconsequences. We realise what was the reputation of Buccleuch and of his\nfollowers when we see into what a state of panic the mere prospect of\nhaving the Border chieftain as prisoner at Berwick-on-Tweed threw Sir\nJohn Carey, the governor. To Lord Hunsdon he wrote: \"I entreat your\nLordship that I may not become the jailor of so dangerous a prisoner or,\nat least, that I may know whether I shall keep him like a prisoner or\nno? for there is not a worse or more dangerous place in England to keep\nhim than this; it is so near his friends, and, besides, so many in this\ntown willing to pleasure him, and his escape may be so easily made; and\nonce out of this town he is past recovery. Wherefore I humbly beseech\nyour honor, let him be removed from hence to a more secure place, for I\nprotest to the Almightie God, before I will take the charge to kepe him\nhere, I will desire to be put in prison myself, and to have a keeper of\nme. For what care soever be had of him here, he shall want no\nfurtherance whatsoever wit of man can devise, if he himself list to make\nan escape. So I pray your Lordship, even for God's sake and for the love\nof a brother, to relieve me from this danger.\" But there was no attempt\nat a rescue of Buccleuch. He did not desire it. Not as a criminal, but\nas a state prisoner he gave himself up to the English governor, and,\nhaving given his parole, he kept it, like the gentleman of stainless\nhonour that he was.\n\nTwo years after his imprisonment at Berwick-on-Tweed, Buccleuch, on his\nway with two hundred followers to serve with Prince Maurice of Nassau in\nthe Low Countries--a raid from which many a Borderer never returned--was\nsufficiently received into favour to be permitted to go to London and\nkiss the hand of her most gracious Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. The\nremembrance of Kinmont Willie still rankled in that most unforgiving of\nroyal breasts.\n\n\"How dared you,\" she imperiously demanded, \"undertake an enterprise so\ndesperate and presumptuous?\"\n\n\"Dared?\" answered Buccleuch; \"what is it that a man _dares_ not do?\"\n\nElizabeth turned impetuously to a lord-in-waiting. \"With ten thousand\nsuch men,\" she said, \"our brother of Scotland might shake the firmest\nthrone in Europe.\"\n\nThat Kinmont Willie avenged himself not once, but many times, on those\nwho had treacherously trapped him and done their best to make him meat\nfor the greedy English gibbet, is not a matter of surmise, but one of\nhistory. His ride into Carlisle on that bleak March day, and the long\ndays and dreary nights he spent in chains in the English gaol, were\nlittle likely to engender a gentle and forgiving spirit in the breast of\none of the most fiery of the \"minions of the moon.\" When, in 1600, he\nraided Scrope's tenants, they were given good cause to regret the\nhappenings in which Scrope had taken so prominent a part.\n\nWe have no record of the end of Kinmont Willie, and can but hope, for\nhis sake, that he died the death he would have died--a good horse under\nhim almost to the end, a good sword in his hand, open sky above him, and\nround him the caller breeze that has blown across the Border hills. In a\nlonely little graveyard in the Debatable Land, close to the Water of\nSark, and near the March dyke between the two countries, his body is\nsaid to rest. Does there never come a night, when the moon is hidden\nbehind a dark scud of clouds, and the old reiver, growing restless in\nhis grave, finds somewhere the shade of a horse that, in its day, could\ngallop with the best, and rides again across the Border, to meet once\nmore his \"auld enemies\" of England, and, to the joyous accompaniment of\nthe lowing of cattle and the jingle of spurs, returns to his lodging as\nthe first cock crows, and grey morning breaks?\n\n     \"O, they rade in the rain, in the days that are gane,\n       In the rain and the wind and the lave;\n     They shoutit in the ha' and they routit on the hill,\n       But they're a' quaitit noo in the grave.\"\n\n\n\n\nIN THE DAYS OF THE '15\n\n\nClose on two hundred years back from the present time there stood far up\nthe South Tyne, beyond Haltwhistle, on the road--then little better than\na bridle-track--running over the Cumberland border by Brampton, an inn\nwhich in those days was a house of no little importance in that wild and\nremote country.\n\nIf its old walls could speak, what, for instance, might they not have\ntold of Jacobite plottings? Beneath its roof was held many a meeting of\nthe supporters of the King \"over the water,\" James the Eighth; and here,\nriding up from Dilston, not seldom came the unfortunate Earl of\nDerwentwater, to take part in the Jacobite deliberations. The young lord\nand the horse he usually rode were figures familiar and welcome to the\ncountry folk around, and at the inn they were as well known as was the\nlandlord himself. It was not long after a secret meeting held here in\nthe earlier half of the year 1715 that the warrants were issued which\nled to Derwentwater's flight from Dilston, and precipitated the Rising\nthat within a few months rolled so many gallant heads in the dust of the\nscaffold.\n\nIt might perhaps have been better for Lord Derwentwater had he been\nless beloved in Northumberland, and had his devoted admirers been unable\nto send him notice of the coming of the warrant for his arrest. He might\nnot then have had opportunity to commit himself so deeply; and there\nmight have been a romantic and pathetic figure the less in the doleful\nhistory of that unhappy period. As it was, he had time to get clear\naway, and was able to lie securely hid, partly in farmhouses, partly\nnear Shaftoe Crags, till the news reached him that Forster had raised\nthe standard of rebellion. On 6th October 1715, at the head of a little\ncompany of gentlemen and armed servants, he joined Forster at Greenrig.\n\nA poor affair at the best, this muster in Northumberland; and though the\ncounty was seething with excitement, and a few notable men went out with\nthe Earl, his personal following did not exceed seventy in all. Then\nfollowed the march which ended so disastrously in pitiful surrender at\nPreston that fatal November day. However gallant personally, Forster was\nan incapable soldier, no leader of men, and General Wills had but to\nspread wide his net to sweep in the bulk of the insurgents--Forster,\nDerwentwater, Kenmure, Nithsdale, Carwath, Wintoun, and men less exalted\nin rank by the score and the hundred. The bag was a heavy one, that day\nof disaster to the Stuart cause; and alas, for many of those who filled\nit! Alas, too, for the wives and the mothers who sat at home, waiting!\nNot to everyone was given the opportunity to dare all for husband or\nson; to few came such chance as was seized by the Countess of Nithsdale,\nwho so contrived that her husband escaped from the Tower disguised in\nwoman's clothing. It was boldly schemed, and success followed her\nattempt. Others could but pray to God and petition the King. She not\nonly prayed, but acted. Would that there might have been one so to act\nfor Derwentwater! More happy had it been, perhaps, for his Countess had\nshe never uttered the taunt that ended his hesitation to join in the\nRebellion: \"It is not fitting that the Earl of Derwentwater should\ncontinue to hide his head in hovels from the light of day, when the\ngentry are up in arms for their lawful sovereign.\" They say that her\nspirit mourns yet within the tower of Dilston.\n\nAway up the valley of the Tyne, amongst the wild Northumberland hills,\nnews went with lagging gait, those leisurely days of the eighteenth\ncentury; even news of battle or of disaster did not speed as it is the\nwont of ill news to do: \"For evil news rides fast, while good news\nbaits.\" Tidings, in those good old days, but trickled through from ear\nto ear, slowly, as water filters through sand. Little news, therefore,\nof Lord Derwentwater, or of the Rising, was heard in or around\nHaltwhistle after the insurgent force left Brampton; no man knew for a\ncertainty what fortune, good or bad, had waited on the fortunes of his\nfriends.\n\nNight was closing down on the desolate Border hills on a drear November\nevening of 1715. Throughout a melancholy day, clinging mist had blurred\nthe outline of even the nearest hills; distance was blotted out. Thin\nrain fell chillingly and persistently, drip, dripping with monotonous\nplash from the old inn's thatched eaves; a light wind sobbed fitfully\naround the building, moaning at every chink and cranny of the\nill-fitting window-frames. \"A dismal night for any who must travel,\"\nthought the stableman of the inn, as he looked east and then west along\nthe darkening road. No moving thing broke the monotony of the depressing\noutlook, and the groom turned to his work of bedding down for the night\nthe few animals that happened to be in his charge. They were not many;\nmost of those that so frequently of late had stood here were away with\ntheir owners, following the fortunes of the Earl of Derwentwater;\nbusiness was dull at the inn. Well, let the weather be what it liked, at\nleast the groom's work was over for the night, and he might go sit by\nthe cheerful peat fire in the kitchen, and drink a health to the\nKing--the rightful King, God bless him; and it was little harm, thought\nhe, if he drank another to the Earl--whom might the Saints protect.\n\nEven as he turned to go, in the dusk at the door, framed, as it were, in\na picture, there appeared a horseman leading a tired horse, the reins\nloose over his arm. Though seen only in that half light, the outline of\nman and beast were familiar to the stableman. Both seemed far spent; the\nhorse held low its head, and sweat stood caked and thick on neck and\nheaving flanks, and dripped off inside down by the hocks.\n\n\"Ye've ridden hard, sir,\" said the groom, bustling forward to take the\nhorse.\n\nThe stranger said no word, but himself led the tired animal into an\nempty stall. Yet, as the groom remembered later, of the other horses in\nthe stable, not one raised its head, or whinnied, or took any notice\nwhatever as the new-comer entered.\n\nThe stableman turned to lift his lantern, and when, an instant later, he\nagain faced about, he stared to find himself alone; the strange horseman\nwas nowhere to be seen. And the horse in the stall? Him the groom knew\nwell; there was no possibility of mistake; it was the well-known grey on\nwhich Lord Derwentwater had ridden away to cast in his lot with Forster.\n\n\"Mistress! Mistress!\" he cried, hurrying into the house, \"has his\nlordship come in? He's led his grey gelding into the stable the noo, and\nniver a word wad he say to me or he gaed oot. An' I'm feared a's no weel\nwi' him; he was lookin' sair fashed, an' kind o' white like.\"\n\n\"His lordship i' the inn? Guide us!\" cried the landlady, snatching up a\ntallow dip and hurrying into the unlit guest-room.\n\n\"Ye hae gotten back, my lord? And is a' weel wi' your lordship?\nAnd--e-eh! what ails--?\" she gasped, as a tall figure, seated in the\ngreat oak chair by the smouldering fire, turned on her a face wan and\ndrawn, disfigured by bloody streaks across the cheek. Slowly, like a man\nin pain, or one wearied to the extreme of exhaustion, the seated figure\nrose, stood for a moment gazing at her, and then, ere the landlady could\ncollect her scattered wits, it had vanished. Vanished, too, was the grey\nhorse that the groom had seen brought into the stable; and, what was\nmore, the bedding in the stall where the animal had stood was entirely\nundisturbed, and showed no trace of any beast having been there.\n\nIt was long that night ere anybody slept within the walls of the old\ninn, and broken was their sleep. None doubted but that the Earl was\nkilled, or if not killed, at least soon to die; and the news of Preston,\nwhen it came, was to those faithful friends no news, only confirmation\nof their fears. None, after that, dared hope; they knew that he must\ndie. And the 24th of February 1716 saw a countryside plunged in grief,\nfor that day fell on the scaffold the head of one whom everybody loved,\nwho was every man's friend, who never turned empty away those who went\nto him seeking help.\n\nBlood-red were the northern lights that flashed and shimmered so wildly\nin the heavens that night, red as the blood that had soaked into the\nsawdust of a scaffold; never before in the memory of living man had\naurora gleamed with hue so startling. But the sorrow in the hearts of\nhis people passed not away like the fading of the northern lights. His\nmemory lives still in Northumberland; still, when they see the gleam and\nflicker of the aurora, folk there call it \"Lord Derwentwater's Light\";\nand even yet it is a tradition that dwellers by the stream which flows\npast Dilston were wont to tell how, on that fatal day, its waters ran\nred like blood.\n\nWhen \"a' was done that man could do, and a' was done in vain,\" there\nremained but to convey his headless body, if it might be, to the spot\nwhere his forebears lie at rest.\n\n     \"Albeit that here in London Town,\n     It is my fate to die,\n     O, carry me to Northumberland,\n     In my fathers' grave to lie.\"\n\nThe Earl's body had been buried at St. Giles-in-the-Fields, and of those\nwho went to recover it and to bring it home, there was one famous in\nNorthumberland story, Frank Stokoe of Chesterwood. A remarkable man was\nStokoe, of enormous personal strength and of great height--in stature a\nveritable child of Anak--a man without fear, brave to recklessness, a\ngood friend and a terrible enemy. Added to all this, he was an\nextraordinarily expert swordsman. He was a man, too, of much influence\nand acknowledged authority in the county--a useful man to have on the\nside of the King--one to whom the people listened, and to whom often an\nappeal for help was made in ticklish affairs.\n\nThere was, for instance, that affair of the feud between Lowes of\nWillimoteswick Castle and Leehall of Leehall, which kept a great part of\nTynedale in hot water for so many years. Leehall appears to have been\nphysically the better man; at any rate, on more than one occasion Lowes\nseems to have escaped from the clutches of his enemy solely by the\nsuperior speed of the horse he rode, or possibly he was a light, and his\nenemy a heavy, weight, which would make all the difference in a rousing\ngallop across deep ground or heathery hill. In any case, as a general\nrule, Lowes was more often the hunted than the hunter. Yet, to the\nfollowers of Lowes--there must always be two sides to a story--it was\nhe, and not Leehall, who was the finer man, for, of an encounter between\nthe pair near Bellingham, when Lowes' horse was killed by a sword-thrust\ndirected at the rider's thigh, the old ballad says:\n\n     \"Oh, had Leehall but been a man\n       As he was never ne-an,\n     He wad have stabbed the rider\n       And letten the horse alean.\"\n\nBut perhaps the animosity here shown to Leehall comes more from one who\nwas a lover of horses--as who in Northumberland is not?--than from a\npartisan of Lowes. However, the feud ran on, year in, year out, as is\nthe custom of such things, and no doubt it might have been bequeathed\nfrom father to son, like a property under entail, had it not been for\nthe intervention of Frank Stokoe. Lowes and Leehall, it seems, had met\nby chance near Sewing Shields, with the usual result. Only, upon this\noccasion, the former was possibly not on the back of an animal the\nsuperior in speed and stamina of the horse on which Leehall was mounted.\nAt least, Lowes was captured.\n\nBut, having got him, his enemy did not proceed to cut him into gobbets,\nor even to \"wipe the floor\" with him. Something lingering and long was\nmore to his taste; he would make Lowes \"eat dirt.\" With every mark,\ntherefore, of ignominy and contempt, he dragged his fallen foe home to\nLeehall, and there chained him near to the kitchen fire-place, leaving\njust such length of chain loose as would enable the prisoner to sit with\nthe servants at meals. The position can scarcely have been altogether a\npleasing one to the servants, to say nothing of the prisoner. Doubtless\nthe former, or some of them, may have found a certain joy in baiting,\nand in further humiliating, a helpless man, their master's beaten enemy.\nYet that pleasure, one would think, could scarcely atone for the\nconstant presence among them of an uninvited guest--a guest, too, who\nhad not much choice in the matter of personal cleanliness. However,\ntrifles of that nature did not greatly embarrass folk in days innocent\nof sanitary science. As for Lowes, it must have been difficult so to act\nconsistent with the maintenance of any shred of dignity, or of\nconciliatory cheerfulness. If, for example, the cook should happen of a\nmorning to have got out of bed \"wrong foot first,\" how often must the\nattentions of that domestic have taken the form of a pot or a pan, or\nother domestic utensil, flung at his head. Here, no soft answer would be\nlikely to turn away wrath. On the spur of the moment, when a pot, or an\niron spit, has caught one on elbow or shins, it might not be altogether\neasy to think promptly of the repartee likely to be the most\nconciliating. And he could not \"make himself scarce.\" The situation was\nembarrassing.\n\nNow, the law, in those breezy times, took small cognisance of such\nlittle freaks as this; the law, indeed, was pretty powerless up among\nthose wild hills. It wanted some force stronger, or, at all events, some\nforce less magnificently deliberate, than that of the law.\n\nFrank Stokoe was that force. To him went the friends of Lowes; and next\nmorning saw the peel tower of Leehall besieged. Frank demanded the\nsurrender of Lowes, uninjured. Leehall retorted that he might take\nhim--if he could. But Leehall had reckoned without his retainers; they\ndared not fight against Frank Stokoe. So they said. But was it not, in\nreality, a sort of incipient Strike? Did they, perhaps, being wearied of\nthe somewhat tame sport of baiting him, think the opportunity a fitting\none to get rid of their uninvited guest for good and all? In any case,\nbefore an hour had passed, Leehall found it convenient to hand Lowes\nover to Stokoe, who safely deposited him by his own fireside at\nWillimoteswick, and the feud was pursued no further.\n\nWhether or not Leehall was content to have thus played second fiddle,\none does not know. Perhaps it was his men who, a year or two later, paid\na nocturnal visit to Stokoe's peel tower. Frank was roused from sleep\none winter night by his daughter, who told her father that some one was\nattempting to force the outer door. Stokoe stole quietly downstairs, to\nfind that some one outside was busy with the point of a knife trying\ngently to prise back the great oaken bolt which barred his door. A very\nlittle more, a few minutes longer of work, and the beam would have been\nslid back, the door would have been quietly opened, and the throats of\nall the occupants of the house might have been cut. Whispering to his\ndaughter to stand behind the door, and softly to push back the bolt each\ntime the attempt was made to prise it open, Frank snatched down, and\nloaded with slugs, his old musket. Then very quietly he let himself down\nthrough the trap-door into the cow-house, which in all, or nearly all,\nold peel towers formed the lower story of the building. Cautiously\nunclosing the door of the cow-house, which opened on the outer air close\nto the flight of stone steps leading up to the main door of the tower,\nhe stepped out. There, plainly to be seen at top of the stair, were\nseveral men, busily employed in trying to gain an entrance.\n\n\"Ye bluidy scoundrels,\" roared Stokoe, \"I'll knock a hole in some o' ye\nthat the stars will shine through.\"\n\nAnd with that he let drive at the nearest, the charge, at so close a\nrange, literally \"knocking a hole\" in him. Like a startled covey of\npartridges the remaining robbers fled, not only without attempting\nreprisals, but without even waiting to use the steps as an aid to\nescape; they simply flew through the air to mother earth and made tracks\ntowards safety, anywhere, out of the reach of Frank Stokoe's vengeance;\nwhich perhaps was the wisest thing they could have done, for Stokoe was\nthe kind of man who in a case such as this would willingly have knocked\na hole in each one of them. In those days people were not very\nsqueamish, and Stokoe seems to have gone quietly back to bed without\ngreatly troubling himself about the slain robber; but the man's friends\nmust have stolen back during the night, for in a copse near by, in a\nshallow grave hastily scooped out of the frozen earth, the dead body was\nfound next day.\n\nIt is almost needless to say that Frank Stokoe was of those who would be\ncertain to concern themselves in an enterprise such as the Rising of\n1715. His sympathies were entirely with the Stuart, and against the\nHanoverian King. Moreover, though he owned his peel tower and the land\nsurrounding it, he was yet, as regards other land, a tenant of the Earl\nof Derwentwater, as well as being a devoted admirer of that nobleman.\nNaturally, therefore, when the Earl took the field, Stokoe followed him;\nand had all been of his frame of mind, there had been no ignominious\nsurrender at Preston. Whilst fighting was to be done, no man fought so\nhard, or with such thorough enjoyment, as Stokoe. \"Surrender\" was a part\nof the great game that he did not understand; he was not of the stuff\nthat deals in \"regrettable incidents.\" At Preston that day, when all was\ndone, there stood King George's men on either side, as well as in his\nfront; in his rear a high stone wall, even to a man less heavily\nhandicapped than he by weight, an obstacle almost insurmountable. But\nhis horse was good--Stokoe's horses _had_ to be good--and it knew its\nmaster. Never hitherto had the pair refused any jump, and they were not\nlike to begin now. With a rush and a scramble, and the clatter of four\ngood feet against the stone coping, they were over; over and away,\ngalloping hard for the North Countrie, the free wind whistling past\ntheir ears as they sped, Stokoe throwing up his arm and giving a\nmocking cheer as each ineffective volley of musketry from the troops\nspluttered behind him; and the great roan horse snatched at his bit, and\nsnorted with excitement.\n\nYes, that part of it was worth living for, and the blood danced in the\nveins of horse and man while the chase lasted. But what of it when once\nmore the hills of Northumberland were regained, when the great moors\nthat lay grim and frowning under the dark November skies were again\nbeneath his horse's feet? It was a different matter then, for the hue\nand cry was out, and the earths all stopped against this gallant fox.\nChesterwood was closed to him, no friend dared openly give him shelter.\n\n\"He had fled, had got clear away to France,\" was the story they gave\nout. But Frank Stokoe all the time lay snug and safe in hiding, not so\nvery far from his own peel tower. And he was one of those who,\ndisguised--perhaps in his case not very effectually--ventured to London,\nintent on bringing back the body of their chief, that it might lie at\nrest in the grave where sleep the fathers of that noble race.\n\nThere, in London, Frank narrowly escaped being taken. As it chanced, at\nthat time an Italian bravo was earning for himself an unsavoury\nnotoriety by going about boastfully challenging all England to stand up\nbefore him to prove who was the better man. He would mark his man, pick\na quarrel with him, and the result was always the same. The Italian's\ntrick of fence was deadly, his wrist a wrist of steel. None yet had been\nable to stand long before him; not one had got inside his guard.\n\nAs he walked once near Leicester Field in the dusk of an evening,\nStokoe's great figure caught the eye of this little Italian, in whose\nmind suddenly arose the irresistible longing to bring this huge bulk\ntoppling to earth. That would be something not unworth boasting\nabout--that he, a sort of eighteenth-century David, should slay this\nmodern Goliath.\n\nNo one had ever been able to complain that it was difficult to pick a\nquarrel with Frank Stokoe. Not that he was quarrelsome--far otherwise;\nbut never was he known to shrink from any combat that was pressed on\nhim, and on this occasion the venomous little foreigner found him most\nready to oblige. It wanted but a slight jostle, an Italian oath hissed\nout, a few words in broken English to the effect that big men were\nproverbially clumsy, and that bigness and courage were not always to be\nfound united. Stokoe knew very well who his assailant was, knew his\nreputation, and the slender chance the ordinary swordsman might expect\nto have against this foreigner's devilish skill, but his weapon was\nunsheathed almost before the Italian had ceased to curse. Cautiously\nkeeping a check on his habitual impetuosity, calling to his aid every\nounce of the skill he possessed, and content meanwhile if he could evade\nthe vicious thrusts of his enemy, Stokoe for a time kept the fiery\nlittle man well at bay. Irritated at length by the giant's coolness, and\nby finding him, perhaps, not quite so easy a conquest as he had\nanticipated, unable to draw him on to expose himself by attacking, the\nItalian for a moment lost patience. None other in England had given him\nso much trouble. It was time this farce ended; he would spit the giant\nnow. Once, twice, thrice--it was with the utmost difficulty that Stokoe\nsaved himself from being run through the body, and once the sword of his\nenemy went through his clothes, grazing his ribs, and sending a warm\nstream trickling down his side. Then, suddenly, again the Italian\nlunged. This time it surely had been all over with Stokoe. But the foot\nof the hectoring little foreigner slipped, or he stumbled owing to some\nslight inequality of the ground. For a single instant the man was\noverbalanced and off his guard, and before he could recover, Frank\nStokoe's sword passed through his body, sending out of this world one\nwho whilst in it had wrought much evil.\n\n\"Well done, Stokoe! Old Northumberland for ever!\" cried a voice from\namongst the considerable crowd of spectators who had run up before the\nfight had been in progress many seconds. \"Well done, Stokoe!\"\n\nHere was danger greater even than that from which he had but now\nescaped. He was recognised! And for him to be recognised in London\nprobably meant instant arrest, and an almost certain end on the\ngallows. He was too deeply involved in the late Rebellion; King George's\nGovernment would show him as little mercy as they had showed to his\nchief.\n\nStokoe glanced round uneasily as he wiped his sword, but it was not\npossible to say which in the group of spectators was the man who had\ngiven that compromising cry; it might be one of several who, to Stokoe's\nextreme discomposure, seemed to look at him rather intently. Time to be\nout of this, thought he; the farther he was from London the more freely\nhe would breathe just at present, and the less chance was there of that\nbreathing being permanently stopped. Policemen had not been invented in\nthose days, and there was not much chance of his being arrested for\nduelling, for what was then called \"the watch\" was singularly\ninefficient, and seldom to be found when wanted. Nevertheless, it was\nnow no easy matter for Stokoe to shake off the little \"tail\" of admirers\nwho insisted on following him; it was not every day that they had the\nchance of seeing a man killed in fair fight, and they were loth to lose\nsight of the man who had done it--a hero in their eyes. However, by dint\nof plunging down one narrow street and up some other unsavoury alley,\nand repeating the manoeuvre at intervals, blinding his trail as far as\npossible, he at length shook off the last persevering remnant of his\nadmirers, and, without being tracked or shadowed, gained the shelter of\nthe house where he lodged. A few days saw him and his friends safely out\nof London, bearing with them the body of the Earl of Derwentwater, which\nwas later buried at Dilston.\n\nFrank Stokoe's position was an unfortunate one from now on. He was a\nproscribed man; his property had been seized, and those now in\npossession threatened if he put in an appearance, or made any attempt to\nregain the property, that they would give him up to Government. Times\nconsequently became hard for poor Stokoe; his affairs went from bad to\nworse, and though his name was included in the general pardon which\nGovernment issued some time later, he never got back his land nor any of\nhis possessions. Part of the land passed with the Derwentwater Estate to\nGreenwich Hospital, part, including the peel tower, where he and his\nancestors had lived for generations, remained in the clutches of those\nwho had seized it. Old age came upon Frank and found him\npoverty-stricken; want came, \"as an armed man,\" and found him too weak\nto resist. The spirit was there, but no longer the strength that should\nhave helped the spirit. He sank and died, leaving behind him no shred of\nworldly gear.\n\nAnother noted Northumbrian who was \"out\" in the '15 was him whom men\nthen called \"Mad Jack Hall\" of Otterburn. Not that he was in any sense\nmad, or even of weak intellect--far from it; the name merely arose from\nthe fiery energy of the man, and from the reckless courage with which he\nwould face any danger or any odds. As a man, he was extremely popular,\nand no one could have been more beloved by his dependents. His fine\nestate he managed himself, and managed well, though before he went \"out\"\nmisfortunes fell on him which no management could have averted. They\nwere misfortunes so crushing, and following so immediately on each\nother's heels, that amongst the simple country folk they were looked on,\nand spoken of, with awe, as manifestly judgments from Heaven for some\nfancied sin they supposed him to have committed. He might, people said,\nhave prevented, but did not prevent, a duel which took place in the\nstreets of Newcastle, in which a very popular young man was killed. It\nwas \"murder,\" and no fair fight, folk said; and, whatever the rights of\nthe case, at least the successful duellist was afterwards hanged for the\nmurder. Hall's failure to interfere seems to have strained his\npopularity for a time. In such circumstances people are prone to assume\nthat an all-wise Providence, necessarily seeing eye to eye with them,\ninflicts some special punishment on the person who has sinned some\nspecial sin, or who has, at all events, done (or not done) something\nwhich, in the popular judgment, he should not have done (or done, as the\ncase may be). Misfortune or accident comes to some one who has roused\npopular clamour. \"I told you so,\" cries the public; \"a judgment!\"\n\nIn this instance, the sin of not interfering to prevent a duel--or a\nmurder, as popular opinion called it--was punished, firstly, by Hall's\nhouse at Otterburn being burned to the ground, together with all his\nfarm buildings and great part of his farm stock; and, secondly, this\ngrievous loss was followed in the time of harvest by a devastating flood\nin the Rede, which swept away from the rich, low-lying haughs every\nparticle of the fat crops which already had been cut, and were now\nmerely waiting to be carried home.\n\nBy such drastic means having apparently been purged of his sin, Mr. Hall\nseems to have regained his normal popularity, and an incident which\npresently occurred raised it to an even greater height than before. As\nfar back at least as the time of Cromwell it had been customary to send\noffenders against the law, political prisoners and the like who were not\njudged quite worthy of the gallows or the block, to what in Charles the\nSecond's day were called His Majesty's Plantations--our colonies, that\nis, in America or the West Indies. Not only were \"incorrigible rogues,\nvagabonds, and sturdy beggars\" thus dealt with, but those also who\nattended illegal prayer-meetings found themselves in the same box if\nthey happened to have been previously convicted of this heinous offence;\nand the moss-troopers of Northumberland and Cumberland were treated in\nsimilar fashion when taken--deported from their own heathery hills and\ngrey, weeping skies, to the hot swamps and savannahs of Jamaica or\nVirginia. In the beginning, those sentenced were merely compelled, under\npenalty of what Weir of Hermiston called being \"weel haangit,\" to remove\nthemselves to the Plantations. Later, a custom sprang up under which\ncriminals of all sorts were delivered over by the authorities to the\ntender mercies of contractors, who engaged to land them in the West\nIndies or America, it being one of the conditions of the contract that\nthe services of the prisoner were the property of the contractor for a\ngiven number of years. On landing, these wretched prisoners were put up\nto auction and sold to the highest bidder--in other words, they were\nslaves. Many men made large sums of money in this inhuman trade,\ntrafficking in the lives of their fellow-countrymen. The thing at last\nreached such a pitch that practically no able-bodied man was safe from\nthe danger of being kidnapped, sold to some dealer, and shipped off to\nslavery in the Plantations. That was the fate of many a young man who\nmysteriously disappeared from the ken of his friends in those\nseventeenth- and eighteenth-century days. Once shipped to the\nPlantations, the chance was small of a man ever returning to his native\nland. Fever, brought on by exposure to the hot sun and heavy rain of a\ntropical or semi-tropical climate, took care of that; in the West\nIndies, at least, they died like flies. Not many had the luck, or the\nconstitution, of one Henry Morgan, who, kidnapped in Bristol when a boy\nand sold as a slave in Barbadoes, lived to be one of the most famous--or\nrather notorious--buccaneers of all time, and died a knight,\nLieutenant-Governor of Jamaica, and commander of our forces in that\nisland.\n\nIt was \"Mad Jack Hall's\" fortune to save from this fate of being\nkidnapped and sent to rot in fever-laden swamps of the West Indies a\nyoung Northumbrian at that time in his service. It was the time of year\nwhen Stagshaw Bank Fair was held, and Mr. Hall, meaning to attend the\nfair, had instructed this young man to join him there at a certain hour,\nand himself had ridden over to Corbridge, there to pass the night. In\nthe morning, when Jack Hall reached the fair at the appointed hour, he\nwas astonished to find his servant, very dejected in appearance, being\nled away in charge of a man on horseback. Hall questioned the lad, who\nbrightened up vastly at sight of his master, but could give no\nexplanation as to the cause of this interference. All he knew was that\nas he stood waiting for Mr. Hall, this man had ridden up, claimed him as\na prisoner, and was now marching him off. Hall looked at the mounted\nman, and recognised him as one of a family named Widdrington, who\nclaimed to be invested by the Government of Queen Anne with authority to\narrest from time to time sundry persons who, so far as the general\npublic knew, were guilty of no crime, but who nevertheless were in the\nend sent to the dreaded Plantations. These Widdringtons were greatly\nfeared throughout the countryside, but as they had always selected their\nvictims from amongst people who had few friends, and who were little\nlikely to have the means of making any great outcry, no person of\ninfluence had yet been moved to take the matter up, or to make\ntroublesome inquiries.\n\nHall, however, was not the man to let his servant be taken without\nprotest, even if this Widdrington really had the authority he claimed to\npossess. But to all Hall's remonstrances Widdrington merely replied\nhaughtily that he was accountable to no one, save only to her most\ngracious Majesty the Queen; that he was there in the execution of his\nduty, and that anyone interfering with him did so at his own peril. The\nsituation was awkward. On the one hand, if this man really was acting\nwithin his rights and in the execution of his duty, then Hall himself\nwas likely to get into serious trouble; on the other, he was not going\nto see a young man, his own servant, a man, so far as he knew, innocent\nof all offence against the law, marched off in this way, if by any means\nhe might be saved. As mere remonstrances appeared to be of no avail,\nHall hotly pressed his horse close up to Widdrington's, completely\nbarring his way, and demanded that, if he were really acting within the\nlaw, he should show his authority.\n\n\"_This_ is my authority,\" cried Widdrington, drawing his sword.\n\n\"We'll soon prove whether that's strong enough,\" replied Hall, jumping\nfrom his horse and also drawing his weapon. There was, as it chanced,\nclose to the lane in which the two had been wrangling, a bit of nice\nlevel ground covered with short, crisp turf, and to this Hall quickly\nmade his way, followed by Widdrington and by a crowd of people who had\nrun up from the fair, attracted by the quarrel. A very few minutes\nsufficed to prove that Widdrington's \"authority\" was _not_ strong\nenough. He fought well enough for a time, it is true, and his opponent\nhad need of all the skill he could command, but within five minutes Hall\nhad caught Widdrington's point in the big basket hilt of his sword, and\nwith a sudden jerk had sent the weapon flying, leaving the disarmed man\nentirely at his mercy. That was enough to satisfy Hall, who was too much\nof a man to push his advantage further. But it by no means satisfied the\nsurrounding crowd of country people. By them these Widdringtons had long\nbeen feared and detested, and only the belief in the minds of those\nsimple country folk that, in some mysterious way beyond their ken, the\nlaw was on the side of their oppressors, had on more than one occasion\nprevented an outbreak of popular fury. Here, now, was one of the hated\nbrood, proven to be in the wrong, and with no authority to arrest beyond\nthat bestowed by bluster and brute force. The air grew thick with groans\nand savage threats, and a clod flung by a boy gave the mob a lead. In an\ninstant sticks and stones began to fly. Widdrington was unable to reach\nhis sword or to get to his horse; there was nothing for it but to take\nto his heels, pursued by a crowd thirsting for his blood. That was the\nlast of the oppression of the Widdringtons; their horrible traffic in\nhuman beings was ended, and none of them ever again dared show their\nfaces in that part of the country.\n\nAs for Hall, henceforward an angel of light could not have been more\nhighly regarded, and his fate, a very few years later, brought grief on\nthe county almost as universal as that felt for the Earl of Derwentwater\nhimself.\n\nHall was at Preston with Derwentwater, but he did not, like Frank\nStokoe, ride for it when Forster surrendered. One would almost have\nexpected a man of his fiery, reckless disposition to have made a dash\nfor it, and to fight his way through or fall in the attempt. Perhaps he\nconsidered it a point of honour to stick by his friends, and share their\nfate, whatever it might be. Anyhow, he surrendered with the rest, and\nwith the rest was condemned to death. Time after time he was reprieved,\nowing to the exertions of friends who happened to be high in favour\nwith the Hanoverian King's Government, but time after time he was\nrecommitted, and finally Tyburn saw the last of poor \"Mad Jack Hall.\"\nThey hanged him on the 13th of July 1716.\n\n\n\n\nSEWINGSHIELDS CASTLE, AND THE SUNKEN TREASURE OF BROOMLEE LOUGH\n\n\nThe old castle of Sewingshields is one of which there are many legends.\nIf local tradition might be accepted as a guide, we should find that\nArthur the King lived there once on a time. But surely another Arthur\nthan him of whom Tennyson sang. One,\n\n     \"Not like that Arthur, who, with lance in rest,\n     From spur to plume a star of tournament,\n     Shot through the lists at Camelot, and charged\n     Before the eyes of ladies and of kings,\"\n\nbut a being even more mythical than that Arthur to whom, with his\nknights, legend assigns so many last resting-places--in that vast hall\nbeneath the triple peak of Eildon, here in a cavern below the rocks at\nSewingshields, and in many a spot besides. This Arthur of Sewingshields\nin his feats was indeed more akin to the old Norse gods and heroes. And\nit is told that, as he talked with his Queen one day when they sat on\nthose great rocks to the north of the castle, which still bear as names\nthe King's and the Queen's Crag, Guinevere chanced to let fall a remark\nwhich angered Arthur; whereupon he, snatching up a rock that lay ready\nto his hand, hurled it at his royal consort. Now, Guinevere at the\nmoment was combing her long, fair locks; but she saw the stone come\nhurtling through the air, and, with remarkable presence of mind and\ndexterity, with her comb she fended off the missile, so that it fell\nbetween them, doing no harm. And if anyone should presume to disbelieve\nthis tale, there lies the rock to this day, and the marks of the teeth\nof the Queen's comb are on it still for all to see. The distance that\nthe King hurled this missile is not above a quarter of a mile, and the\npebble itself may weigh a trifle of twenty tons or so.\n\nLocal tradition tells also how once on a time there came to\nSewingshields, to visit Arthur, a great chieftain from the wild north,\none named Cumin. And when Cumin departed from the castle to go back to\nhis own land, he bore with him a certain gold cup that Arthur, in token\nof friendship, had given to him. But sundry of the King's retainers,\nhaving learned that the Scot was bearing away with him this cup, greatly\ndesired that they might themselves possess it, and they pursued Cumin,\nand slew him ere he had gone many miles. Wherefore Arthur caused a cross\nto be erected there on the spot where the slain man fell; and the place\nis called Cumming's Cross to this day.\n\nOf the building of the castle of Sewingshields, or Seven-shields, there\nis the legend told in _Harold the Dauntless_:\n\n     \"The Druid Urien had daughters seven,\n     Their skill could call the moon from heaven;\n     So fair their forms and so high their fame,\n     That seven proud kings for their suitors came.\n\n     King Mador and Rhys came from Powis and Wales,\n     Unshorn was their hair, and unpruned were their nails;\n     From Strath-Clywd came Ewain, and Ewain was lame,\n     And the red-bearded Donald from Galloway came.\n\n     Lot, King of Lodon, was hunchback'd from youth,\n     Dunmail of Cumbria had never a tooth;\n     But Adolph of Bambrough, Northumberland's heir;\n     Was gay and was gallant, was young and was fair.\n\n     There was strife 'mongst the sisters, for each one would have\n     For husband King Adolph, the gallant and brave;\n     And envy bred hate, and hate urged them to blows,\n     When the firm earth was cleft, and the Arch-fiend arose!\n\n     He swore to the maidens their wish to fulfil--\n     They swore to the foe they would work by his will,\n     A spindle and distaff to each hath he given,\n     'Now hearken my spell,' said the Outcast of Heaven.\n\n     'Ye shall ply these spindles at midnight hour,\n     And for every spindle shall rise a tower,\n     Where the right shall be feeble, the wrong shall have power,\n     And there shall ye dwell with your paramour.'\n\n     Beneath the pale moonlight they sate on the wold,\n     And the rhymes which they chaunted must never be told;\n     And as the black wool from the distaff they sped,\n     With blood from their bosom they moisten'd the thread.\n\n     As light danced the spindles beneath the cold gleam,\n     The castle arose like the birth of a dream--\n     The seven towers ascended like mist from the ground,\n     Seven portals defend them, seven ditches surround.\n\n     Within that dread castle seven monarchs were wed,\n     But six of the seven ere the morning lay dead;\n     With their eyes all on fire, and their daggers all red,\n     Seven damsels surround the Northumbrian's bed.\n\n     'Six kingly bridegrooms to death we have done,\n     Six gallant kingdoms King Adolf hath won;\n     Six lovely brides all his pleasure to do,\n     Or the bed of the seventh shall be husbandless too.'\n\n     Well chanced it that Adolf the night when he wed\n     Had confessed and had sain'd him ere boune to his bed;\n     He sprung from the couch, and his broadsword he drew,\n     And there the seven daughters of Urien he slew.\n\n     The gate of the castle he bolted and seal'd,\n     And hung o'er each arch-stone a crown and a shield;\n     To the cells of St. Dunstan then wended his way,\n     And died in his cloister an anchorite grey.\n\n     Seven monarchs' wealth in that castle lies stow'd,\n     The foul fiends brood o'er them like raven and toad.\n     Whoever shall questen these chambers within,\n     From curfew to matins, that treasure shall win.\n\n     But manhood grows faint as the world waxes old!\n     There lives not in Britain a champion so bold,\n     So dauntless of heart, and so prudent of brain,\n     As to dare the adventure that treasure to gain.\n\n     The waste ridge of Cheviot shall wave with the rye,\n     Before the rude Scots shall Northumberland fly,\n     And the flint cliffs of Bambro' shall melt in the sun\n     Before that adventure be perill'd and won.\"\n\nLong afterwards, when Harold the Dauntless entered the castle, the seven\nshields still hung where Adolf had placed them, each blazoned with its\ncoat of arms:\n\n     \"A wolf North Wales had on his armour coat,\n       And Rhys of Powis-land a couchant stag;\n     Strath Clwyd's strange emblem was a stranded boat;\n       Donald of Galloway's a trotting nag;\n     A corn-sheaf gilt was fertile Lodon's brag;\n       A dudgeon-dagger was by Dunmail worn;\n     Northumbrian Adolf gave a sea-beat crag;\n       Surmounted by a cross,--such signs were borne\n     Upon these antique shields, all wasted now and worn.\"\n\nAnd within the castle, in that chamber where Adolf repelled the\nembarrassing advances of that most unmaidenly band of sisters, and did\n\"a slaughter grim and great\":\n\n     \"There of the witch brides lay each skeleton,\n     Still in the posture as to death when dight;\n     For this lay prone, by one blow slain outright;\n     And that, as one who struggles long in dying;\n     One bony hand held knife, as if to smite;\n     One bent on fleshless knees, as mercy crying;\n     One lay across the floor, as kill'd in act of flying.\"\n\nPerhaps it is part of the wealth of those \"seven monarchs\" that now lies\nsunken in Broomlee Lough. Did some one, greatly daring, \"adventure that\ntreasure to win,\" and succeed in his attempt? Tradition tells that a\ndweller in Sewingshields Castle, long ago, being compelled to flee the\ncountry, and unable to bear away with him his hoard of gold, resolved\nto sink it in the lough. Rowing, therefore, far out into deep water, he\nhove overboard a chest containing all his treasure, putting on it a\nspell that never should it be again seen till brought to land by aid of\n\"Twa twin yauds, twa twin oxen, twa twin lads, and a chain forged by a\nsmith of kind.\"\n\nLong centuries the treasure remained unsought; yet all men might know\nexactly where lay the chest beneath the waves, for it mattered not how\nfierce blew the gale, above the gold the surface of the water was ever\nunbroken. At last there came one who heard the tradition, and set about\nthe task of recovering the sunken chest. The twin horses, twin oxen, and\ntwin lads he procured readily enough, but to find a smith of kind was\nnot so easy--\"a smith of kind\" being a blacksmith whose ancestors for\nsix generations have been smiths, he himself being the seventh\ngeneration. But this, too, at length was found, and the smith forged the\nnecessary length of chain. Then, taking advantage of a favourable day,\nwhen breeze sufficient blew to reveal the tell-tale spot of calm water,\nthe treasure-hunter started in his boat, leaving one end of the chain on\nshore and paying out fathom after fathom as his boat swept round the\ncalm and again reached shore. Now hitching the yauds to one end and the\noxen to the other, the animals were cautiously started by the twin\ndrivers. Slowly the chain swept over the bed of the lough, and\ntightened, fast in something heavy that gave and came shoreward in the\nbight of the chain. Cannily the drivers drove, and ever came the weight\nnearer to dry land. Already the treasure-seeker in his boat, peering\neagerly down into the quiet water, fancied that he was a made man; he\ncould almost _see_ that box. But a few more yards and it was his. Alas!\nIn his eagerness to secure \"a smith of kind\" he had made insufficient\ninquiries into that smith's ancestry. There was (as he discovered when\ntoo late) a flaw in his pedigree! Some ancestress, it was said, could\nnot show her marriage lines, or something else was wrong. At any rate,\nthere was a flaw, and that was sufficient to upset the whole thing, for\nthe chain, not being made by a smith of kind, was of course not of the\ntrue temper. Hence, just when success was about to crown their efforts,\nthe horses made a violent plunge forward--and the chain parted at a\nweak link! No further attempts to ascertain the exact bearings of that\nbox have ever been successful. It is, as of old, at the bottom of the\nlough--at least so says tradition.\n\nAnd Sewingshields Castle is now no longer a castle; its very vaults and\nits walls have disappeared.\n\n                            \"No towers are seen\n     On the wild heath, but those that Fancy builds,\n     And save a fosse that tracks the moor with green,\n     Is nought remains to tell of what may there have been.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE KIDNAPPING OF LORD DURIE\n\n\n\"It is commonly reported that some party, in a considerable action\nbefore the Session, finding that Lord Durie could not be persuaded to\nthink his plea good, fell upon a stratagem to prevent the influence and\nweight which his lordship might have to his prejudice, by causing some\nstrong masked men to kidnap him, in the Links of Leith, at his diversion\non a Saturday afternoon, and transport him to some blind and obscure\nroom in the country, where he was detained captive, without the benefit\nof daylight, a matter of three months (though otherwise civilly and well\nentertained); during which time his lady and children went in mourning\nfor him as dead. But after the cause aforesaid was decided, the Lord\nDurie was carried back by incognitos, and dropt in the same place where\nhe had been taken up.\" (Forbes's _Journal of the Session_, Edinburgh,\n1714.)\n\nWith the early part of the seventeenth century, moss-trooping in the\nBorder country had not yet come to an end. Its glory, no doubt, and its\nglamour, had begun to fade before even the sixteenth century was far\nspent, and where were now to be found heroes such as the far-famed\nJohnnie Armstrong of Gilnockie? Yet, as a few stout-hearted leaves,\ndefiant of autumn's fury, will cling to the uttermost branches of a\nforest tree, so, in spite of King or Court, there were even now some\nreckless souls, scornful of new-fangled modern ways and more than\ncontent to follow in the footsteps of their grandsires, who still held\nfast to precept and practice of what seemed to them \"the good old days.\"\nIt is true their reiving partook now somewhat more of the nature of\nhorse-stealing pure and simple. No longer were fierce raids over the\nEnglish Border permissible; not now could they, practically with\nimpunity, \"drive\" the cattle of those with whom they were at feud, and\nlive on the stolen beeves of England till such time as the larder again\ngrew bare. The times were sadly degenerate; Border men all too quickly\nwere becoming soft and effeminate.\n\nYet in Eskdale there was one patriot, at least, who boasted himself that\nas his fathers had been, so was he. Willie Armstrong of Gilnockie was\nthat man--\"Christie's Will,\" he was commonly called, a great-grandson of\nthe famous Johnnie, and not unworthy of his descent. Had he lived when\nJohnnie flourished, there might indeed have been two Armstrongs equally\nfamous. As it was, Willie spent his days at constant feud with the law,\nand even the strong walls of Gilnockie were not for him always a secure\nshelter. Once it befell that the Lord High Treasurer of Scotland, the\nEarl of Traquair, visiting Jedburgh, there found Willie lying in the\n\"tolbooth.\"\n\n\"Now, what's broucht ye to this, Gilnockie?\" the Earl inquired.\n\n\"Oh, nocht but having twa bit tethers in my hand, my lord,\" said Willie.\nBut: \"Weel, I wadna say but there micht mebbes hae been twa cowt at the\ntae end o' the tethers,\" he admitted, on being pressed by the Earl.\n\nNow, it happened that Willie was well known to Lord Traquair--had, in\nfact, more than once been of considerable service to his lordship; and\nit was no failing of the Earl to desert a friend in trouble, if help\nmight be given quietly and judiciously. So it came about that the prison\ngates swung back for Christie's Will, the halter no longer threatened\nhis neck, and Lord Traquair acquired a follower who to repay his debt of\ngratitude would stick at nothing.\n\nSome little time later it chanced that a great lawsuit fell to be\ndecided in the Court of Session. In this lawsuit Lord Traquair was\ndeeply concerned. A verdict in his favour was of vital importance to\nhim, but he very well knew that the opinion of the presiding judge was\nlikely to be unfavourable to his claim, and that should Lord Durie\npreside, the case in that event would almost certainly go against him.\nCould that judge, however, by any means be quietly spirited away from\nEdinburgh before the date fixed for the trial, with almost equal\ncertainty he might count on a favourable verdict. In this predicament\nLord Traquair turned his thoughts to Christie's Will; if anyone could\naid him it must be the bold Borderer.\n\n     \"'Bethink how ye sware, by the salt and the bread,\n       By the lightning, the wind, and the rain,\n     That if ever of Christie's Will I had need,\n       He would pay me my service again.'\"\n\nAnd Lord Traquair did not plead in vain. It was a little thing to do,\nWill thought, for one who had saved him from the gallows tree.\n\n     \"'O mony a time, my lord,' he said,\n       'I've stown the horse frae the sleeping loon;\n     But for you I'll steal a beast as braid,\n       For I'll steal Lord Durie frae Edinboro toon.'\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA light northerly breeze piped shrill through the long bent grass beyond\nLeith Links, sweeping thin and nippingly across shining sands left bare\nby a receding tide; down by the rippling water-line, as the sun of a\nlate spring day neared his setting, clamouring gulls bickered noisily\nover the possession of some fishy dainty. Out from near-lying patches of\nwhin, and from the low, wind-blown sand-hills, rabbits stole warily,\nnibbling the short herbage now and then, but ever with an air of\nsuspicion and manifest unease, for behind a big clump of whin, during\nhalf the day there had lain hid a thick-set, powerfully built man.\n\n\"De'il tak' the body!\" he grumbled, sitting up and stretching himself as\nhe glanced along the beach; \"he's lang o' comin'.\"\n\nAs he gazed, the sight of a distant horseman riding westward brought him\nsharply to his feet, and snatching up a long cloak that lay by his side,\nhe walked leisurely through the yielding sand till he reached the firm\nbeach within tide mark, along which the horseman was now quietly\ncantering.\n\n\"Ye'll be Lord Durie, I'm thinkin',\" he cried, raising his hand to stay\nthe rider, a middle-aged, legal-faced man, who sat his sober steed none\ntoo confidently, with thighs but lightly wed to the saddle.\n\n\"Yes, I'm Lord Durie. What can I do for you?\"\n\n\"Weel, my lord, I've come far to see ye. They say there's no' a lawyer\nleevin' or deid that kens mair nor you on a' thing. It's jist a bit plea\nthat I've gotten,\" said the man, laying a hand on the horse's neck and\nsidling along close to his rider's knee.\n\n\"For onny advice on kittle points o' law, ye maun go to counsel, my\nfriend. I'm a judge, no' an advocate. Gude e'en to ye.\"\n\n\"Ay, but, my lord,\" said the man, laying a detaining left hand on the\nnear rein, \"it's this way it is; ye see--\" and at that, with a sudden\npowerful upward push of the unskilled rider's leg, Lord Durie was hurled\nfrom the saddle and lay sprawling on his back on the wet sand, as the\nhorse sprang forward with a startled bound.\n\n\"Goad's sake! what's this o't?\" cried the poor judge, already tangled in\nthe folds of the long cloak, and struggling to rise. \"Wad ye murder are\no' his Majesty's judges!\"\n\n\"Lie still, my lord, lie still! There's no skaith will come to ye 'gin\nye but lie still. De'il's i' the body; wull the auld lurdane no hand\nsae!\"\n\nOf small avail were the judge's struggles; as well might an infant\nstruggle in the folds of a python. Ere even an elderly man's scant\nbreath was quite spent, he lay among the whins, bound hand and foot,\ntrussed like a fowl, and with the upper part of his body and his head\nwrapped in the stifling folds of the great cloak.\n\nThat was the last of the outer world that Lord Durie knew or saw for\nmany a long day. His horse, with muddied saddle, and broken reins\ntrailing on the ground (muddied and broken, no doubt, by the horse\nrolling), was found next day grazing on the links. But of the judge, no\ntrace. He might--as some, with the superstition of the day, were\ndisposed to believe[1]--have been spirited away by a warlock; or,\nperhaps, even like Thomas the Rhymer, he had vanished into Fairyland.\nTidings of him there were none. The flowing waters of the Forth had\neffectually wiped out his horse's tracks along the shore, and during the\nnight a rising wind had effaced the footsteps of his captor in the dry\nloose sand between tide-mark and links. Thus every trace of him was\nlost. His body, maybe, might have drifted out to sea; perhaps it lay now\nby the rocks of some lonely shore, or on the sands, with mouth a-wash\nand dead hands playing idly with the lapping water. Wife and family\nmourned as for one dead. And after the first nine days' wonder, even in\nParliament House and Law Courts, for lack of food speculation as to his\nfate languished and died. A successor filled his office.\n\n[1: In the seventeenth century belief in witchcraft was almost at its\nheight over the whole of Europe, and in Scotland the hunt after witches\nand warlocks was peculiarly vindictive. To obtain confession, the most\nincredible tortures--as cruel as anything practised by Red Indians on\ntheir prisoners--were inflicted on accused persons, men and women, and\nescape was seldom possible for these poor creatures. Nor were such\nbeliefs and practices confined to the benighted times of the seventeenth\ncentury. Even as late as 1722, in Sutherlandshire, a woman was burned\nfor witchcraft. Her crime was that she had transformed her own daughter\ninto a pony, and had ridden her throughout an entire night. Conclusive\nproof of the charge was found in the fact that the poor woman's daughter\nwas lame afterwards both in hands and feet.\n\nNothing was too absurd, no charge too wicked or too childish, to obtain\nuniversal belief in those times.]\n\nMeantime, bound to the saddle in front of his captor, by little-known\nhill paths the judge had been borne swiftly through the night. The long,\nmelancholy wail of a whaup, the eerie hoot of an owl, at times smote\ndully on his ear; but to all his entreaties and his questions no human\nvoice made answer; in stony silence his abductor rode steadily on. Over\nhill and dale, over rough ground and smooth, splashing through marshy\nsoil where the hoofs of the heavily laden horse sucked juicily, through\nburns, and across sodden peaty moor where the smell of swamp rose rank\non the night air, they floundered; and once the homely smell of peat\nreek told the unhappy judge that they passed within hail of some human\ndwelling. But throughout the night he saw nothing, and gradually the\nlong strain, the discomfort of being pitched forward or back as the\nhorse scrambled up or down where the ground was extra rough and broken,\nthe pain of sitting half in, half out, of a saddle, told upon a frame\nunaccustomed to much exercise, and at intervals he wholly or partially\nlost consciousness. Thus unutterably distressed in body and broken in\nspirit, in one of these partial lapses it seemed to the judge--as it\nmight be in some disordered nightmare--that there came a respite from\nthe torment of ceaseless motion, and that by means of some unknown\nagency he lay in heavenly peace, stretched full length on a couch or\nbed. He thought--or did he dream?--that he had heard, as it were far\noff, the muffled trairip of feet and the murmur of low voices; and it\nseemed almost as if his body, after falling from some vast height, had\nbeen lifted and gently swung in the air. But exhaustion of mind and body\nwas so great that the problem of what might be happening was quite\nbeyond solution; let him only rest and sleep.\n\nThen, later, it seemed to him that he woke from broken, tossing\nslumber. But it was dark, and he fell again into an uneasy doze, in\nwhich every muscle and bone in his harassed old body ached pitifully,\nevery spot of sorely chafed skin stung and burned, till the multitude of\npains put an end to sleep. Where was he, and how had he got there? On a\nlow couch, free and unbound, he lay; by his side, on a rude table, was\nfood and a jack of small-beer. Whether the time was morning or evening\nhe could not tell, but it was very dark; what little light entered the\nroom came through a narrow slit, high up in the wall, and all things\nsmelled strangely of damp. Somewhere he could hear faintly a slow,\nshuffling step and the rustle of a dress; then the mew of a cat. Where\nwas he?\n\nFew, very few, persons at that day were above the weakness of a firm\nbelief in witchcraft; even a judge of the Court of Session would not\ndare openly to question the justice and humanity of the Mosaical law:\n\"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.\" Superstition was rampant, and\nto Lord Durie there had ever seemed nothing incongruous in accepting\nbelief in the undoubted existence of both witches and warlocks. Could it\nbe that he was now actually in the power of such beings? His mind was\nyet in a whirl, and he could form to himself no connected account of\nyesterday's happenings, if indeed it was really yesterday, and not in\nsome remote, far-away time, that he had last ridden along the sands of\nLeith. Thirst consumed him, but he hesitated to drink; if he were now in\nthe hands of those wretches who, it was well known, that they might work\nevil sold themselves to the Prince of Darkness, then might it not be\nthat by voluntarily drinking, his soul would be delivered into the\nclutches of the Evil One? The thought brought him painfully to his feet\nwith many a groan, and roused him to a careful examination of his gloomy\nprison. Rough stone walls, oozing damp, an earthen floor, three stone\nsteps leading up to a heavy iron-studded door in a corner of the room;\nand nothing else. The one small window was far out of his reach. A\nfeeling of faintness crept over him; it might be a wile of Satan, or a\nspell cast over him by supernatural powers, but the time was past for\nhesitation, and he drank a great draught from the jack, sank feebly on\nthe couch, and slept profoundly.\n\nWhen the judge again awoke it was in a prison somewhat less gloomy, for\na thin splash of pale sunlight now struck the wall, and gave light\nsufficient to show every corner of the room. Again Lord Durie went\nthrough his fruitless search, and then, feeling hungry, and having\nsuffered no visible ill effects from his first incautious draught of\nsmall-beer, he ate and drank heartily. From the way in which the patch\nof sunlight crept up the wall, it was easy to tell that the time was\nevening. Could it indeed be that no more than twenty-four hours back he\nhad ridden, secure and free from this horrible care, along the shining\nsands by the crisp salt wavelets of the Forth?\n\nWhat was that voice that he now heard, thin and hollow, on the evening\nair? \"Far yaud! far yaud!\" and then, with eldritch scream, \"_Bauty_,\" it\ncried. Such sounds, coming from he knew not where, fell disturbingly on\nthe unaccustomed ears of a seventeenth-century Judge of Session, and\nLord Durie's sleep that night was broken by grim dreams.\n\nDay followed day, week pressed on the heels of week, and still never a\nhuman face smiled on the unhappy judge. Each morning he found on his\nlittle table a supply of food and drink, all good of their kind and\nplenty--boiled beef or mutton, oaten cakes, pease bannocks, and always\nthe jack of small-beer--but never did he see human hand place them\nthere, never did human form cheer him by its presence.\n\nThe solitary confinement and the utter want of occupation told on a\nnervous, somewhat highly strung temperament; and in the judge's mind\nsuperstition began to hold unquestioned sway. Things taught him in\nchildhood by an old nurse, things which now folks, indeed, still\nbelieved, but which he himself had to some extent given up or dismissed\nfrom his thoughts, began to crowd back again into his brain. No mere\nhuman power, surely, could have brought him here as he had been brought.\nWas it in the dungeon of some sorcerer, of some disciple of the Devil,\nthat he now lay? Then, the shuffling old step that he heard so\nfrequently, the thin voice calling, \"Hey! Maudge,\" followed always by\nthe mewing of a cat--what could that be but some old hag, given over to\nevil deeds, talking to her familiar? It was but the other day that, with\nhis own eyes, he had seen nine witches burned together on Leith Sands,\nand all, ere they died, had confessed to the most horrid commerce with\nthe Devil. It was no great time since a witch, under torture, had\nrevealed in her confession the terrible truth, of how two hundred women\nhad been wont to flock at night to a certain kirk in North Berwick,\nthere to listen eagerly to Satan preaching blasphemy and denouncing the\nKing. Even a judge was not safe from their malice. And could he but\nescape from the snare in which he now lay entangled, assuredly, Lord\nDurie thought, there should be more witch-burnings.\n\nSo the weeks dragged past, and Lord Durie lost all reckoning of the\nflight of time; but ever the belief strengthened that it was no mere\nhuman power that held him in bondage. And this belief received\nconfirmation at last, for he awoke one night from confused and heavy\nsleep, to find himself once more bound, and wrapped, body and head, in\nthe thick folds of a cloak. Then, seemingly without moving from his bed,\nhe was borne through the air and set upon a horse; and again began that\nawful journey which once before he had endured. This time, too, in\nconfirmation of his theory of the supernatural, when he came to his full\nsenses it was to find himself lying behind a clump of whins by the sands\nof Leith, near to the very spot where, ages before, he had met a\nstrange-looking man who tried to draw him into conversation on law. And\nnowhere was any cloak to be seen, nor trace of human agency. Only, he\nached sorely, and his legs almost refused to bear the weight of his\nbody, and in his head was the buzzing as of a thousand bees.\n\nIt was warlocks who had dealt with him--so his family and all his\nfriends agreed when his tale was told. But his successor in office\nmourned, perhaps, that their dealings had not been more effectual, for\nhe liked ill to give up a post he had filled with ability for an all too\nshort three months.\n\nTo Lord Durie's regret, his return was too late to enable him to preside\nin the famous case which was about to come on shortly after the date of\nhis disappearance. That had already been decided in a manner of which he\ncould not have failed to disapprove, and Lord Traquair had secured a\nverdict.\n\nFor long the judge held to the warlock theory, and he was not averse,\nafter dinner, over a bottle, from telling at great length the story of\nhis terrible experiences during those mysterious three months of\ncaptivity. Younger men, indeed, began to find the tale somewhat boring,\nand in private some had been known to wish that the devil had flown away\npermanently with Lord Durie. But those scoffers were chiefly a few\nrising young advocates; the judge's family and his friends accepted the\ntale in its entirety. Nor ever did any man, to the end of his days,\nactually hear Lord Durie express doubt as to the supernatural nature of\nhis adventure.\n\nYet something did happen, later, which at least seemed in some measure\nto have shaken his faith, and it was noticed that, towards the end of\nhis life, he was not fond of dwelling on the subject--had even been\nknown, in fact, to become irritable when pressed to tell his story. It\nfell out, a year or two after the events which he had loved to narrate,\nthat Lord Durie had occasion to visit Dumfries. On the way back to\nEdinburgh, travelling with some colleagues, it chanced that a heavy\nstorm caught them, and necessity drove them to take shelter for the\nnight in a farmhouse near to an old peel tower which stood on the verge\nof the wild moorland country beyond Moffat.\n\nThat night Lord Durie, in his stuffy box-bed, dreamed a terrible dream.\nHe was once more in the power of the wizard or warlock; and it seemed to\nhim that in his dream he even heard again those mysterious words that\nhad once so haunted him. With a start he woke, bathed in perspiration,\nto find that day had broken, and that from the hillside echoed the\nlong-drawn cry: \"Far yaud! Far yaud! _Bauty!_\" While, ben the house, he\ncould hear a slow, shuffling step, and a thin old voice quavering: \"Hey,\nMaudge!\" to a mewing cat.\n\n\"What was yon cry oot on the hill? Oh, jist oor Ailick cryin' on his\ndowg, Bauty, to weer the sheep,\" said the grey-haired, brown-faced old\nwoman to whom they had owed their shelter for the night.\n\n\"Veesitors?\" she continued, in reply to further questions. \"Na. We hae\nnae veesitors here. There was aince a puir sick man lay twa three months\ni' the auld tower yont by, a year or twa back, but there's been nae\nveesitors. They said he was daft, an' I was kind o' feared whiles to gie\nhim his meat. But, oh, he wad be jist a silly auld body that did naebody\nhairm. Na, I never richtly got sicht o' his face, for I aye put his bit\nmeat an' drink doon beside him whan he was sleepin'. An' them that\nbroucht him took him awa again whan they thoucht he was some better.\"\n\nIt was noted that after this visit Lord Durie no longer pursued the\nsubject of warlocks.\n\n[NOTE.--The story of Lord Durie's abduction and captivity is differently\ntold by Chambers in his _Domestic Annals of Scotland_, as far, at least,\nas the instigator of the kidnapping and its accomplisher are concerned.\nIt is there recorded that the maker of the plot to kidnap the judge was\nGeorge Meldrum the Younger of Dumbreck. Accompanied by two Jardines and\na Johnston--good Border names--and by some other men, Meldrum seized\nLord Durie and a friend near St. Andrews, robbed them of their purses,\nthen carried the judge across the Firth of Forth to the house of one\nWilliam Kay in Leith, thence past Holyrood, and, by way doubtless of\nSoutra Hill, to Melrose, from which town he was hurried over the Border\nto Harbottle, and there held prisoner. An account of the trial of the\nperpetrators of the abduction is to be found in Pitcairns' _Criminal\nTrials._ Sir Walter Scott, however, in his _Minstrelsy of the Scottish\nBorder_, gives to Will Armstrong of Gilnockie the credit, or discredit,\nof carrying out the abduction single-handed. Will was certainly a much\nmore picturesque ruffian than ever was Meldrum, and many a wild deed\nmight be safely fathered on him.\n\nTradition tells of his long ride to convey important papers from Lord\nTraquair to King Charles I, and of his perilous return journey, bearing\na reply from his Majesty. Tidings of his mission had come to the ears of\nthe Parliamentarians, and orders were issued to seize him at Carlisle.\nIn that town, Will, unwitting of special danger, had halted an hour to\nrefresh man and beast, and as he proceeded on his journey, and was\nmidway over the high, narrow bridge across the Eden, the sudden clatter\nof horses' feet and the jingle of accoutrements at either end of the\nbridge showed him that his way was effectually blocked by the Roundhead\ntroopers. Without a moment's hesitation, Will faced his horse at the\nparapet, and with a touch of the spur and a wild cheer over went the\npair into the flooded river, disappearing in the tawny, foaming water\nwith a mighty splash. Instead of hastening along the bank, Cromwell's\ntroopers crowded on to the bridge, gazing with astonishment into the\nraging torrent. Thus, when Will and his horse, still unparted, came to\nthe surface a considerable way down, there was time for them to reach\nthe bank. But the bank was steep and the landing bad, and the weight of\nWill's saturated riding-cloak was the last straw that hindered the horse\nfrom scrambling up. With a curse Will cut the fastening that held the\ncloak about his neck, and, relieved from the extra weight, the animal\nwith a desperate struggle gained the top of the bank and got away well\nahead of the pursuing troopers. Had it not been for the speed and\nstamina of his horse, Will had surely been taken that night. As it was,\nere they reached the Esk, one trooper was already far in front of his\ncomrades, and thundering on Will's very heels. But a pistol pointed at\nhis head by Will, a pistol with priming saturated, and incapable of\nbeing fired--had the man only thought of it--caused the trooper to draw\nback out of danger, and Will gained Esk's farther bank in safety, where,\nregardless of possible pistol shots, he waited to taunt his baffled\npursuers.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WRAITH OF PATRICK KERR\n\n\nThis is a tale they tell at the darkening, and you who are Rulewater\nfolk probably know it well. But however well you may know it, you have\nto own that it is an eerie thing to listen to when the fire is dying\ndown, and there are queer-shaped shadows playing on the walls, and\noutside in the wood the owls are beginning to hoot, or, from the far\nmoor, there comes a curlew's cry.\n\nNot long after Prince Charlie's day there lived at Abbotrule, in\nRulewater, a laird named Patrick Kerr. Patrick Kerr was a Writer to His\nMajesty's Signet, a dour man, with a mischancy temper. The kirk and\nkirkyard of Abbotrule, as still may be seen, lay near the laird's\nhouse--too near for the pleasure of one who had no love for the kirk and\nwho could not thole ministers. Most unfortunately, too, the laird took a\nscunner at the minister of the parish of Abbotrule. It may be that he\nand the minister saw too much of each other, and only saw each other's\nfaults, but of that no one now can tell. But, about the year 1770,\nPatrick Kerr set about to put an end to Abbotrule Parish and Abbotrule\nKirk, that had seen many an open-air Sacrament on summer Sabbaths long\nago. For four years the laird laboured to attain his end, and a blithe\nman was he when, in 1774, he got Eliott of Stobs and Douglas of Douglas\nto side with him and wipe out for evermore the kirk and parish of\nAbbotrule. The parish was joined to the parishes of Hobkirk and\nSouthdean, and the glebe--twenty-five acres of good land--which should\nhave been shared between the Southdean and Hobkirk ministers, was taken\nby Patrick Kerr for his own use. Fifty acres of poor soil lying between\nDoorpool and Chesters he certainly gave them in its stead, and must have\nhad pleasure in his bargain, for he had gained a rich glebe and had for\never freed himself from his clerical neighbours. Speedily he pulled down\nthe manse and unroofed the kirk. He would willingly have ploughed up the\nkirkyard, but this could not be. For a hundred years after he was gone,\nthe Rulewater folk still buried there.\n\nNow, in Patrick Kerr's day, a Sacrament Sabbath was not quite what it is\nnow. They were solemn enough about the fencing of the tables, serious\nand longfaced enough were ministers and elders as the bread and wine\nwere handed round, but the minister's wife, poor body, found it took her\nall her time to preserve an earnest spirituality and to search her soul\nas the roasts and pies and puddings spread out on the manse dining-table\nhaunted her anxious mind. Harder still, too, it was for a tired minister\nand elders to abstain from all appearance of casuality as the\nhospitality of the manse went on far into the afternoon, and the whisky\ntoddy had more than once gone the round of the table.\n\nSeventeen years after the doing away with Abbotrule Parish there took\nplace at the manse of Southdean, after the Sacrament had been dispensed,\none of these gatherings of sanctified conviviality. It was dusk before\nthe party broke up, and it was probably due to the kindly forethought of\nthe minister that he and his guests strolled in little companies of\ntwo's and three's out into the caller air before their final parting.\nTheir gait was solemn--if a trifle uncertain--as they slowly daundered\nup the road between the trees. It was a still Sabbath evening, when one\ncan hear the very whispers of the fir branches, the murmur of a burn far\naway--when suddenly the stillness was broken by the thud of a horse's\nhoofs. Beat--beat--beat--on the turf by the side of the road they came,\nand each man of the party cocked his ears and strained his eyes into the\ndarkness to see who might be the horseman who profaned the Sabbath by\nriding in such hot haste. There was an elder there who, had the party\nbeen held at any time but on the Sacrament Sabbath and anywhere but in\nthe manse dining-room, might have been said to have a trifle exceeded.\nSo when, cantering on the turf between the two fir woods, they saw a\nwhite horse appear, he looked byordinar grave.\n\n\"I mind,\" said he, \"a passage in the Revelations, '_Behold a pale\nhorse; and his name that sat on him was Death_.'\" With that the horse\nwas upon them, and one and all looked up at the rider's face. Fearsome\nand gash was the countenance they looked upon. Hatred and scorn was in\nthe burning eyes--anger, and the hatred that does not die. And there was\nnot one man of them but ran like hunted sheep back into the manse, and\nthere, in the light, faced each other, forfeuchen and well-nigh greeting\nlike terrified bairns, that did not know the face for that of Patrick\nKerr, the laird of Abbotrule.\n\nNext day they all had the news that Patrick Kerr, who hated the kirk and\nall ministers, and had done away with the parish of Abbotrule, had died\nin the darkening of that Sabbath evening and gone to his last account.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAIDLEY WORM OF SPINDLESTON-HEUGH\n\n\nIn a land where fairy tales die hard, it is sometimes no easy task to\ndiscriminate between what is solid historical fact, what is fact,\nmoss-grown and flower-covered, like an old, old tomb, and what is mere\nfantasy, the innocent fancy of a nation in its childhood, turned at last\ninto stone--a lasting stalactite--from the countless droppings of belief\nbestowed upon it by countless generations.\n\nScientists nowadays crushingly hold prehistoric beasts, or still\nexistent marsh gas, accountable for dragons and serpents and other fauna\nof legendary history; but in certain country districts there are some\nanimals that no amount of Board School information, nor countless\nScience Siftings from penny papers can ever destroy, and to this\ninvulnerable class belongs the Laidley Worm of Spindleston-Heugh.\n\nHigh above the yellow sand that borders the fierce North Sea on the\nextreme north of the Northumbrian coast still stands the castle of\nBamborough. Many a fierce invasion has it withstood during the thousand\nodd years since first King Ida placed his stronghold there. Many a cruel\nstorm has it weathered, while lordly ships and little fishing cobles\nhave been driven to destruction by the lashing waves on the rocks down\nbelow. And there it was that, once on a day, there lived a King who,\nwhen his fair wife died and left to him the care of her handsome,\nfearless boy, and her beautiful, gentle daughter, did, as is the fashion\nof every King of fairy tale, wed again, and wed a wicked wife. To the\nsouth land he went, while his son sailed the seas in search of high\nadventure, and his daughter acted as chatelaine in the castle by the\nsea, and there he met the woman who came to Bamborough all those many\nyears ago, and who, they say, remains there still.\n\nAs the dawn rose over the grey sea, making even the dark rocks of the\nFarnes like a garden where only pink roses grew, the Princess Margaret\nwould be on the battlements looking out, always looking out, for her\nfather and brother to return. At sunset, when the sea was golden and the\nplain stretched purple away to the south, landward and seaward her eyes\nwould still gaze. And at night, when the silver moon made a path on the\nsea, the Princess would listen longingly to the lap of the waves, and\nstrain her beautiful eyes through the darkness for the sails of the ship\nthat should bring the two that she loved safe home again. But when the\nday came when the King, her father, returned, and led through the gate\nthe lady who was his bride, there were many who knew that it would have\nbeen well for the Princess had she still been left in her loneliness.\nGracious indeed was her welcome to her mother's supplanter, for she\nloved her father, and this was the wife of his choice.\n\n\"Oh! welcome, father,\" she said, and handed to him the keys of the\ncastle of which she had kept such faithful ward, and, holding up a face\nas fresh and fragrant as a wild rose at the dawn of a June day, she\nkissed her step-mother.\n\n\"Welcome, my step-mother,\" she said, \"for all that's here is yours.\"\n\nMany a gallant Northumbrian lord was there that day, and many a lord\nfrom the southern land was in the King's noble retinue. One of them it\nwas who spoke what the others thought, and to the handsome Queen who had\nlistened already overmuch to the praises her husband sang of his\ndaughter, the Princess Margaret, the words were as acid in a wound.\n\"Meseemeth,\" said he, \"that in all the north country there is no lady so\nfair, nor none so good as this most beautiful Princess.\"\n\nProudly the Queen drew herself up, and from under drooped eyelids, with\nthe look of a hawk as it swoops for its prey, she made answer to the\nlord from the south.\n\n\"I am the Queen,\" she said; \"ye might have excepted me.\" Then, turning\nswift, like a texel that strikes its quarry, she said to the Princess:\n\"A laidley worm shalt thou be, crawling amongst the rocks; a laidley\nworm shalt thou stay until thy brother, Wynd, comes home again.\"\n\nSo impossible seemed such a threat to the Princess that her red lips\nparted over her white teeth, and she laughed long and merrily. But those\nwho knew that the new Queen had studied long all manner of wicked spells\nand cruel magic were filled with dread, for greatly they feared that the\nfair Princess's joyous days were done.\n\nThe Farne Islands were purple-black in a chill grey sea, and the waves\nthat beat on the rocks beneath the castle seemed to have a more dolorous\nmoan than common when next evening came. The joyous Princess, jingling\nher big bunch of keys and smiling a welcome to her father's guests, had\ngone as completely as though she lay buried beside the drowned mariners,\nfor whom the silting sand under the waves makes a safe graveyard all\nalong that bleak and rugged coast; but a horror--a crawling, shapeless,\nloathsome thing--writhed itself along the pathway from cliff to village,\nand sent the terror-striken peasants shrieking into their huts and\nbattering at the castle gates for sanctuary. The old ballad tells us\nthat:\n\n     \"For seven miles east and seven miles west,\n     And seven miles north and south,\n     No blade of grass or corn could grow,\n     So venomous was her mouth.\"\n\nLike an embodied plague, the bewitched Princess preyed on the people of\nher father's kingdom, who daily brought to the cave, where she coiled\nherself up at night to sleep, a terrified tribute of the milk of seven\ncows. All over the North Country spread the dread of her name, but now\nshe was no longer the lovely Princess Margaret, but the Laidley Worm of\nSpindleston-Heugh.\n\n     \"Word went east, and word went west,\n     And word is gone over the sea,\n     That a Laidley Worm in Spindleston-Heughs\n     Would ruin the North Countrie.\"\n\nFar over the sea, with his thirty-three bold men-at-arms, the Princess's\nbrother, \"Childe Wynd,\" was carving a career for himself with his sword.\nNothing on earth did Childe Wynd fear, yet ever and again, when success\nin battle had been his, he would have a heavy heart, dreading he knew\nnot what, and often he longed to see again the castle on the high rock\nby the sea, and the fair little sister with whom so many happy days had\nbeen spent amongst the blue grass and on the yellow sand of the dunes at\nBamborough. To his camp came rumour of the strange monster that was\ndevastating his father's lands, and down to the coast he hastened with\nhis men, a great home-sickness dragging at his heart--home-sickness, and\na terror that all was not well with Margaret. Some rough, brown-faced\nmariners, whose boat had not long before nearly suffered wreck on the\nrocks of the Northumbrian coast, were able to tell the Prince that\nrumour spoke truth, and that a laidley worm was laying waste his\nfather's kingdom. Of the Princess they could give no tidings, but the\nPrince needed no words from them to tell him that all was not well.\n\n     \"We have no time now here to waste,\n     Hence quickly let us sail:\n     My only sister Margaret\n     Something, I fear, doth ail.\"\n\nAnd so, with haste, they built a ship, a ship for a Prince of Faery, for\nits masts were made of the rowan tree, against which no evil witchcraft\ncould prevail, and its sails were of fluttering silk. With fair winds\nand kindly waves the Prince and his men soon sped across the sea, and\ngladly they saw again the square towers of the castle King Ida had\nbuilt, proudly looking down on the fields of restless water that only\nthe bravest of the King's husbandmen durst venture to plough. From her\nturret window the Queen watched the sails of the gallant ship gleaming\nin the sun, and knew full well that Prince Wynd was nearly home again.\nSpeedily she summoned all the witch wives along with whom she worked her\nwicked magic, and set them to meet the ship, to use every spell they\nknew that could bring shipwreck, and disaster, and death, and to rid her\nof the youth whom she had always dreaded. But they returned to her\ndespairingly. No spell was known to them that could work against a ship\nwhose masts were made of the rowan tree. Then, casting aside magic, the\nWitch Queen dispatched a boat-load of armed men to meet the ship, to\nboard it, and to slay all that they could. Little cared Wynd and his men\nfor a boat-load of warriors, and few there were left alive in the boat,\nand those sore wounded, when Wynd's ship came to anchor in the shallows\nunder the dark cliff.\n\nBut here a more dangerous adversary met Prince Wynd. Threshing through\nthe water came the horrible, writhing thing that Northumbrians knew as\nthe Laidley Worm; and ever as they would have beached the ship, the huge\nserpent beat them off again, till all the sea round them was a welter of\nfroth and slime and blood. Then Childe Wynd ordered his men to take\ntheir long oars once more and bring the ship farther down the coast and\nbeach her on Budle sand. Down the coast they went, while the Queen\neagerly watched from the battlements, and the Laidley Worm followed them\nfast along the shore, and all the folk of Bamborough scrambled up the\ncliff side, and, holding on by jagged bits of crags and tough clumps of\ngrass and of yellow tansy, kept a precarious foothold, waiting,\nwide-eyed, to see what would be the outcome of the fray. As near the\nsandy beach of Budle as they durst venture their ship came Prince Wynd\nand his thirty-three men, then the rowers sat still, and the Prince\nleapt out, shoulder deep, into the water, and waded to the shore. Like a\nwounded tiger that has been baulked of its prey but gets it into its\npower at last, the Laidley Worm came to meet him, and all who watched\nthought his last hour had come. But like the white flash of a sea-bird's\nwings as it dives into the blue sea, the Prince's broad sword gleamed\nand fell on the loathsome monster's flat, scaly head, and in a great\nvoice he cried aloud on all living things to witness that if this\ncreature of evil magic did him any harm, he would strike her dead. Then\nthere befell a great wonder, for in human voice, but all hoarse and\nstrange and ugly, as though almost too great were the effort for human\nsoul to burst through brute form, the Laidley Worm spoke to her\nconqueror: \"Oh! quit thy sword and put aside thy bow!\" it moaned--so\nmoans the sea through the crash of the waves on nights when the storm\nstrews the beach of the North Country with wreckage--\"Oh! quit thy\nsword, for, poisonous monster though I be, no scaith will I do thee.\"\nThen those who heard the wonder felt sure that the Worm sought by\nsubtilty to destroy their Prince, for still as a white, dead man he\nstood, and gazed at the brute that shivered before him like a whipped\ndog that would fain lick his master's feet. But again it spoke, in that\nterrible, fearsome voice of mortal pain:\n\n     \"Oh! quit thy sword and bend thy bow,\n       And give me kisses three;\n     If I'm not won ere the sun go down,\n       Won I shall never be.\"\n\n\nBrave men, well-proved soldiers, were Childe Wynd's three-and-thirty,\nbut they cried out aloud to him, and some let go of their oars and\nsprang shoulder-deep in the sea that they might drag their lord back\nfrom this noisome horror that would destroy him. Prince Wynd's heart\ngave a great stound, and back rushed the blood into his face, that had\nbeen so pale and grim, and none was quick enough to come between him and\nwhat his heart had told his mind, and what his mind most gladly willed.\nAs though he were kissing for the first time the one he loved, and she\nthe fairest of the land, so did he bow his head in courtly fashion, and\nthree times kiss with loving lips the Laidley Worm of Spindleston-Heugh.\nAnd at the third kiss a great cry of wonder rose from his men, for lo,\nthe Laidley Worm had vanished, as fades an evil dream when one awakes,\nand in its place there stood the fairest maid in all England, their own\ndear Princess Margaret. With laughter and with tears did Childe Wynd and\nhis sister then embrace; but when the Princess had told her tale, her\nbrother's brow grew dark, and on his sword he vowed to destroy the vile\nwitch who had been his gentle sister's cruel enemy. With tears and with\nlaughter, and with gladsome shoutings the folk of Bamborough came in\nhaste to greet their Prince and Princess, and to speed them up to the\ncastle, where the King, their father, welcomed them full joyously. But\nthere were angry murmurs from the men of Northumbria, who called for\nvengeance on her who had so nearly ruined their dear land, and who had\nstriven to slay both Prince and Princess. Childe Wynd held up his hand:\n\"To me belongs the payment,\" he said, and the men laughed loud when they\nsaw his stern face, for those were days when grim and bloody deeds were\ngaily done, and blithe they were to think of torture for the Witch\nQueen. Cowering in a corner of her bower in the turret, white-faced and\nhaggard, they found her, and dragged her out to Childe Wynd. But no\nspeedy end by a clean sword blade was to be hers, nor any slower death\nby lingering torture.\n\n\"Woe be to thee, thou wicked witch!\" said the Prince; and she shivered\nand whimpered piteously, for well she knew that in far-off lands across\nthe sea Childe Wynd had studied magic, and that for her were designed\neternal terrors.\n\n     \"Woe be to thee, thou wicked witch,\n     An ill death mayst thou dee;\n     As thou my sister hast lik'ned,\n     So lik'ned shalt thou be.\n\n     I will turn you into a toad,\n     That on the ground doth wend;\n     And won, won, shalt thou never be,\n     Till this world hath an end.\"\n\nTo the fairy days of long, long ago belong Prince Wynd and the Princess\nMargaret and the wicked Witch Wife. But still in the country near\nBamborough, as maids go wandering in the gloaming down by the yellow\nsands and the rough grass where the sea-pinks grow, they will be\nsuddenly startled by a horrible great dun-coloured thing that moves\nquickly towards them, as though to do them a harm. With loudly beating\nhearts they run home to tell that they have encountered the venomous\ntoad that hates all virtuous maidens, who once was a queen, her who\ncreated the Laidley Worm of Spindleston-Heugh.\n\n\n\n\nA BORDERER IN AMERICA\n\n\nIt would be matter for wonder if, in the histories of old Border\nfamilies, record of strange personal experiences did not at times crop\nup. Sons of the Border have wandered far, and have sojourned in many\nlands, and borne their part in many an untoward event. But it is not\nlikely that any can lay claim to adventures more strange and romantic\nthan those which, in the latter part of the eighteenth century, befell a\nyouthful member of one of the most ancient of these Border clans. This\nstory of his adventures is literally true, as the family records prove,\nbut the descendants of the person to whom they happened prefer that he\nshould not figure in the tale under his own name. For convenience,\ntherefore, it must suffice here to call him Andrew Kerr.\n\nThe responsibilities of life began early in his day. A boy who would now\nfind himself in a very junior form at school, was then considered old\nenough to serve his Majesty in a marching regiment, or left his home to\nengage in business whilst yet his handwriting had scarcely emerged from\nchildhood's clumsy formation, and veritable infants served as\nmidshipmen in ships of war. Young Kerr was no exception to this general\nrule. Long before the boy had reached the age of sixteen he was shipped\noff to New York, there to join an uncle who, in order to engage in\ncommerce, had lately retired from the 60th \"Royal American\" Regiment,\nthen a famous colonial corps.\n\nThose were stirring times, and for a passenger the voyage to America was\nno hum-drum affair devoid of excitement or peril. We were at war with\nFrance and Spain. Every white sail, therefore, that showed above the\nhorizon meant the coming of a possible enemy; no day passed, in some\npart of which there might not chance to arise the necessity to employ\nevery device of seamanship if escape were to be effected should the\nenemy prove too big to fight, or in which there was not at least the\npossibility of smelling powder burned in earnest.\n\nNor were danger and excitement necessarily ended with the ship's arrival\nin New York harbour. We were still fighting the French in Canada; men\nyet told grim tales of Braddock's defeat and of the horrors of Indian\nwarfare. To him whom business or duty took far from the sea-board into\nthe country of the savage and treacherous Iroquois, there was the\never-present probability that he would some day--perhaps many times--be\ncompelled to fight for his life, with the certainty that, if disabled by\nwounds he fell into the enemy's hands, the scalp would be torn from his\nskull ere death could put an end to his sufferings; whilst capture\nmeant, almost for a certainty, the being eventually put to death after\nundergoing the most hideous tortures that the cruelty of the Redskins\ncould devise. To the colonists, \"the only good Indian was a dead\nIndian\"; and doubtless, by the newly-landed Andrew Kerr, the order at\nonce to proceed up-country with a convoy in charge of military stores\nmust have been received with somewhat mixed feelings. On the one hand,\nhis boyish love of adventure would be amply satisfied, while, on the\nother, there were risks to be faced which might well have caused more\nthan uneasiness to many an older man--risks which the boy's\nacquaintances possibly were at no pains to conceal, which, indeed, a few\nof them would probably take pleasure in painting in the gloomiest of\ncolours. But duty was duty, and the lad had too great a share of Border\nstubbornness and grit to let himself be badly scared by such tales as\nwere told to him.\n\nThe destination of the convoy was Fort Detroit. In those far-off days\nNew York was but a little city of some twenty thousand inhabitants, and\nthe western part of New York State was quite outside the bounds of\ncivilisation. To reach the Canadian frontier there were then two great\nroutes of military communication--one, up the Hudson River, and so by\nway of Lakes George and Champlain and down the Richelieu to the St.\nLawrence; the other, by the Hudson and Mohawk Rivers, then by way of\nLake Oneida and the Oswego River to the first of the great lakes, Lake\nOntario; thence the journey to Fort Detroit would be chiefly by canoe,\nup Lakes Ontario and Erie. Between the last military post at the head of\nthe Mohawk, however, and the mouth of the Oswego River, there was a\ngreat gap in which no military post had been established. Thus the route\nof the convoy to which Kerr was attached necessarily took them through\ncountry overrun by hostile Indian tribes.\n\nNo mishap, however, befell the party; probably they were too strong, too\nwary and well skilled in Indian warfare, to give the enemy a chance of\nambushing or taking them by surprise on their march through the woods.\n\nAt Fort Detroit, it was found that a small exploring party, under a\nCaptain Robson, was about to set out with the object of determining\nwhether or not certain rivers and lakes were navigable, and young Kerr,\nboylike, eagerly volunteered to join the expedition.\n\nHere began his strange adventures. The party, all told, consisted but of\neleven persons--Captain Robson, Sir Robert Davers, six soldiers, two\nsailors, and young Kerr. Apparently they did not think it necessary to\ntake with them any colonists, or Indian scouts. It is a curious\ncharacteristic of the average Britisher who finds himself in a new land,\nthat he appears to regard it as an axiom that he must necessarily know\nmuch more than the average colonist; can, in fact, teach that person\n\"how to suck eggs.\" The colonist, of course, on his part--and in the\nmajority of cases with justice--regards the \"new chum,\" or \"tender\nfoot,\" as a somewhat helpless creature. But the Britisher despises, or\nat least he used to despise, the mere colonist. Hence have arisen not a\nfew disasters. The little--travelled Britisher does not readily learn\nthat local conditions in all countries are not the same, that\ndispositions and customs which suit one are totally out of place and\nuseless in another. That was how General Braddock made so terrible and\nabsolute a fiasco of his expedition; it was the custom of the British\narmy to fight standing in line--(and, in truth, many a notable victory\nhad they won before, and many have they won since, in that\nformation)--therefore fight thus in line they must, no matter what the\nnature of the country in which they fought. Hence, in dense forest,\nsurrounded by yelling savages, our men stood up to be shot by a foe whom\nthey never saw till it was too late, and panic had set in amongst the\nfew survivors. Had our troops been taught to adapt themselves to\ncircumstances and to fight as the colonists fought, as the French in\nCanada had learned to fight, as the Red Indians fought, taking every\nadvantage of cover, Braddock need not thus unnecessarily have lost\nnearly seventy per cent, of his force. In matters appertaining to war\nor to fighting, it was beneath the dignity, most unhappily it was\nbeneath the dignity, of a British general to regard as of possible value\nthe opinion of a mere colonial, no matter how experienced in Indian\nfighting the latter might be, or how great his knowledge of the country.\nIt was that, no doubt, which induced Braddock to disregard the opinion,\nand to pooh-pooh the knowledge of his then A.D.C. George Washington. Yet\nit was nothing but Washington's knowledge that saved the van of\nBraddock's defeated force.\n\nIn like manner, had this little exploring expedition been accompanied by\ncolonists experienced in Indian ways, or had they chosen to make use of\nIndian scouts, disaster might have been averted. As it was, almost on\nthe threshold of their journey they were ambushed, and cut off by the\nRedskins. Robson, Davers, and two of the men were speedily picked off by\nthe concealed enemy, or were killed in the final rush of the painted,\nyelling savages. The little force was scattered to the winds. One or\ntwo, taking to the water, under cover of the darkness, and protected by\nthat Providence which sometimes watches over helpless persons,\neventually reached safety. But young Kerr was not amongst these\nfortunate ones. For him, experiences more trying were in store. In the\nlast m\u00eal\u00e9e he fell into the hands of a grim-looking, powerfully-built\nwarrior, who bound him to a tree, and in that most unpleasant\npredicament the lad for a time remained, from moment to moment\nanticipating for himself the treatment he saw being dealt out on the\nbodies of his friends. His youth saved him. Too young to be considered\nby the Indians as fit to be a warrior, his scalp was not added to the\nother bloody trophies of victory; for him was reserved the fate of\nslavery, the disgrace (from an Indian point of view) of performing\nmenial offices, of doing the work usually performed by squaws. Kerr's\ncaptor, a warrior named Peewash, of the tribe of the Chippeways, dragged\nhis prisoner home to his wigwam. There the boy was stripped naked,\npainted as Indians were painted, his head clean shaved except for one\ntuft on top called \"the scalp lock,\" which amongst the Indians it was\nthe custom to leave in order to facilitate the operation of scalping by\ntheir enemies should the owners chance to fall in battle. A scalp was\nthe recognised trophy of victory. It was not regarded as absolutely\nnecessary to kill an enemy; if his scalp could be torn from his head, no\nmore was required, and not infrequently a wounded man was left scalpless\non the ground, writhing in speechless agony, to linger and die\nmiserably.\n\nAfter undergoing the preliminaries of an Indian toilet, young Kerr had\nmoccasins given to him, and a blanket to wear--a costume perhaps more\nconvenient than becoming--and he entered on a round of duties new and\nstrange. He was not, after a time, unkindly treated by Peewash and his\nsquaw. But the work was far from pleasant, and many were the terrible\nsights forced on his unwilling notice at this time. Once, when the\nlittle garrison of Detroit sent out a small party, which, making a dash\nat the Indian camp, succeeded in killing a Chippeway Chief, the Redskins\nin revenge tortured and killed Captain Campbell, a Scot, who had been\ncaptured by the Ottawas. Such sights filled the boy with sick horror,\nand with a not unnatural dread of the fate which might yet await\nhimself. Rather than remain to furnish in his own person the leading\nfeature of an Indian festival, it was surely better, he thought, to die\nin attempting escape.\n\nAs it chanced later, a French trader--these tribes were the allies of\nthe French--arrived in camp, and remained there some time. Moved to pity\nby the boy's unhappy condition, this man, with some difficulty,\npersuaded Peewash to sell the lad to him for goods to the value of \u00a340.\nGreat was Kerr's exultation; once more he was free, free too without\nhaving had to face the terrible ordeal of attempting to escape from\nthese murderous Indian devils. All would now be well, for assuredly he,\nor his friends, would repay to the Frenchman the ransom money. The boy\nfelt as if his troubles were already over; in a day or two at longest he\nwould sleep again under the flag of his own land; perhaps even, at no\ndistant date, he might once more gaze on scenes for which throughout his\ncaptivity his soul had hungered, see, once more, Cheviot lying blue in\nthe distance, the Eildons with their triple crown, hear the ripple of\nthe Border streams. What tales of adventure he would have to tell.\n\nAlas! he counted without his hosts. The Chippeways when they heard of\nthe transaction would have none of it. The captive boy had been the\nproperty of the tribe, they said, and they refused to part with him; he\nmust be given up by the Frenchman. And the latter had no choice but to\ncomply.\n\nBlack now were the nights, gloomy the days, for Andrew Kerr, the blacker\nand the more gloomy for the false dawn that for brief space had cheered\nhim; unbearable was his burden, more hopeless and wretched than ever\nbefore, a thousandfold, his captivity. It was as it might be with a man\ndying of thirst if a cup of cold water were dashed from his lips and\nspilt on the sandy desert at his feet. Who can blame the boy if only the\nknowledge of what treatment he would avowedly receive from the young\nIndians if he should play the squaw and weep, kept him from shedding\ntears of misery and vexation.\n\nA new master was now his, a chief of the Chippeways; a new squaw set him\nhateful, degrading tasks, and ordered him about; the young men and the\nsquaws laughed him to scorn; life became more bitter than ever before.\n\nGradually, however, Kerr's new owners relaxed their severity of\ntreatment, and his lines grew less unpleasant. Time, indeed, made him\nalmost popular--embarrassingly popular--for there came a day when the\ntribe more than hinted its desire that the Pale-face should wed one of\nits most beauteous daughters. Happily, the question of who should be\nbride was left in abeyance. He became, too, almost reconciled to his\ndress, or want of dress--though, to be sure, a coat of paint and a\nblanket cannot, at the best, be regarded as more than a passably\nefficient hot-weather costume. With the easy adaptability of boyhood,\nAndrew Kerr had become almost a veritable Indian.\n\nNow, Peewash all this time had looked with covetous eye on his former\nslave, and desired to repossess him. A big price would have to be paid,\nno doubt; but Peewash was prepared to bid high, and the owner could not\nwithstand a temptation, backed, as it was, by that bait irresistible to\na Red Indian, \"firewater.\" The boy again changed hands, and now for some\ntime served his original captor.\n\nAbout this period the Tribes again \"dug up the hatchet,\" and set out on\na big war-trail. Cruel and bloody was the fighting, many the prisoners\ntaken and brought into camp from time to time. On one occasion young\nKerr was compelled to stand, a horrified spectator, among the exulting\nRedskins as with yells of gratified triumph, warriors and squaws, young\nmen and children, gloated fiercely over the brutal torture and lingering\ndeath of eight English prisoners. It was a grim and grisly spectacle,\nfor no form of torment--from the nerve-wracking test of knife and\ntomahawk, arrow or bullet, aimed with intent to graze the flesh and not\nimmediately to kill, to the ghastly ordeal of red-hot ramrods and\nblazing pine-root splinters thrust into the flesh or under the nails\n--was omitted by those bloodthirsty red devils. Many a sleepless hour,\nmany a night broken by awful dreams, must the sight have cost the boy.\nBut it determined him to attempt escape at all hazards whenever kind\nfortune should put the chance in his way.\n\nAnd fortune did help him ere long. There was a French trader named\nBoileau who came much about the camp. To him Andrew very cautiously made\nadvances, and succeeded at last in enlisting the man's sympathies. Kerr\nconfided to the trader his desire to attempt escape, and, none too\nwillingly at the beginning, Boileau agreed to take the risk of helping.\nIt was no easy task to lull the suspicions and to evade the watchful eye\nof the crafty Indians; but the boy had never, so far, shown any desire\nto escape, and he was not now so everlastingly under supervision. In\nvery bad English on Boileau's part, and in worse French on that of Kerr,\na plan of escape was devised. Early in the day, Boileau, after his usual\nhabit, was to leave camp in his canoe, ostensibly setting out on an\nordinary trapping expedition. After nightfall, he would return to a\ncertain rock on the lake shore, and then Kerr was to steal out and\nattempt to join him; thereafter, a night's paddling ought to take the\nfugitive out of the immediate danger-zone.\n\nThe night was cloudy and black, and not too still; everything, in fact,\nwas in the boy's favour as, with beating heart, he wormed his way out of\nthe wigwam and crawled stealthily on his belly from the camp towards the\ndense gloom of the forest. Then, almost as he had succeeded in gaining\nthe comparative safety of the trees, beneath his moccasined foot a stick\nsnapped, and a cursed Indian dog gave tongue, rousing the entire pack,\nand the sleeping camp, like an angry swarm of bees, woke at once to\nvenomous life.\n\nBut Kerr by this time was at least clear of the wigwams; if he could but\nreach that rock by the lake-side, and if the Frenchman had kept faith,\nhe might get safely away. Boileau would surely never fail him. Hampered\nand constantly tripped up by roots and tangled undergrowth, confused by\nthe blackness of the night, the boy toiled on with thumping heart and\nshortening breath; and at last, looming above him, was the welcome\noutlines of the great rock. But on neither side of it could he find sign\nof the trader or of his canoe. And already by the rustlings in the woods\nand the occasional snapping of dry sticks, he could tell that the\npursuing Indians were drawing perilously near him.\n\n\"Boileau!\" he whispered. \"Boileau!\" And then, in an agony of mind he\nrisked all, and shouted:\n\n\"Boileau, Boileau! _A moi!_\"\n\nAn angry whisper from almost at his side replied viciously:\n\n\"_Pas de chahut, malheureux! A bord vite, mille dieux!_\"\n\nAnd as the canoe silently glided from the shore with the boy safely on\nboard, the form of an Indian could be dimly seen where Kerr had stood\nthe previous moment, and a bullet sang past his ear.\n\nThere for the time his more acute troubles ended. A few days later, at\nDetroit, a throng of persons, half helpless with laughter, noisily\nescorted to the Fort a forlorn, bald-headed, painted scare-crow, clad in\na tattered Indian blanket, which scare-crow presently introduced itself\nto the commandant as Andrew Kerr, lately a prisoner of the Indians.\n\nOnce recovered from his fatigues and hardships, Andrew, as one of a\nsmall force, was sent to Niagara to obtain supplies for the Detroit\ngarrison. The outward voyage down Lake Erie was safely and pleasantly\naccomplished. But these vast American lakes are subject to sudden and\nviolent storms, and on the return trip, during an exceptionally fierce\nsquall, the little 40-ton sloop, heavily laden as she was with military\nstores, sprang a leak, and to save themselves the crew were forced to\nrun her aground on a gravelly beach under the lee of a projecting\nheadland. The situation at best was most critical, for if the wind\nshould shift but a few points the sloop must inevitably break up; and\nnot only was the one boat available a mere skiff incapable of living in\na heavy sea, but even should they all succeed in safely getting ashore\nwith muskets intact and ammunition dry, their position would still be in\nthe last degree precarious. For well they knew in what manner of country\nthey were about to set unwilling foot--forest land occupied by the\nfiercest and most treacherous of the hostile Indian tribes. Capture\nmeant death, probably with torture to precede it.\n\nWith great difficulty and some danger the ship-wrecked crew did at\nlength succeed in getting ashore, with their rifles and a fair supply of\npowder and lead, and without an instant's delay they set about building\na rude breastwork for protection if matters should come to a fight. The\nstranded vessel must certainly have been already seen by the Indians; at\nany moment they might appear. But the breastwork was completed without\ninterruption, and still no sign of the Redskins had been seen. It was at\nleast breathing space, though all knew what must assuredly follow, and\nto some the actual immediate combat would have been less unwelcome than\nwas now the suspense.\n\nAfter consultation, a few of the party, including Kerr, whose knowledge\nof Indian ways it was thought might be useful, left the breastwork to\nspy on the enemy--or at least to try to pick up some knowledge of their\nwhereabouts. Had it been into that enchanted land that they now\nentered, where lay the Sleeping Beauty, the forest shades could not have\nbeen more still, more apparently devoid of life. No breath of wind\nstirred leaf or bough, all nature breathed peace, and, lulled to a sense\nof security, the little party ventured farther among the trees than was\nprudent. In Indian warfare, appearances were ever deceitful; the greater\nthe apparent security, the greater the need for caution. So it was now\nhere.\n\n\"I guess it ain't all right,\" one man was saying; \"I don't like it. Get\nback, boys.\"\n\nAnd even as he spoke, \"crack\" went a rifle on their left--\"crack,\"\n\"crack,\" \"crack,\" came the sound of fire-arms on three sides; and as\nthey turned and ran for the breastwork, a man hiccoughed and fell on his\nface, clutching at the grass, coughing up his life-blood. No time to\nturn and help; the yelling Redskins were at their heels, tomahawk and\nscalping knife in hand; delay meant certain death for all, and the\nfugitives tumbled into the breastwork just in time. Then, save for one\nawful scream of agony, again for a time all was quiet; for any sign that\nmight be seen of them by the white men, the forest might have swallowed\nup the enemy. But let one of these white men for but an instant show his\nhead over the breastwork, or in any way expose an arm or even a hand,\nthen from the concealed foe came at once a hail of bullets, and the\nforest rang with the crack of rifles. Several of the little garrison,\ncareless, or too impatient to fire only through the roughly made\nloopholes, lost their lives in this way; and some others were picked off\nby Indians who had managed to get into the high branches of neighbouring\ntrees, and thence, concealed behind thick foliage, fired on the\ngarrison, for a time with impunity, till by chance it was discovered\nfrom where the fatal shots were coming.\n\nMeantime, for the white men it was almost like letting off their rifles\ninto the night; seldom could a Redskin be seen, and men fired only at\nthe spots where the smoke of Indian muskets hung about the undergrowth,\nor where they saw a spirt of flame.\n\nAnd so the fight went on, hour after hour, till many of the defenders\nhad fallen, and the necessity of husbanding ammunition slackened the\nfire of Kerr and his comrades. Then the Indians, knowing that the white\nmen were few, abandoning caution tried to rush the breastwork. But now\nnecessarily they exposed themselves, and as the white men had reloaded\nthe empty rifles of their dead and wounded comrades, and thus had at\nleast two apiece ready, heavy toll was taken of the stormers, and the\nRedskins were beaten back. Time and again was this repeated, once even\nduring the night--just before dawn. But each attempt failed, and the\nbaffled Indians finally drew off.\n\nWith thankful hearts, if with sore labour, the surviving white men, by\nlightening their vessel, got her off the ground, and succeeded in\nfinding and stopping the leak. A few days saw them again safely at\nDetroit.\n\nNo more, as a civilian, did Andrew Kerr face the Indians. On getting\nback to New York in 1764 he was given a commission as ensign in the 1st\nbattalion of the 42nd Regiment, and in various parts of the world he saw\nmuch service, finally retiring about 1780 with the rank of captain. He\ndid not wholly, however, sever his connection with the service, for\nlater, after he had purchased an estate in the Border, and had married,\nhe became a major in the Dumfries Militia.\n\nIt is given to few to pass a youth so stormy as Kerr's, and to end, as\nhe did, by becoming a peaceful, prosperous Border laird.\n\n\n\n\nBORDER SNOWSTORMS\n\n\n     \"St. Agnes' Eve--ah, bitter chill it was!\n     The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;\n     The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass,\n     And silent was the flock in woolly fold.\"\n\nThe great round-backed, solemn Border hills, in summer time kindly\nsleeping giants, smiling in their sleep, take on another guise when\nwinter smites with pitiless blast, when\n\n     \"The sounds that drive wild deer and fox\n     To shelter in the brake and rocks,\"\n\nbellow fearsomely among the crags, and down glen and burn rushes the\nWhite Death, bewildering, blinding, choking, and at the last, perhaps,\nwith Judas kiss folding in its icy arms some luckless shepherd whom duty\nhas sent from his warm fireside to the rescue of his master's sheep. You\nwould not know for the same those hills that so little time gone past\nnursed you in their soft embrace. Then, in the warm, sunny days, shadows\nof great fleecy clouds chased each other leisurely up the braes through\nthe bracken and the purpling heather; the burn sang to itself a merry\ntune as it tumbled from boulder to boulder, rippling through pools where\nthe yellow trout lay basking; on the clear air came the call of grouse,\nand afar off a solitary raven croaked in the stillness of a sun-steeped\nglen. Now the bracken is dead, the bent sodden and chill with November's\nsleet; against a background of heavy, leaden-grey sky the heather lies\nblack as if washed in ink. Across from the wild North Sea comes a wind\nthin and nipping, waxing in strength, and with the gathering storm\npiping ever more shrilly down the glen, driving before it now a fine,\npowdery white dust that chokes nostril and mouth, and blinds the eyes of\nthose whom necessity compels to be out-doors. It is \"an oncome,\" a\n\"feeding storm.\" Thus have begun many of the great snowstorms that from\ntime to time have devastated the Border and taken heavy toll of man and\nbeast.\n\nIn March 1615 snow fell to such a depth, and drifted so terribly, that\nnot only did many men perish, but likewise \"most part of all the horse,\nnolt, and sheep of the kingdom.\" In the years 1633 and 1665 there were\ngreat storms, when vast numbers of sheep perished, and \"the frost was\nsevere enough to kill broom and whins.\" But greater than these, both in\ndevastating effect and in duration, was the memorable storm of 1674. The\nearly part of that year was marked by extraordinarily tempestuous\nweather. In January came a violent gale from east and by north that\nstrewed the coasts with wreckage. Down by Berwick and Eyemouth, by St.\nAbb's, and along all that rugged shore, the cruel sea sported daily\nwith bodies of drowned sailors, flinging them from wave to wave, tossing\nthem headlong on to a stony beach, only with greedy far-stretched grasp\nto snatch them back again to its hungry maw. In every rocky fissure,\nwhere angry waves spout cliff-high and burst in clouds of spray; in\nevery rugged inlet, where the far-flung roaring seas boil furiously,\ntimbers and deck-hamper of vessels driven on a lee-shore churned\nceaselessly, pounding themselves to matchwood.\n\nThroughout January, and till February was far advanced, this bitter\neasterly gale blew fiercely. In mid-February the wind died down, leaving\na sky black with piled-up cloud gravid with coming evil. Inland, hill\nand river lay frost-bound, white with snow, and already the pinch of\nwinter had begun to make itself seriously felt amongst the sheep. In\nthose days, beyond driving the flocks, when necessary, from the hill to\nmore sheltered, low-lying country, but little provision was ever made\nfor severe weather, and even the precaution of shifting the sheep to\nlower ground was frequently too long delayed. Turnips, of course, had\nnot yet come into cultivation in Scotland, and feed-stuffs were\ngenerally unknown.\n\nThis time farmers were caught napping. On 20th February a rising wind\ndrove before it snow, fine powdered and dry as March dust, and with the\nwaxing gale, and cold \"intense to a degree never before remembered,\" the\ndrift quickly became a swirling blizzard which no living thing could\nface. Day and night for thirteen days this maelstrom of snow continued,\nand till the 29th of March no decided improvement took place in the\nweather; the snow lay deep, and the frost held, so that there was \"much\nloss of sheep by the snow, and of whole families in the moor and high\nlands; much loss of cows everywhere, also of wild beasts, as of doe and\nroe.\"\n\n\"The Thirteen Drifty Days,\" folk called this storm, and by that name it\nhas gone down to history. \"About the fifth and sixth days of the storm,\"\nsays the Ettrick Shepherd, writing in _Blackwood's Magazine_ of July\n1819, \"the young sheep began to fall into a sleepy and torpid state, and\nall that were affected in the evening died over-night. The intensity of\nthe frost wind often cut them off when in that state quite\ninstantaneously. About the ninth and tenth days, the shepherds began to\nbuild up huge semicircular walls of their dead, in order to afford some\nshelter for the remainder of the living; but they availed but little,\nfor about the same time they were frequently seen tearing at one\nanother's wool with their teeth. When the storm abated on the fourteenth\nday from its commencement, there was, on many a high-lying farm, not a\nliving sheep to be seen. Large misshapen walls of dead, surrounding a\nsmall prostrate flock, likewise all dead, and frozen stiff in their\nlairs, was all that remained to cheer the forlorn shepherd and his\nmaster.\"\n\nAs a matter of fact, something like nine-tenths of all the sheep in the\nsouth of Scotland perished in this one storm, or if they did not then\nactually perish, their vitality was so lowered, their constitutions so\nwrecked, by the intense cold and the long deprivation of food, that they\nnever again picked up condition, but died like flies when the spring was\nfurther advanced. Hogg says that in Eskdalemuir, out of 20,000 sheep\n\"none were left alive but forty young wedders on one farm, and five old\newes on another. The farm of Phaup remained without a stock and without\na tenant for twenty years subsequent to the storm.\" On another farm all\nthe sheep perished save one black-faced ewe; and she was not long left\nto perpetuate her breed, for dogs hunted her into a loch, and she too\nwent the way of her fellows.\n\nAmongst other great storms, Hogg also mentions one in this same century,\nlong remembered as the \"Blast o' March.\" It occurred on a Monday, the\ntwenty-fourth day of March, and was of singularly short duration,\nconsidering the havoc it wrought. The previous Sunday was so warm that\nlassies returning from Yarrow Kirk in the evening took off shoes and\nstockings and walked barefoot; the young men cast plaids and coats. To\ntheir unconcealed astonishment, as they sauntered homeward these young\npeople found that an old shepherd, named Walter Blake, had driven his\nentire flock of sheep into a sheltered position by the side of a wood,\nnear the road. Now, Blake was a deeply religious man, one to whom the\nSabbath was in the strictest sense a holy day, a day too sacred to be\nbroken in any fashion whatever, except for some extraordinarily powerful\nreason. On being asked how it came to pass that he was found thus\nfollowing his worldly vocation, to the neglect of church-going, he said\nthat in the morning he had seen to the northward so ill-looking a\n\"weather-gaw\" that he was convinced a heavy storm was coming, and that\nprobably before morning there would be a dangerous drift. The young men\nlaughed the old one to scorn. A snowstorm! The auld man was daft! Why,\nthe air was like June; no sensible body would even so much as dream of\nsnow.\n\n\"Belike we'll be up to oor oxters in snaw, the morn, Wattie,\" chirrupped\none damsel, in the bicker of rustic wit and empty laughter that flew\naround.\n\n\"Weel, weel, lads! Time will show. Let them laugh that win,\" said old\nWattie.\n\nThat night there came a sudden shift of wind, and ere morning the\ncountry-side was smothered in snow. Twenty thousand sheep perished, and\nnone but old Walter Blake came out of that storm free from loss.\n\nThe years 1709, 1740, and 1772 were all notable for unusually heavy\nfalls of snow. In the latter year the country was snow-clad from\nmid-December till well on in April, and the loss of sheep was very\ngreat, chiefly because partial thaws, occurring at intervals, encouraged\nhill farmers to believe each time that the back of the winter was\nbroken. Hence, they delayed too long in shifting their sheep to lower\nlands, and when the imperative necessity of removal at length became\nobvious, if life were to be saved, it was too late; from sheer weakness\nthe poor animals were unable to travel.\n\nThen came that terrible storm of 1794, a calamity that old men of our\nown day may yet remember to have heard talked about by eye-witnesses of\nthe scenes they described. Nothing in nature ever wrought such havoc in\nthe Border. Seventeen shepherds perished in the endeavour to rescue\ntheir flocks; no less than thirty others, overwhelmed by the intense\ncold, the fury of the gale, and the blinding, choking whirlwind of snow,\ndropped and lay unconscious, to all intents dead, sleeping the dreamless\nsleep of those whom King Frost slays with his icy darts. And dead would\nthose thirty assuredly have been, but for the timely aid of brave men,\nthemselves toil-worn to the verge of collapse, who, through the deep\ndrifts and the swirling snow, bore home the heavy, unconscious bodies,\nto revive them with difficulty.\n\nThe storm began on the 24th of January, and though the snow lay but a\nweek, whole flocks were overwhelmed, in some instances buried fifty feet\ndeep. Countless numbers of sheep, driven into burns and lochs by the\npitiless strength of the wind, were never again seen, swept away into\nthe sea by the tremendous floods that followed the melting of the snow.\nThere is on Solway Sands a place called the Beds of Esk, where with\nterrible persistency the tides cast up whatever may have been carried to\nsea by the rivers which in this neighbourhood empty themselves into the\nFirth. Ghastly was the burden here strewn when the floods now went down.\nIn those Beds lay the lifeless bodies of two men and of one woman; the\nswollen carcasses of five-and-forty dogs, eighteen hundred and forty\nsheep, nine black cattle, three horses, one hundred and eighty hares;\nand of rabbits and small animals a multitude innumerable. Death held\nhigh carnival in Eskdalemuir that January of 1794.\n\nHogg gives a vivid picture of his own adventures in this storm. He had\ngone from home the previous day, tramping over the Ettrick hills many a\nlong mile to attend some friendly meeting of fellow-shepherds, leaving\nhis sheep in charge of his master. Arrived at his destination, and\nrendered uneasy by the unwonted appearance of the sky, without waiting\nfor rest or for anything but a little food and drink, he turned and set\nout straightway on his homeward journey. A tramp of thirty or forty\nmiles over the hills is ordinarily no great matter for a young and\nactive shepherd. But now snow was falling; already it lay to some\ndepth, making the footing toilsome and insecure. Moreover, a curious\nyellow mist had spread over the hills, shrouding the hollows from sight;\ndarkness must be on him hours before he could hope to reach home, and\nthe night promised to be wild. But what would daunt an ordinary\npedestrian has no terrors for the Border shepherd, and Hogg safely\nreached his home before bedtime, to learn, greatly to his dismay, that\nhis master, good easy man, had left the sheep that evening on an exposed\npart of the hill. Not even the master's \"Never mind them the nicht,\nJamie; they're safe eneuch, and I'll gie ye a hand in the morning,\"\ncould calm his anxiety. However, on looking out before going to bed, he\nwas comforted to find the wind coming from the south, and apparently a\nthaw beginning. He might sleep in peace after all; things were going to\nturn out less bad than he had feared.\n\nTired as he was, however, try as he might, sleep would not come that\nnight; an unaccountable feeling of restlessness and of vague\napprehension had him in its grip. Hour after hour he lay, listening\nirritably to the snoring of his fellow-shepherd, Borthwick, starting\nnervously at every scraping of rat or creak of timber. At last, long\nafter midnight, he rose and looked out. The wind had fallen, but snow\nstill fell; there was nothing abnormal in the night, and the weather\nmight have been described as merely \"seasonable.\" But away in the\nnorthern sky, low down, appeared a strange break in the mist, such as\nin all his experience he had never before seen. And it came to his mind\nthat the previous day, when on his homeward way he had \"looked in\" at\nhis uncle's house, the old man had predicted the coming of a violent\nstorm, which would surely spring from that quarter in which should first\nbe seen a phenomenon such as that on which Hogg was now looking. The\nshepherd returned to bed, and had almost succeeded in falling into a\ndoze, when again some impulse caused him to sit up and listen. From far\nin the distant hills came quivering a strange low moaning that brought\nwith it something of awe and suspense. Nearer it drove, and nearer,\nrising at length to a fierce bellow; and then, with appalling roar, as\nof thunder, the gale hurled itself on to the building, shaking it to the\nfoundations. In the pitch blackness of the night Hogg groped his way to\nan opening in the byre over which he and Borthwick slept, and thrust out\na hand and arm. \"So completely was the air overloaded with falling and\ndriving snow that, but for the force of the wind, I felt as if I had\nthrust my arm into a wreath of snow,\" he writes.\n\nPresently he roused Borthwick, who had slept soundly through the hubbub,\nand at once his fellow-shepherd dressed and tried to make his way from\nthe byre to the kitchen, a distance of no more than fourteen yards. But\neven in the little time which had elapsed since the breaking of the\nstorm the space between kitchen and byre had drifted up with snow as\nhigh as the house walls, and Borthwick straightway lost himself; neither\ncould he find his way to the house, nor succeed in regaining the byre.\nEventually both men with no small toil made their way to the kitchen,\nwhere they found master and maids already assembled, and in a state of\nno little alarm.\n\nTheir first concern was manifestly the safety of the sheep. But at such\nan hour, in such a night, what could be done? Nevertheless, two hours\nbefore daylight shepherds and master started for the hill, taking first\nthe precaution to _sew_ their plaids round them, and to tie on their\nbonnets. For the thrilling details of the dangerous undertaking one must\nrefer to Hogg's own account, but it may here be noted that no sooner was\nthe kitchen door closed on the men than they lost each other, and lost\nalso all sense of direction; it was only by the sound of their voices\nthat the little party succeeded in keeping in each other's\nneighbourhood. And such was the fury of the wind and the confusion of\nthe drift that frequently, in order to draw breath, they were compelled\nto bend till their faces were between their knees. The farmhouse stood\nwithin what in Scotland is called a \"park,\" in this instance a small\nenclosure, the wall of which might be at most three hundred yards\ndistant from the house door. It was two hours before daylight when they\nentered this park; when morning broke, they had not yet succeeded in\nmaking their way out of it.\n\nHogg's own story must be read, to learn how, and at what dire peril to\nthe searchers, Borthwick's flock was at length found. They were huddled\ntogether, and buried deep in a snow wreath so compact that when the\noutside sheep had been extricated, most of the remainder were able of\nthemselves to walk out, leaving where they had stood a sort of vast\ncave. Hogg himself, when the bulk of Borthwick's sheep had been at\nlength saved, started alone to rescue his own flock. With comparatively\nlittle trouble he found them, got them by slow degrees to a place of\nsafety, and then turned to make his way home. Of the course to steer, it\nnever occurred to him to doubt; he had known the hills from infancy, and\ncould have walked blindfold across them. His instinct for locality was\nas the instinct of some wild animal, or of an Australian black-fellow.\nBut what put some dread in his mind was the knowledge that between him\nand home lay the Douglas Burn, possibly by now in spate, and dangerous\nto cross. The noise of the wind would prevent him from hearing the roar\nof the swollen torrent, the driving snow prevent him from seeing the\ndanger, and a false step on the bank might deposit him where he would\nnever come out alive. To a man alone on the hill in such weather, the\ntask was arduous, the danger great; moreover, in the last thirty-six\nhours he had walked far, had undergone great toil, and he had been\nwithout sleep all night. The prospect was no pleasing one. But he\nstruggled on through the blinding, wind-driven snow, heading, as he\nconfidently believed, straight for home. Yet doubt presently began to\nfill his mind. He should long ago have reached the Douglas Burn, but not\na sign even suggestive of such a thing as a watercourse had he yet seen.\nPresently he roused with a start, for now he stood amongst trees,\nstretching apparently in endless succession to an infinite distance.\nAfter all, it seemed that he _had_ missed his way. Where he was he could\nnot tell; and it needed some minutes of anxious groping ere he could\nclear his mind and make certain of his position. He stood not much more\nthan fifty yards from the farm-house door, by the side of a little clump\nof trees, which in that blurred light and in the confusion of the\ndrifting snow took on the semblance of some vast forest. Without being\naware of it, Hogg had crossed the gully of the Douglas Burn on a bridge\nformed by the deep snow, and crossed over the park wall in similar\nfashion.\n\nMany have been the terrible winters since those of which Hogg wrote,\nmany the lives lost, and more, perhaps, the narrow escapes from what\nseemed certain death. In 1803 the frozen, deep-buried body of a man was\nfound near Ashestiel, within what--but for the raging storm the previous\nnight--must have been easy hail of his own cottage, where, sick with\nanxiety, his wife and little ones sat waiting his return from the hill.\nIn that same storm a young shepherd, within sight of his own father,\nfell over a precipice near Birkhill, and, with spine hopelessly injured,\nlay helpless amongst the snow-covered boulders in a place inaccessible\nto the distracted father. A party succeeded in rescuing him, but rescue\navailed him little; he lay afterwards at home for several weeks unable\nto stir hand or foot, and in great pain, till death mercifully released\nhim.\n\nIn 1825 came an on-fall so sudden and violent that scores of people who\nhappened to be on journeys were compelled to remain for weeks wherever\nthey had chanced to be when the storm broke. There was no possibility of\ngetting away; except those in the immediate vicinity of large towns, all\nroads were completely blocked, and communication was absolutely cut off.\nThe mails had ceased to run, and of course in those days the electric\ntelegraph was unknown. Thus, many a man, the father of a family, was\nparted indefinitely from wife and children without possibility of\nallaying their anxiety for his welfare; many a commercial traveller\npassed week after week in some roadside inn, waiting vainly for the\nlong-delayed thaw to enable him to communicate with his employer. And\nhad country people in those days depended for their supplies on\ntradesmen's carts, as is the custom now, many a family must have found\nitself in the direst straits ere the storm was half over.\n\nThen a few years later came that memorable storm of 1831, of which men\nin Tweedsmuir still speak almost as if it were an event of yesterday. It\nwas in the days of the old mail coaches, and the event which served to\nfix this storm indelibly in the public mind occurred on or near the old\ncoach road from Dumfries to Edinburgh. The road runs past Moffat and up\nsomething like five miles of very heavy gradient to the Devil's Beef\nTub, ascending in that distance nearly nine hundred feet; from the Tub\nit crosses the lonely, desolate watershed which divides Tweed from\nAnnan, then by easy slope drops past Tweedshaws and Badlieu, and so by\nTweedsmuir and the old Crook Inn--with Broad Law upheaving his massive\nshoulder on the right--slips gradually into country less unkind in days\nof storm than are those bleak upper regions.\n\nSnow had been falling all day on the 1st of February 1831, and the\nmorning mail from Dumfries to Edinburgh was already late in reaching\nMoffat. Would \"she\" go on, would \"she\" risk the terrible drifts that\neven now must have formed nearer the bleak moorland summit? And the\nlittle knot of faithful admirers who, according to custom, daily\nassembled by one's and two's about the inn door at Moffat to wait the\ncoming of the coach--their one excitement--agreed that \"MacGeorge would\ngang on if the de'il himsel' stude across the road.\" MacGeorge was\nguard of the mail-coach, a fine, determined man, an old soldier, one\nimbued with abnormally strong sense of duty. Once before, for some quite\nunavoidable delay, the Post-Office authorities had \"quarrelled\" him (as\nhe expressed it), and this undeserved blame rankled in the old soldier's\nheart. It should not be said of him a second time that he had failed to\nget his mails through on time. So it came to pass that, in spite of\nrising gale and fiercer driving snow, in spite of earnest remonstrance\nfrom innkeepers and spectators, with \"toot-toot\" of horn away into the\nwhite smother, spectral-like, glided the silent coach. A mile from the\ninn she was blocked by a huge drift. That safely won through, a couple\nof miles farther she plodded on, slowly and ever more slow; and finally,\nin a mighty wreath, stuck fast; \"all the King's horses\" might not have\nbrought her through that. MacGeorge was urged to turn now, to make the\nbest of a bad business and to go back to Moffat. The delay was\nunavoidable; no one could cast blame on him, for the worst part of the\nroad was yet to come, and no power on earth could get the mails through\nthat. But no! It was his duty to go on, and go he would.\n\nThe horses were taken out of the coach. Some were sent back to Moffat in\ncharge of the lads who rode the extra tracers used in snowy weather for\nthe few miles of heavy collar-work out of Moffat; of the rest, loaded\nwith the mail-bags, MacGeorge led one, Goodfellow, the coachman,\nanother; and the two set off for Tweedshaws, accompanied by a man named\nMarchbanks, the Moffat roadman, who had been a passenger on the coach.\nIt was but four miles to Tweedshaws, yet before they had struggled\nthrough half the distance the horses had come to a standstill, utterly\nblown and exhausted; nothing could get them to stir forward, or longer\nto face the drift. Marchbanks suggested that now at length they might\nreasonably turn and fight their way back. Goodfellow hesitated.\n\n\"What say ye, Jamie?\" he asked of MacGeorge.\n\n\"Come ye or bide ye, I go on,\" answered the stern old soldier. \"I can\ncarry the bags mysel'.\"\n\n\"Then that settles the maitter. If ye gang, I gang.\"\n\nSo the horses were turned adrift to find their own way home, and the two\nmen went off into the mirk, carrying the bags; whilst Marchbanks, on\ntheir urgent advice, turned to force his arduous way back to Moffat.\n\nSnow still fell in the morning, but the worst of the storm seemed over\nwhen Marchbanks again started to try for Tweedshaws to ascertain if\nMacGeorge and Goodfellow had won their way through. The country was one\nvast drift; the snow-posts by the roadside, where not altogether buried\nor so plastered with the driving snow on their weather side as to be\ninvisible, pushed their black heads through the universal ghostly\nshroud; where the road had been, the abandoned coach itself loomed, a\nshapeless white mound. On and on Marchbanks toiled, and, far past the\nspot where last night he had parted from his comrades, something unusual\nhanging to a snow post caught his eye. It was the mail-bags, securely\ntied there by hands which too evidently had been bleeding from the cold;\nbut of guard or coachman there was never a sign. The meagre winter day\nwas already drawing to a close; with the gathering darkness a rising\nwind drove the snow once more before it, and the clouds to windward\npiled black and ominous. By himself Marchbanks was powerless to help, if\nhelp were indeed yet possible; he could but return to Moffat and give\nthe alarm.\n\nThat night men with lanterns and snow-poles fought their way to\nTweedshaws, only to learn there what all had feared--neither guard nor\ncoachman had come through. Therefore, if by remote chance they still\nlived, the men must lie buried in the snow, perhaps within very few\nyards of the high-road. For two days scores of men searched every likely\nspot, but never a clue they found, except Goodfellow's hat, which lay in\na peat-hag at no great distance from the post where the mail-bags had\nbeen hung.\n\nThen--some said it was a dream that guided them--some one thought of an\nold, disused road along which there was possibility the lost men might\nhave made their way. There, from a drift protruded something black--a\nboot; and on his back, deep buried, lay Goodfellow. Near at hand they\nfound MacGeorge, in an easy attitude, as if quietly sleeping, on his\nface a smile--\"a kind o' a pleasure,\" the finders called it--such a\nsmile, perhaps, as the face of the \"good and faithful servant\" may wear\nwhen he entereth into the joy of his Lord.\n\nMany have been the snowy years since that in which MacGeorge threw away\nlife for duty's sake. Besides winters, such as that hard \"Crimean\" one\nof 1854-5, there have been, for example, the terrible season of 1860-1,\nthe bitter winter of 1878-9, when snow lay, practically unbroken, from\nNovember till March, and the frost was unrelenting in severity; and\nthere have been others, too numerous to specify. Many a man has perished\non the hill, before and since, but no tragedy ever seized the popular\nimagination so firmly as did that on the Moffat road in 1831. It is a\ndistrict lonely enough even in summer time, that joint watershed of\nTweed, Annan, and Clyde, but when winter gales sweep over those lofty\nmoorlands, and snow drives down before the bitter blast, let no man\nunused to the hill attempt that road. It was but the other year that a\nlonely shepherd's wife near Tweedshaws, one stormy evening when snow\ndrove wildly across the moor, thought that she heard the cry of a human\nvoice come down the gale. Again and again, as she sat by her cosy fire\nof glowing peat she imagined that some one called for help. Again and\nagain she rose, and opening the door, listened, but never, when she\nstood by the open door waiting for the call to come again, was anything\nto be heard but the noise of the storm and the rush of the wind,\nanything to be seen but the driving snow. Long she listened, but the cry\ncame no more, and naturally she concluded that imagination had fooled\nher. In the morning, not very many yards away from the door,\nhalf-covered by its snowy winding-sheet, lay the stiff-frozen body of a\nyoung man. There had been the breakdown of some vehicle down the road\nthe previous evening, and he had thought to make his way to Moffat on\nfoot. Of what do men think when they are lost in the snow? Of nothing,\nprobably, one may conclude; very likely, before it has dawned upon them\nthat there is danger, the mind, like the body, has become numbed with\nthe cold, and they probably only think of rest and sleep. To some spot\nsheltered from the blast they may perhaps have stumbled, and they pause\nto take breath. After the turmoil through which they have been\nstruggling, this sheltered spot seems a quiet little back-water, out of\nthe raging torrent, peaceful, even warm, by comparison. A little\nrest--even, it may be, a few minutes' sleep--will revive them, and\nafterwards they will push on, refreshed. All will be well; it is not far\nto safety. And the snow falls quietly, ceaselessly, softly lapping them\nin its gentle folds, and the roar of the wind comes now from very far\naway--their last lullaby, heard vaguely through \"death's twilight dim.\"\nThe desire to sleep, men say, is irresistible, and once yielded to,\nsleep's twin brother, death, is very near at hand. There was found many\nyears ago in the Border hills the body of a man, who had taken off his\nplaid, folded it carefully to make a pillow, on it had rested his head,\nand so had passed to his long rest, contented enough, if one might judge\nfrom the smile on his face.\n\nBut men do not always thus loose consciousness when buried in the snow.\nThere was the case of Mr. Alexander Laidlaw of Bowerhope, on St. Mary's\nLoch, in the year 1842. One wild day of storm and deep-lying snow he\nstarted out to see after the safety of his sheep. Hours had passed,\ndarkness had fallen, and he did not come home. Then a shepherd\nremembered having seen him crossing a certain hill where snow lay extra\ndeep. To this hill in the morning the searchers betook themselves, to\nfind that a great avalanche had taken place, leaving the hill bare but\nfor the night's coating of snow. At the hill-foot the old snow was piled\nin giant masses. Here a dog sniffed, and whimpered, and began to scrape.\nThey found Laidlaw buried there in tons of snow, uninjured save in one\narm, and after fourteen hours burial in his snowy sepulchre he was still\npartly conscious. When the tumbling snow mass overwhelmed him he had had\npresence of mind and strength to clear from before his face breathing\nspace sufficient to preserve life. Laidlaw lived for many years after,\nin no permanent respect a sufferer from his burial and resurrection.\n\nHis was an experience of no common order, yet it was a case less strange\nthan that of a sportsman, many years ago, who, unused to the hills, was\nlost amongst the snow one evening of sudden storm. Far and long he\nwandered, till, utterly exhausted, dropping from fatigue and cold, he\nchanced on a roof-less cottage, the crumbling walls of which promised\nsome shelter from the wind and the terrible drifting snow. By the empty\nchimney-place he sat down, thankful that at least the bitter gale no\nlonger buffeted him. But the snow fell thick and fast, eddying into\nevery corner, gently covering his feet and stealing up over his body. A\ndrowsy languor crept over his senses, an irresistible feeling of warmth\nand comfort came to him; his head fell forward. Again and again, knowing\nthe deadly peril, he roused himself with ever-increasing effort; again\nand again his head sank. Then suddenly it seemed that all was well. How\n_could_ he have fancied that he was out amongst the snow? The sound of\nthe gale still thundered in his ears, but dully, muffled by thick walls,\nand he stood in a bedroom wherein burned a cheerful fire. On the bed lay\na man, who presently, with a start, sat up, looked at him, and lay down\nagain. Three times this happened, but the fourth time the man in bed got\nup and hurriedly began to dress. He was a man unknown to the dreamer--if\ndreaming he was--but his features were strongly marked, and bore a\nscar on the cheek, unmistakable to anyone who had once seen it. Then,\nsuddenly, except for himself, the room was empty, and, as the dreamer in\nhis dream strove to reach the fire, to thrust cold hands close to the\npleasant glow, room and fire faded, and he knew no more till a bright\nlight shone in his dazed eyes, and by his side, a hand on his shoulder,\nvigorously shaking him, knelt the man whom he had seen in his dreams. \"I\nknew you were coming,\" drowsily murmured the awakened sleeper, glancing\nfeebly at his rescuer, and immediately dropping off to sleep again.\n\nWhen next he came to full consciousness, it was in a warm bed in a\ncomfortable room, where every evidence of luxury met his eyes. In an\narmchair by the fire, with outstretched feet, sat his rescuer, his face\nturned towards the bed. And presently:\n\n\"Why did you say last night that you knew I was coming?\" he asked.\n\nAnd when the dreamer had told his dream:\n\n\"It is strange,\" said the other, \"that last night I should have been\nforced, as it were, to get up and go to the old cottage by the wood.\nOver and over again I woke, plagued by an unaccountable impulse to visit\nthose ruined walls. Struggle as I might against it, argue with myself as\nI would on its folly, it always returned; and at last, about midnight,\nit conquered me, and I arose and went.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE MURDER OF COLONEL STEWART OF HARTRIGGE\n\n\nSince a time long prior to the Raid of the Redeswire--when on Caterfell\nthe rallying cry, \"Jethart's here,\" fell like sweetest music on the ears\nof a sore-pressed little band of armed Scots, fighting for their lives,\nand giving back sullenly before superior English strength--the worst\nenemies of Jedburgh have never been able to taunt her with apathy, or\nwith want of strenuousness. In the fighting of days long gone by, in\nquestions social or political of more modern times, lack of zeal has not\nbeen one of her characteristics; nor, perhaps, in past times have her\ninhabitants, or those resident in the district, been conspicuous for\ntolerance of the religious or political convictions of neighbours who\nmight chance not to see eye to eye with them in such matters.\n\nThe first half of the eighteenth century was a time more fully charged\nthan most with questions which, on the Border as elsewhere, goaded men\nto fury. There was, for example, the Union; there had been, prior to\nthat, the unhappy Darien Scheme, which ruined half Scotland and raised\nhatred of England to white heat; there was, later, the advent of George\nthe First and his \"Hanoverian Rats,\" to the final ousting of the\nrightful King over the water; there was the Rising of 1715, and,\nfinally, there was the gallant attempt by Bonnie Prince Charlie to\nregain his father's crown in 1745. Thus they had, indeed, a superfluity\nof subjects over which men might legitimately quarrel. And when it is\nremembered that gentlemen in those days universally carried swords, and\nas a rule possessed some knowledge of how to use them, and that the man\nwho did not habitually drink too much at dinner was a veritable _rara\navis_--a poor creature, unworthy to be deemed wholly a man--the wonder\nwill be, not that so many, but rather that so few, fatal quarrels took\nplace.\n\nWhatever in other respects might be their failings--and these were,\nindeed, many and grave--Scottish inns in those days were noted for the\ngoodness of their claret. As a consequence of our ancient alliance and\ndirect trade with France, that wine was not only good, but was plentiful\nand cheap--cheap enough, indeed, to become almost the national\ndrink--and vast quantities were daily consumed; though there were not\nwanting those who, protesting that claret was \"shilpit\" and \"cauld on\nthe stomach,\" called loudly for brandy, and with copious draughts of\nthat spirit corrected the acidity of the less potent wine.\n\nPossibly the very depth of the drinking in those days guarded many a\nlife from sacrifice; the hand is not steady, nor the foot sure, when the\nbrain is muddled by fumes of wine, and it was perhaps more often chance\nthan design that guided the sword's point in some of these combats.\nStill, even so, Death too often claimed his toll from such chance\nstrokes.\n\nA duel between opponents equally armed was fair enough, provided that\nthe skill and sobriety were not unequally divided, and that one of the\nfighters did not chance to be unduly handicapped by age. If a man wore a\nsword, he knew that he might be called upon to use it--even the most\npeace-loving of men might not then, without loss of honour, always\nsucceed in avoiding a brawl; the blame was his own if he had neglected\nto make himself proficient in the use of his weapon. At that period the\ntongue of the libeller was not tied by fear of the law; for the man\ninsulted or libelled there existed no means of redress other than that\nof shedding, or trying to shed, his insulter's blood. It was a rough and\nready mode of obtaining justice; and if it had its manifest\ndisadvantages, it was at least not wholly unsuited to the rough and\nready times.\n\nBut cases, unhappily, were not unknown in which one or other of the\ntipsy combatants--in his sober moments possibly an honourable and\nkindly-natured man--thrust suddenly and without warning, giving his\nopponent small time to draw, or even, perhaps, to rise from his chair, a\ncourse of action which, even under the easy moral code of those days,\nwas accounted as murder.\n\nSuch a case occurred at Jedburgh in the year 1726. Sir Gilbert Eliott of\nStobs and Colonel Stewart of Stewartfield (now called Hartrigge) were\nthe principals in the affair.\n\nSir Gilbert (father of the General Eliott afterwards so famed for his\ndefence of Gibraltar in the great siege of 1779-83) was a man who had\nspent some part of his youth in London, a place then, as ever, little\ncalculated to repress leanings towards conviviality in young men\npossessing the command of money. Probably the habits there contracted\nwere emphasized later, when ebbing fortune consigned him for good to\nwhat no doubt then seemed to him the deadly dull life of a dull\ncountry-side. More than likely, too, he was a little scornful of his\nneighbours who knew not the delights of London, a trifle contemptuous of\ntheir country manners, and possibly he may have been of quarrelsome\ndisposition, when in his cups quick to take offence and to see slights\nwhere none existed. In any event, if one may judge from the evidence\ngiven later at an inquiry held in Jedburgh, throughout the affair with\nColonel Stewart, Sir Gilbert Eliott was the aggressor. Possibly, after\nthe fashion of the day, both were more or less tipsy; certainly, without\nany doubt, Sir Gilbert was greatly the worse of liquor, and did not\ncarry that liquor as a gentleman was expected to carry it. He\npersistently forced a quarrel on the Colonel.\n\nIt was in the old Black Bull Inn at Jedburgh that the meeting took\nplace. There had been a Head Court that forenoon to determine the list\nof voters for the year, and a large and already somewhat convivial\ncompany assembled afterwards in the dining-room of the Black Bull. Wine\nflowed, and as the evening waned, guest after guest prudently took\nhimself off, till of the original party there were left but five--Sir\nGilbert, Colonel Stewart, two officers of the Royal Regiment of North\nBritish Dragoons (the Scots Greys), and the proprietor of\nTimpendean--the latter described in the evidence as being \"very noysie.\"\n\nIt is easy to imagine the scene. The long, low-ceilinged room, lit by\ncandles, reeking of dinner and of wine. Eliott, still brooding over his\ndefeat in the recent parliamentary election, bent on picking a quarrel;\nStewart, amiable and for a time conciliatory, till goaded beyond\nendurance; the two officers, very red in the face, laughing and treating\nthe whole affair as a huge joke; and Timpendean, the while, in a\nmonotonous loud bawl, chanting, very much out of tune, a song, most of\nthe verses of which he forgot before he had sung two lines, ever\nstarting afresh _ad nauseam_, after the manner of drunken men. It was\nnot a seemly spectacle, but it was the fashion of the day, and but for\nEliott all might have ended with no worse effect than a bad headache\nnext morning. But for Eliott--unfortunately. Nothing, apparently, would\nsatisfy that gentleman. Colonel Stewart had let fall words which were\ntwisted into an affront. The Colonel assured him that no such words had\npassed his lips; but that if he had by chance uttered anything which\ncould be construed as an insult, or if anything said by him had hurt Sir\nGilbert's feelings, he was sorry for it, and he willingly apologised.\n\nThen Sir Gilbert must needs drag in politics. There was the burning\nquestion of the late election. Why had Colonel Stewart voted against\nhim? He would have expected the Colonel's vote sooner than anybody's,\nand he took it ill that it had not been given to him. Colonel Stewart\nexplained that as he lay under very great obligations to Sir Patrick\nScott and his family, he considered that he had no choice but to vote as\nhe had done; but this did not satisfy Sir Gilbert; the vote _should_\nhave been his by rights, and all the efforts of Captain Ross as\npeacemaker could not keep him from harping on this one string--the\nsupposed slight put upon him in the matter of the vote. Colonel Stewart\nwas more than willing to drop the subject, and at last Captain Ross,\nthinking the matter settled, momentarily turned away, in an endeavour to\nstop the monotony of Timpendean's tuneless, dreary song.\n\nAnd then the mischief began. Sir Gilbert used words which, owing to\nTimpendean's noise, Ross did not catch, but he heard Colonel Stewart's\nreply: \"Pray, Sir Gilbert, you have said a great deal already to provoke\nme; don't provoke me further.\" Then more hot words from Eliott, and\nColonel Stewart threw a glass of wine in the baronet's face. With that,\nEliott started to his feet, drew his sword, and plunged it into\nStewart's stomach before the latter could rise from his chair or defend\nhimself in any way.\n\nThereupon arose a babel of sound--a shout, the scuffle and tramp of\nunsteady feet, noise of chairs pushed aside and overturned on the bare\nboards, servants running to and fro. And Colonel Stewart, with clammy\nbrow and failing limbs, sat silent in his chair, a dying man.\n\nCaptain Ross and his brother officer secured the swords of both\nmen--shutting the stable door, indeed, after the steed was stolen; in\nhot haste doctors were sent for; and 'mid the bustle and \"strow\" Eliott\nstumbled from the room and down the stair, \"wanting his wig,\" as the\nlandlady, whom he passed on the way, deponed. Sir Gilbert's old and\nfaithful servant hurried his master out of the inn, and behind a great\ntombstone in the Abbey churchyard hid him till the cool night air gave\nhim sense to attempt escape.\n\nIn a thick wood near the head of Rulewater Sir Gilbert Eliott lay\nconcealed, till his friends succeeded in smuggling him aboard a small\ncraft off the coast of Berwickshire, and an outlaw, with a warrant out\nagainst him, he lived an uneasy life in Holland for some years, until\ninfluential friends with difficulty got him pardon, and enabled him\nagain to return to the Border.\n\nThat is the story as it is usually known. But it is fair to add that the\ntale is differently told in Chambers' _Domestic Annals of Scotland_,\nwhere it is stated that Colonel Stewart was \"a huffing, hectoring\nperson,\" and that he had given \"great provocation, and gentlemen\nafterwards admitted that Stobbs was called upon by the laws of honour to\ntake notice of the offence.\" Evidence given at the inquiry, however,\nhardly seems to favour this view. Possibly neither side was quite free\nfrom blame; wine has other effects than to make glad the heart of man.\n\n\n\n\nAULD RINGAN OLIVER\n\n\nAmongst the flying, broken rabble that represented all that was left of\nthe Covenanting army after the disastrous business of Bothwell Bridge, a\ndismounted Borderer, with one or two other stout hearts by no means\ndisposed even now to give up the day, continued still to strike fiercely\nat Claverhouse's pursuing troopers. But their efforts to stem the tide\nof disaster were utterly without avail, and the Borderer, zealously\nprotesting and struggling, was at length swept off the field by a wild\npanic rush of the fugitives. Missing his footing on the broken ground as\nthe flying mob pressed on to him, the Borderer fell, and, hampered by\nthe bodies of a couple of wounded and exhausted countrymen, ere he could\nagain struggle to his feet, the horse of more than one spurring rider\nhad trampled over him, and he lay disabled and helpless, at the mercy of\nany dragoon who might chance to ride that way.\n\n\"'The Lord hath afflicted me in the day of His fierce anger,'\" groaned\nthe Covenanter. \"'He hath made my strength to fall; the Lord hath\ndelivered me into their hands, from whom I am not able to rise up.'\"\n\n\"Aye!\" whimpered a wounded man who lay partly across the Borderer's\nlegs. \"'The Lord was as an enemy; He hath swallowed up Israel.' And I'm\nthinkin', 'gin He send nae help, and that sune, we're no muckle better\nthan deid men. Eh! weary fa' the day I left my ain pleugh stilts, an' my\nain fireside.\"\n\n\"Na, na, freend. He that setteth his hand to the plough, let him not\nlook back,\" answered the Borderer. \"'Gin I win oot o' this, I trow I'll\n'hew Agag in pieces before the Lord,' or a's dune. We will yet smite the\nPhilistines, destroy utterly the Amalakites! Aye! smite them hip and\nthigh, even from the rising of the sun to the going down thereof!\"\n\nThis fiery Borderer, Ringan Oliver by name, a man of gigantic strength\nand great courage, a strong pillar of the Covenant, was a native of\nJedwater, where he and his fathers before him had for generations\noccupied the small holding of Smailcleuchfoot. From the turmoil of the\ndisastrous flight after the battle of Bothwell Bridge, and from the\nclose search of the pursuing soldiers, Ringan Oliver did eventually\nescape, sore battered, and not without much difficulty and danger, and\nfor many a month thereafter he lay in hiding; caves, holes in the moors,\nand dripping peat hags, were his shelter, heather and ferns his bed,\nmany a time when the hunt waxed hot. And in 1680, hearing of the return\nfrom Holland of the outlawed Hall of Haughhead, he speedily joined that\nnoted Covenanter, hiding with him, \"lurking as privily as they could\nabout Borrowstounness and other places on both sides of the Firth of\nForth\"; and he was with Hall and \"worthy Mr. Cargill\" when \"these two\nbloody hounds, the curates of Borrowstounness and Carriden, smelled out\nMr. Cargill and his companion,\" and sent to the Governor of\nBorrowstounness that information which led to the death of one of the\nthree Covenanters. Mr. Cargill and Ringan Oliver got clear away from the\nhouse at Queensferry where Colonel Middleton, single-handed, tried to\narrest them, but Hall, severely wounded in the head, was taken, and died\nbefore he could be carried even so far as Edinburgh.\n\nFor some years after this we have no record of Ringan's doings; possibly\npart of the time he spent on his farm at Smailcleuchfoot. In 1689,\nhowever, he was with General Mackay at Killiecrankie. And again, as at\nBothwell Bridge, sorely against his inclination he experienced the\nhorrors of headlong flight in company of a broken rabble. Reaching\nDunkeld in an exhausted condition early in the following morning, he and\na few comrades found shelter in the house of a friend. But as they sat,\nabout to fall to on a much needed meal, down the little street came the\n\"rat-tat-tat\" of a drum, and past the window swaggered an unkempt\nHighland drummer, halting at intervals to hurl defiance at all Whigs,\nand a challenge to them to fight the famous Highland champion, Rory Dhu\nMhor. And this is something after the fashion of what Ringan and his\nweary comrades heard drawled out with fine nasal whine:\n\n\"This will pe to pe kiving notice to aal it may pe concerning, tat Rory\nDhu Mhor of ta Clan Donachy will pe keeping ta crown of ta causeway in\nta toun of Tunkel for wan hour and mhore. And he iss civilly tesiring it\nto pe known tat if there will pe any canting, poo-hooing, psalm-singing\nwhig repellioner in ta toun, and he will pe so pould as to pe coming\nforth his hiding holes, and looking ta said Rory Dhu Mhor in ta face, ta\nsaid Rory Dhu Mhor herepy kifs promise to pe so ferry condescending as\nto pe cutting ta same filthy Whig loon shorter by ta legs, for ta honour\nof King Tchames. Ochilow! Cot save King Tchames!\"\n\nA few paces behind this tattered herald strutted the champion, Rory Dhu\nMhor, swinging his kilt, and like the wild stag of his native mountains,\nhaughtily sniffing the breeze.\n\nAt this sight, all the fierce old Border blood began to surge through\nRingan Oliver's veins. The contemptuous challenge goaded him to fury;\nfor the Christianity of our Covenanting ancestors was seldom of that\ncast which prompts the turning of the other cheek to the smiter, and\nRingan was one of the most militant of a militant sect.\n\n\"God do so to me, and more also,\" shouted he, springing to his feet,\n\"'gin I humble not this blethering boaster, and stop his craw, or he\nmaun stop mine.\"\n\n\"Na, na, Ringan,\" cried his friends, \"haud sae, man, haud sae. Ye'll be\nclean dung-ower; ye're ower sair spent to fecht thenow.\"\n\nBut this only goaded Ringan the more.\n\n\"As the Lord liveth, he shall lick the dust. Hinder me not, friends,\nwithstand me not; I maun do battle with this Philistine.\"\n\nAnd with that, he rushed into the street, broadsword in hand.\n\n\"Diaoul! Fwhat will this creatur pe tat will pe approaching in such ways\nand manners pefore a Hieland shentleman?\" cried the Highlander with a\nsnort, giving an extra cock to his bonnet.\n\n\"I am an unworthy follower of Christ, our spiritual Redeemer, and a\nsoldier of King William, our temporal deliverer; and I stand here to bid\nyou make good your profane boasting.\"\n\n\"Fhery goot inteet! Fhery goot inteet! you haf peen suppering at\nKilliecrankie, and now you would pe after breakfasting at Tunkeld? By\nCot, you shall haf it!\"\n\nAnd Rory drew his claymore. They were not ill-matched. Both were big\nmen, both of gigantic strength, both skilled swordsmen. But the\nHighlander had by far the greater experience of duelling; it was, in\nfact, the pride of his life to pick a quarrel and to slay his\nantagonist. Moreover, he had his target, which was of immense assistance\nin warding off blows; and Ringan had no guard other than his sword,\nwhich fact, in itself, made the combat unequal. And, to crown all, the\nHighlander was infinitely the fresher. But the dour, fiery, old Border\nblood had brought Ringan to this pass, when he was in no way fit to\nfight, and, whatever the cost, he must now go through with it.\n\nSo to it they fell. Long they fought, and fiercely, till the breath came\nhard-drawn and short, and the red blood ran fast from both combatants.\nOnly, the Highlander was less distressed than Ringan, his wounds fewer\nand less serious. Still, they kept on without pause, till to the fierce\njoy of the Highland onlookers, and the dull misery of others, it became\nquite plain that Ringan's time had come. Human nature could do no more;\nhe was beaten, and was being driven slowly back and back, his defence\neach minute getting less vigorous and confident, his attack less to be\ndreaded. Loud rang the exulting Gaelic yells to Rory to finish him, to\n\"give his flesh to the eagles.\"\n\nAnd now Ringan, blood flowing from a dozen gashes, was down on one knee,\nbut still almost mechanically guarding head and body from the whirlwind\nfinal attack of the Highlander. Sick at heart, the Lowland onlookers\nturned their looks aside; they hated to see such an end of a brave\ncomrade, and they were too few to avenge him. Suddenly, and with bent\nheads, they turned away from looking at the figure of the wearied\nBorderer, beaten down on to his knee, away from sight of the flashing\nclaymore that was now so near to tasting their friend's life-blood. And\nthen to their ears came a roar, as of the routing of some mighty bull of\nBashan. Glancing back quickly, their astonished eyes saw Rory Dhu Mhor\nstanding rigidly erect and stiff, an expression of blank wonder on his\nhairy face, and the point of Ringan's broadsword appearing out between\nthe Highlander's shoulders. Then, with another mighty roar, as the sword\nwas withdrawn, he sprang convulsively off the ground, and with a clatter\nfell heavily on his target, dead. It was a spent man that he was dealing\nwith, he had rashly thought. Too well he knew the game; he had played it\nsuccessfully so often before. It needed but to go in now and slay. In\nhis over confidence the Highlander neglected for one moment to be\ncunning of fence, and during that moment he exposed his body. It was\nenough for a swordsman so skilled as Ringan Oliver. Exhausted as he was,\nlike a flash his weapon leapt forward, and the great Highland champion\nhad fought his last fight.\n\nIt was near to being a dearly bought victory. Murder was in the hearts\nof the Highlanders, as for the moment they stood in savage silence,\nhungering for the life of their champion's overthrower. And Ringan was\nfainting from loss of blood, unable to raise himself from the trampled,\nmuddy ground on which he had fallen. Things indeed looked ill for him\nand for his friends. And ill, no doubt, it would have fared with them,\nif just then it had not chanced that the certain news reached the\nHighlanders in Dunkeld of the death of him they called \"Ian Dhu nan\nCath\" (Black John of the Battles), John Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount\nDundee, slain the previous day in Killiecrankie fight. Thus it happened\nthat, instead of falling sword in hand on the little party of\nLowlanders, the dismayed clansmen began to slip away, and Ringan's\nfriends succeeded in getting their sorely wounded comrade into safety.\n\nIt was some time after this, when life had become less stormy, that\nRingan again took up his residence at Smailcleuchfoot. Here he continued\nto live till he was quite an old man. It was here, too, that the\nincident befell which gave rise to the ballad written by Mr. James\nTelfer early in last century.\n\nRingan had ever been known as well for his rigid ideas of faith and\nhonour as for his great strength and undaunted courage, and these\nqualities had brought him greatly into the esteem and friendship of his\nlandlord, one of the earliest of the Marquesses of Lothian. It is said\nthat when the Marquess, towards the end of his life, found it necessary\nto take what was then the tedious and toilsome journey to London, he\nsent for Ringan, and giving him the key of a room in Ferniehurst in\nwhich were kept important and valuable deeds and family papers, charged\nhim on no account to allow anyone to enter the room or to interfere with\nthe papers until he (the Marquess) should return. It happened, however,\nshortly after Lord Lothian's departure that his heir had occasion to\nwish to enter this locked room, and he sent to demand the key from\nRingan. The old man, naturally and rightly, refused to depart from the\ninstructions he had received when the key was delivered to him, and the\nreply he sent to the young lord may probably have been somewhat blunt\nand uncompromising. In any case, hot words passed between him and the\nindignant heir, who considered, perhaps not unnaturally, that\nprohibition to enter the locked room, to whomsoever else it might apply,\ncertainly could not under any circumstances apply to him. Perhaps had he\ngone in the first instance himself to Ringan and explained matters the\naffair might without much difficulty have been arranged. But he had\ntaken the other course, and had demanded the key as a matter of right.\nHence came hot words between the two, and the upshot was that the\nyounger man left boiling with resentment at the \"old Cameronian devil,\nRingan Oliver,\" and threatening to pay him out.\n\nNo very long time after this the old Marquess died, and Ringan's enemy\nreigned in his stead. Nor was it long ere he began to show that no\nportion of the wrath conceived by him against the old man had been\nallowed to die for want of nursing. One September day, when Ringan's\ncrop was all but ready to cut, there came across the water from\nFerniehurst the new Marquess accompanied by several mounted men,\nservants, and others, with dogs. Soon the party began riding over the\nfarm, ostensibly looking for hares; finally, they all went into the\nstanding crop, trampling it down wantonly, hallooing their dogs here,\nthere, and everywhere, and galloping furiously about wherever the corn\nstood thickest. Ringan had been rapidly becoming more and more angry as\nhe found that the damage done was so manifestly wilful damage; and at\nlast, finding remonstrance to be so much waste of breath, he snatched up\nan old musket, which possibly had not seen the light since\nKilliecrankie, and shot one of the dogs.\n\nThat was enough for the Marquess; he had got the old man in the wrong\nnow. Off he went at once and lodged with the Sheriff of Roxburghshire a\ncomplaint against Ringan, and a summons was issued. Ringan refused to\nappear in court.\n\n\"Na!\" he said. \"I've done nae wrong. I daur them to lay a hand on me.\"\n\nBut the Law was not to be thus flouted. If he wouldn't come freely, then\nhe must be made to come, said the sheriff. Here a difficulty arose.\nRingan's reputation for gigantic strength and utter fearlessness still\nsurvived, and no one dared even attempt to apprehend the old man. In\nsuch circumstances the sheriff pressed into his service the Marquess\nand his men, and this party set off for Smailcleuchfoot. Friends warned\nRingan of their coming and counselled him to fly. But the dour old\nCameronian's spirit refused to let him do aught that might even remotely\nsuggest a doubt as to his being absolutely in the right. He only retired\ninto his house, and resolutely set about barring doors and windows; and\nwhen that was done--\n\n\"Let them touch me that daur,\" he cried, taking up and carefully loading\nthe same old musket with which he had shot the dog.\n\nSoon came the sheriff's summons, to which Ringan paid no heed, beyond\nletting the party know that he was at home, and had no intention of\nsurrendering. There was in the house with him at this time a young girl\n(whether an adopted daughter or merely a maid who cooked and looked\nafter the old man's house, one does not know), but she had refused to\nleave when he began to barricade the place, and Ringan's sole anxiety\nwas now apparently for her. Of his own safety or that of his house, he\nseemed to think not at all; the grim old dourness and determination that\nhad distinguished him at Bothwell Bridge and elsewhere were again\nsmouldering, ready to burst into flame.\n\n\"Keep oot o' the licht, lass, and rin nae risk; gang in ahint yon press\ndoor,\" he said to the girl, when the men outside began firing at the\nwindows.\n\nThen he, too, began to fire back at his enemies, and for a time he was\ntoo much absorbed in his practice to pay attention to what the girl\nmight be doing. Thus, he had just fired a shot which clipped away one of\nthe curls from the Sheriff's wig, when a gasp, and the sound of a heavy\nfall on the floor behind him, caused the old man hastily to look round.\nCuriosity had overcome her caution; the girl had ventured from her\nshelter, and, standing behind Ringan, had been trying to see, past the\nedge of the window, how things were going outside. Perhaps she had a\nlover in the attacking party, and feared for his safety. Anyhow, as she\nlent forward, forgetting her own danger, a bullet meant for the old man\nfound its billet in her throat. For a moment Ringan stood aghast, then\nknelt by the dying girl, striving in vain to staunch the blood that\ngushed from her wound. And as he realised that such a hurt was far\nbeyond his simple skill, the lust to kill was born again in the old\nman's breast. He forgot that he was old, forgot how the treacherous\nyears had stolen from him the vigour and spring that had been his,\nforgot everything but the half-crazy desire for vengeance.\n\nWith the roar of a wounded tiger he tore down the barricades fixed by\nhimself not an hour before, snatched from its place over the fire the\ntrusty old broad-sword that had served him so well in former days, flung\nwide the door, and charged blindly out on his enemies. Alas for Ringan\nOliver! Even as he crossed the threshold, a rope, or some part of his\ndiscarded barricade, caught his foot, and like the Philistines' mighty\ngod Dagon lang syne before the Ark of the Lord, he fell prone on his\nface, and the enemy was on him in an instant.\n\nEven then, disarmed and smothered by numbers as he was, the struggle for\na time was by no means unequal, and more than once, with gigantic\neffort, he had all but flung off his captors. Perhaps, in the end, the\ntask might even have been too much for the sheriff's party had it not\nbeen that a treacherous tinker, named Allan, with a hammer struck the\nold man a heavy blow on the face, fracturing the jaw and partially\nstunning him. Then, bound hand and foot, Auld Ringan was carried to\nEdinburgh. There, in the Tolbooth, he lay for eight long years,\nsuffering tortures, first from his broken jaw, and later from old wounds\nthat now broke out afresh. He that had lived so long a life in the pure\nfresh air of the Border, who had loved more to hear the lark sing than\nthe mouse cheep, now languished in a foul, insanitary prison, and it was\nbut the ghost of his former self that at the end of his long confinement\ncrept away to pass the brief remainder of his days in a house in the\nCrosscauseway, Edinburgh.\n\nAuld Ringan Oliver died in 1736. He sleeps among the martyrs in\nGreyfriars Churchyard.\n\n\n\n\nA LEGEND OF NORHAM\n\n\nIn the days, now happily remote, when folks, provided as for a picnic,\nlaboriously travelled great distances in order to be present at the\nexecution of some unhappy wretch; in the days when harmless old women,\nwhose chief fault may probably have been that they were poor and\nfriendless, and perhaps by age and privation rendered little better than\nhalf-witted, were baited, and dragged by an ignorant and credulous\npopulace to a fiery or to a watery death, there survived in Scotland yet\nanother barbarous custom not unworthy to take rank with witch-burning.\nIt was a custom so pitiless and revolting that the mind shrinks from its\ncontemplation, for if its victims were not necessarily frail old women,\nthey were yet human beings guilty of no crime, innocent perhaps of all\nbut misfortune.\n\nThe study of medicine in those days was in its infancy, and many were\nthe strange virtues attributed to certain herbs, vast the powers claimed\nfor certain things in nature. Aconitum (or wolf's-bane) for example, was\nreputed to \"prevail mightily against the bitings of Scorpions, and is of\nsuch force that if the Scorpion pass by where it groweth, and touch the\nsame, presently he becometh dull, heavy, and senseless, and if the same\nScorpion by chance touch the White Hellebore, he is presently delivered\nfrom his drowiness.\" A certain root, too, was of sovereign efficacy in\nthe prevention of rabies in human beings who had been bitten by a mad\ndog. In Gerard's _Herbal_, a medical work published in 1596--\"Gathered\nby John Gerarde of London, Master in Chirurgerie\"--it is laid down that\n\"the root of the Briar-bush is a singular remedy found out by oracle\nagainst the biting of a mad dog.\" Then, as now, rabies was regarded with\na sickening dread, but in that remote day there had arisen no Pasteur,\nand dread too frequently degenerated into panic, and panic, as it ever\ndoes, revealed itself in brutality.\n\nIn olden days the remedies generally administered to patients suffering\nfrom the bite of a dog were many and curious, and probably by the\naverage patient they were regarded in reality rather as something in the\nnature of a charm than as medicines. Doubtless they gave confidence to\nthe person who had been bitten, and, so far, were good. But in very many\ncases they got the credit of being infallible remedies solely because in\nmost instances the dog which had given the bite was no more afflicted\nwith rabies than was the person whom it bit; probably it was some poor,\nhunted, frightened beast which had lost its master, and against which\nsome panic-stricken individual had raised the senseless cry of \"mad\ndog.\"\n\nOne remedy prescribed by a famous physician who lived so late as\nmid-eighteenth century, was \"ash-coloured ground liver-wort a\nhalf-ounce, black pepper a quarter-ounce,\" to be taken, fasting, in four\ndoses, the patient having been bled prior to beginning the cure.\nThereafter for a month, each morning he must plunge into a cold spring\nor river, in which he must be dipped all over, but must stay no longer\nthan half a minute. Finally, to complete the cure, he must for a\nfortnight longer enter the river or spring three times a week. It is all\neminently simple, and tends at least to show that our ancestors after\nall were not wholly ignorant of the virtues of cold water. Amongst other\nremedies, also, was a medicine composed of cinnabar and musk, an East\nIndian specific, and one of powdered Virginian snake-root, gum\nasafoetida, and gum camphire, mixed and taken as a bolus. So far, at\nleast, if the various treatments did little good, they did no great\nharm. Brutality began where a person had been bitten by a dog that\nreally was mad, and when undoubted symptoms of hydrophobia had shown\nthemselves. Then it was no uncommon practice to deliberately bleed the\nunhappy patient to death, or, worse still, to smother him between\nmattresses or feather beds. Necessarily, a custom so monstrous opened\nwide the door to crimes of violence, and doubtless many a person whose\npresence was found to be inconvenient to relatives, or whose permanent\nabsence would further certain desires or plans of those relatives, was\nopportunely found to be suffering from an attack of hydrophobia, and\ncame to his end miserably in some such fashion as has been indicated.\nThe popular mind was credulous to an extent inconceivable at the present\nday, and the mere accusation of madness was seized on and swallowed with\nan avidity that discouraged investigation of individual cases.\n\nIn the Border, if all tales are true, at least one crime of this nature\nwas perpetrated.\n\nNot far from Norham Castle, it is said that there stood till well on in\nthe eighteenth century a large mansion, of which no trace now remains.\nAs the story goes, the place once belonged to an old Border family, but\nthe folly and extravagance of more than one generation had brought in\ntheir train what these failings ever must bring, and evil times fell on\nthat house. Piece by piece, one after the other, the ancient possessions\npassed away from their former owners, sacrificed to gratify some passing\nwhim or to pay some foolishly contracted debt, till, finally, the house\nitself and what land remained had also been flung into the melting-pot,\nand the last male heir of the old line, with his only child, a daughter,\nsat homeless in their old home, awaiting the hour which should bring\nwith it the new owner, and to them the sorrow of for ever quitting\nscenes dear to them from infancy.\n\nBy the dying embers of a wood fire they two lingered one December night,\nwrapped in no pleasant thoughts, and idly listening to the shrill\npiping of a wind that dismally foretold the coming of snow. The father\nwas a man well advanced in life, on whose good-looking, weak face\ndissipation had set its seal; the daughter, a woman of six or seven and\ntwenty, who preserved more than all her father's good looks, but--as is\nso often the case in the females of a decadent family--who, in her\nexpression, showed no trace of weakness. Indeed, if a fault could be\nfound in face or figure, it was that the former for a woman told of too\nmuch firmness and resolution, qualities which circumstances might very\nreadily develop into obstinacy, and even into cruelty. Her mother had\ndied when Helen was but an infant, and thus it chanced that, as a child,\nher upbringing had been left pretty well to nature, aided (or perhaps\nhampered) only by the foolish indulgence of an ignorant and not very\nhigh-principled nurse, in whom fidelity was perhaps the only virtue, and\nwho now, in her old age, almost alone of a once large staff of servants,\nstill clung to \"her bairn,\" and to the fallen fortunes of her master. Of\neducation the child received but what little she chose to receive, and\nof discipline she knew nothing, for to the hopelessly weak father her\nwill had too soon become law.\n\nNaturally, Helen grew up headstrong and self-indulgent, recognising no\nrule but that of her own inclinations, and before her eighteenth\nbirthday she had, without the knowledge of her father, engaged herself\nto a penniless youth of good family, the younger son of a neighbour. An\nentire lack of funds, however, seemed--at least to the lad--sufficient\ncause for delaying the marriage, and \"to mak' the croon a pound,\" he\nwent, not \"to sea,\" but (as was then not uncommon with young Scotsmen)\nto the wars in High Germanie.\n\nSince that date, no direct word had come from the young man, only the\nrumour grew that in the storming of some town he had fallen. Years had\npassed since then; years that came and went and brought neither\nconfirmation nor denial of the rumour. In Helen's heart hope at last was\nkilled, and with the death of hope seemed to die all that had ever been\nwomanly or soft in her character. The one tender spot left was a kind of\npitying affection for her weak old father.\n\nNow, as they two sat here together this bitter winter evening, the old\nman grumbling, as ever, half to himself, half to his daughter, of the\nill-luck that had steadily dogged him all his days, there came suddenly\nto them the sound of horses' feet on the stones of the courtyard\noutside, and presently one of the few remaining servants entered the\nroom to say that a stranger was outside begging shelter for himself and\nfor his groom. Nor did the stranger wait to be invited, for, brushing\npast the servant, and carelessly, as he entered, dusting from his\nriding-coat the light snow with which it was grimed, taking stock the\nwhile with pinched-up little grey eyes of the room and its occupants, he\npulled in a chair towards the fire and coolly seated himself. He was a\nman considerably over fifty--probably nearer sixty than fifty--with a\nframe burly and coarse, and a face seared by tropical suns and\ndisfigured by the ravages of small-pox; obviously a man of low origin\nwhose mind probably lacked refinement or consideration for others as\nmuch as his body lacked grace.\n\nFather and daughter for a minute gazed mutely at their uninvited guest,\nthe girl at least in no very amiable mood. But whatever her father's\nfaults might be, want of hospitality was not one of them, and what the\nhouse could supply of meat and drink was speedily set before the\nstranger. He was, as he made haste to inform them, the new owner of the\nproperty, come down to take possession. \"And egad! sir,\" said he\nbrusquely, \"it strikes me it's not before it was time. There's a bit o'\nmoney wanted here, anybody can see with half an eye.\" And with choice\ncriticisms of a similar nature he lightened the time in the intervals of\nshovelling food into his heavy-lipped mouth.\n\n\"Yes, I've bought it--and paid for it, too--lock, stock, and barrel,\" he\nresumed; \"and we'll put things to rights in a brace of shakes. For\nwhat's the use o' having money, says I, if a man don't spend it on his\nwhim! Ay! whether it's a fine lass, or what not, plank it down, and\nenjoy yourself while ye can. That's what _I_ say. What's the sense o'\nwaiting till a man's too old? And I'm not so young as I was, thinks\nMissie, eh? But let me tell you, there's many a fine lass, yet, that\nwould snap me up if she had the chance, if it was only for the sake of\nthe ducats. Now, when I was in the Spanish Main--hey! _that_ was the\nplace!--I mind....\"\n\nBut what he \"minded\" Helen had no wish to hear, and she retired, leaving\nher father and the stranger, both rapidly becoming somewhat over-loose\nof speech under the influence of brandy.\n\n\"A likely wench!\" cried the stranger as the door closed. \"A likely\nwench, sir. He'll be a lucky dog that get's her. Now ... ah!... hum!...\nhere's you, an old man, leaving this place--and not likely to get\nanother, says you; and here's me, a bachelor, or anyways a widower, with\nplenty of cash and wanting a wife. Come I what's against our making a\nbargain? You give me your daughter, and I'll see that you don't want a\nhome. Eh? What do you say to that, now?\"\n\nIt was not very delicately put, but neither were the times very\ndelicate, and the upshot was that Helen's father, weak and selfish,\nagreed to use his influence towards bringing the marriage about. The\nstranger did not tell--and perhaps it would have made little difference\nif he had told--his full history; how as a boy in London, the son of a\npetty tradesman, he had been kidnapped and sold to the Plantations (a\ncommon enough fate in those days); how in the West Indies, after a\nvaried and not over reputable career, in which buccaneering played no\nsmall part, he had at length persuaded the wealthy old widow of a\nplanter to marry him; and how, when she had suddenly ended her days, in\na way which gave rise to more than a little talk in the island, he had\nsold the estate and the slaves without haggling much over the price, and\nhad abruptly left for England, where--the talk ran--he meant to settle\ndown and found a family.\n\nHelen's scornful rejection of the proposal at first was scathing, and\nlittle less her scorn of a parent who could urge it. \"It's to save me\nfrom want, and from worse than want,\" he whimpered. Finally, ere many\ndays had passed, wearied by her father's importunity, she gave her\nconsent.\n\nA pair more ill-matched could not have been found; the man by nature\ncoarse, brutal, and cowardly; the woman, insolent, fearless, and of\nungoverned temper. From the first things went badly, and when, within a\nweek of the wedding, Helen's father was drowned in attempting to ford\nthe Tweed on horseback, she chose to consider that her part of the\nbargain was ended. Henceforward she was a wife only in name. Bluster and\nstorm as he might, she was more than the master of her husband, and\nafter one wild outburst he cringed before her. And as, before her\nmarriage, the wife had insisted on reinstating the greater number of the\nold servants, who to fidelity to the old line added hostility to a\nmaster whom they looked on as an interloper, the husband soon found it\nto his advantage to conciliate the household by giving way to the whims\nof his wife. Thereafter, the two met, if at all, only at meals.\n\nFor something over a year things continued on this unpleasant footing.\nThen there came a day in spring, when Tweedside was tender with the\nbursting of buds and the lush green of young grass, when birds sang\ngaily from every thicket, and the hurrying brown water was dimpled into\ncountless rings by the rising trout. To Helen, listless and indifferent\neven to Tweed's charm in springtime, came one of the younger servants\nsaying that a gentleman, desiring to speak to her, waited below. A\ngentleman to see _her_? Nay, there must certainly be some mistake,\nthought Helen. It must assuredly be one of the useless hangers-on of her\nhusband come to ask her to plead for him in regard to some trumpery\nloan. Well! anything for a novelty, and to take her thoughts away from\nherself. In this frame of mind she entered the lower room, where the\nvisitor stood with his back to the door, gazing from the window, beside\nhim a large deerhound.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" she exclaimed sharply, \"what is there that I ... My God!\nYou!... Back from the dead! Back from the dead!\" she wailed.\n\n\"Nay. Back from sickness and wounds; back from captivity. Many a message\nhave I sent you, Helen, during the long years; little did I think to\nfind you thus.\"\n\nApathy and listlessness no longer held her in bondage; the full horror\nof the irrevocable gripped her. Tied for ever to a brute whom she\ndespised and hated, sacrificed to no purpose; whilst here, alive and\nwell, stood the man to whom in ardent youth she had plighted her\nundisciplined heart. The thought maddened her. And as she struggled to\nchoke back this overwhelming rush of feeling, her husband's unwelcome\nentrance broke the tension of a scene the strain of which was past\nbearing.\n\nSurely it was in an evil moment for himself that her husband entered\nthat room. In a clumsy effort to propitiate his wife's guest, the\nunfortunate man laid his hand on the head of the visitor's dog, and with\nvicious side-snap the animal bit his hand to the bone.\n\nNo consideration had the wife for her husband's sufferings, no trace of\nsympathy did she show, as, with an oath, he hurried from the room to\nbind up the ugly wound--her whole being was centred in the man before\nher. And her very heart stood still when her stunned ears realised that\nthat man was now saying farewell. Lamentations and entreaties were of no\navail. \"There remained nothing else for a man of honour to do,\" he said.\nAll these years he had been faithful to her; all these years no other\nwoman had entered his thoughts. Had she been as true to him as he had\never been to her, the dearest wish of his heart would have been\nfulfilled. Nay, had he come home to find her a widow, even so all might\nyet perhaps have been well. But now, when, with his own eyes, he had\nseen what, manner of man she had preferred to him, the old love was\nkilled--killed by her act.\n\nThe clatter of his departing horse's feet rang loud in her ears; and\nnow, great as of old had been her detestation of the man to whom she was\ntied, it was but a feeble flame in comparison with the furnace of hate\nthat began to rage in her heart. Daily and hourly the anguish of the\n\"might have been\" tormented her. Incessantly the words her lover had\nspoken seethed in her brain: \"If even you had been a widow,\" he had\nsaid. \"A widow?\" ... Ever to the same word her thoughts returned--\"a\nwidow.\" What if he were to die now? If only...! Then she thought of the\nbitten hand. Was it not more than likely that the dog was mad when,\nunprovoked, it bit a man? And if it _were_ mad ... But assuredly it was\nmad! She would ask old Elspeth. Who so wise as Elspeth, who so skilled\nas she in the treatment of wounds? And if she could _cure_ wounds, why\n... perhaps...! Did not wounds sometimes refuse to heal, and did not\nthe patient sometimes gradually sink and die without anybody being to\nblame?\n\nBut no comfort was found in Elspeth--no help. Surely the woman was in\nher dotage. Fool! Why did the feckless old idiot not know that the dog\n_must_ have been mad? The man was drinking heavily now, goaded by grim\nterror of that very thing, and sodden with drink. Body and soul the old\nnurse was hers, she believed. Then, what so easy to make as a mistake in\nher treatment of the wound--to dress it with an irritating salve instead\nof with a healing one? what so easy as to inflame a mind already\nstricken by fear and maddened by drink? _Must_ she speak more plainly\nthe thing that had arisen in her mind?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDay followed day, and soon rumour spread and grew to certainty that of a\nsurety the dog was mad that had bitten the master. From his room, they\nsaid, came the sound of ravings and of shouts. Folk spoke below their\nbreath of how it was said he foamed at the mouth, and few dared venture\nnear.\n\nAt last there came a night when Elspeth's son crept stealthily by the\nback stairs to aid his mother in holding down the sick man in the\nparoxysms of his madness; and the guilty wife, cowering alone in her\nroom, stopped her ears lest awful sounds should reach them.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSummer was spent, and Tweed murmured seaward between banks ruddy and\ngolden with autumn's foliage.\n\nIn a house in Edinburgh, not far removed from Holyrood, clad in deep\nblack, there lingered restlessly a Border woman, for whom the months had\ndragged with halting foot since a certain spring night near Norham.\n\n\"Will he come?\" to herself she whispered for the hundredth time. \"Surely\nhe must come.\"\n\nAnd as she waited, a flush leapt to her cheek at the sound of a step\nnearing her door. A man entered, grave, almost stern, of face, and she\nsprang to her feet with a cry, and with outstretched arms, that sank\nslowly to her side, as her eyes questioned those of her visitor.\n\n\"You have come,\" she said unsteadily; \"you have come. And you know ...\nmy husband ... is dead?\"\n\n\"Rumours had reached me,\" he answered coldly. \"When did he die?\"\n\n\"It was in the spring, five months since. He was bitten by a dog, and he\ndied ... raving mad.\"\n\n\"Bitten by a dog?\" he queried.\n\n\"Do you not remember? The dog you brought with you bit him. He never\nrecovered. And ... and he died mad.\"\n\n\"It was my dog that bit him? And he died mad in consequence of that\nbite? I do not understand. My dog is alive and well; he was never mad.\"\n\nHer eyes fell. What need to plead further! She knew now too well that\nhis love for her was indeed dead and buried. Had a spark of it yet\nlived in his heart, suspicion could have found no place. Gone now was\nall pride, all control; at his feet she threw herself, clasping her\nknees.\n\n\"Have you no pity--no pity? He is dead, I tell you. I always cared only\nfor you.\"\n\n\"Good God!\" he cried hoarsely, and pushed her from him; and the horror\nin his eyes smote her as his bitterest words could not have done.\n\nAlone once more in the room, she lay face downwards on the floor, and\nthe echo of his footfall on the stair beat into her brain like the\nstroke of doom. Alone till the end of her days she lived a friendless,\nwretched woman, eating out her heart with the canker of \"the might have\nbeen.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE GHOST OF PERCIVAL REED\n\n\nWhen we look back on the past history of the Border, we might almost\nthink that St. Andrew and St. George, who are supposed to keep watch and\nward over North and South Britain, had overlooked that hilly stretch of\ncountry that lies between the Solway and the Tyne, leaving the heathen\ngod Mars to work his turbulent will with it. From the days of the Roman\nWall it was always a tourney-ground, and in the long years when English\nand Scots warred against each other, scarcely one day in any year went\npast without the spilling of blood on one or other of its hills or\nmoors. Not only did the Borderers fight against those of other nations.\nConstantly they fought amongst themselves. A quick-tempered, revengeful\nlot were the men of those Border clans. On the Northumberland side the\nquarrels were as frequent as they were amongst those hot-headed\nScots--Kers and Scotts, Elliots and Turnbulls and Croziers.\n\nIn the sixteenth century one of the most powerful of the clans in the\nwild Northumbrian country was that of the Reeds of Redesdale. Even now\nit is a lonely part of the south land, that silent valley down which,\nfrom its source up amongst the Cheviots, the Rede flows eastward. Bog\nand heather and bracken still occupy the ground to right and to left of\nit, and there are few sounds besides the bleat of sheep or the cries of\nwild birds to break the silence of the hills and moors. But when the\nReeds held power the hills often echoed to the lowing of driven cattle,\nto the hoof-beat of galloping horses, and to the sounds of a fight being\nfought to the death. A foray into England brought many a sturdy Scottish\nreiver riding over the Carter Bar; and Reeds, and Halls, and Ridleys\nwere never averse from a night ride across the English Border when a\nMichaelmas moon smiled on the enterprise. The Reeds were a strong clan,\nbut in power and in reputation they took only a second place, for the\nfamily of the Halls was stronger still. The head of the Hall clan lived\nat Girsonfield, a little to the north of Otterburn, a farmhouse which\nhad belonged to the proprietors of Otterburn Castle since the time of\nQueen Elizabeth. Only a few stones of it now remain, and the new house\nstands on a much more exposed situation; but when Hall was its occupant,\nGirsonfield stood on a plot of rich green sward on the east side of the\nOtter.\n\nNow it must have seemed to Hall of Girsonfield, the head of the chief of\nthe northern clans, a very clear error in judgment for any of the powers\nthat existed to pass him over and appoint as keeper of Redesdale his\nfriend and neighbour, Percival Reed. To have to bow to Reed's authority,\nto obey his summons when called on to help to intercept a party of\nreiving Scots or to pursue them, hot trod, into Scotland, to hear the\npraises of Percival Reed in all mouths--these were bitter things to be\nswallowed by him who has come down to us as \"the false-hearted Ha'.\" And\nso, having opened the door of his heart for the messengers of Satan to\ncome in, Hall of Girsonfield had not long to wait for his tenants.\n\nClearly Percival Reed had no right to be keeper, but as he did his\nduties bravely and well, there was no chance of his being deposed, save\nby death. Never a day or a night was there when Hall and his friend Reed\ncantered together to meet some of the Scott or Elliot clan, or to rescue\na drove of cattle or sheep from them, or from some of the Croziers or\nTurnbulls, but what Hall rode with murder in his heart. Reed was utterly\nunconscious. There was no scheme that he did not confide to him whom he\ntook for his loyal friend, no success for which he did not jubilantly\nclaim Hall's sympathy and congratulations. He laid bare the whole of his\ninnocent heart, and Hall hated him all the more bitterly because of it.\n\"If he were not so handy with his Ferrara,\" brooded Hall.... \"If only he\nhad been a little slower that time in getting out his dag when Nixon had\ncovered him.\" ... \"If only his mare had not only stumbled, but had\nfallen there by the peat hag when Sandy's Jock so near had him....\"\n\nTo Hall of Girsonfield Providence seemed to take special care of\nPercival Reed, for no other reason than to goad him to extremity. The\ndevils who possessed him were skilfully nursing their prey.\n\nThere came at last a day, when no raids were afoot, when Hall met some\nof the Crozier clan, and opinions were frankly expressed with regard to\nthe keeper of Redesdale. Things had been going badly with the Croziers.\nTheir beef-tubs were empty. The Borders were evidently going to the\ndogs. It was no longer possible for any hard-working reiver to make a\nliving on them. Percival Reed would have to get his leave, or it was all\nup with reiving in Redesdale. To all of these complaints Hall lent a\nwilling ear; nay, more, to their surprise, a sympathetic one. Apparently\nhe, too, had some little schemes afoot, with which the keeper's\nover-vigilance had seriously interfered. What a merry jest it would be,\nnext time the Croziers crossed the Border by moonlight, if the keeper's\nplans for that night were known to them, and if, instead of finding in\nthe clan Hall enemies, they found them allies. The Croziers might have\nall the spoil, but the Halls would share the joke, and Percival Reed\nwould crow less crouse for the future.\n\nIt was a quite simply arranged affair. The Halls entered with zest into\nthe plot. Second place was not good enough for them, and the Reeds had\nboasted long enough.\n\nAnd Percival Reed, in all innocence, soon heard rumour of a foray by\nthe Croziers, and confided in his friend Girsonfield exactly how he\nmeant to meet it. This information speedily found its way to the\nScottish side of the Border, and in Hall of Girsonfield Reed found a\nmore than usually willing supporter. The appointed night came, and ere\nthey started in the uncertain light of a misty moon the keeper of\nRedesdale supped at Girsonfield. \"Ye're loaded, are ye, Parcy?\" asked\nthe genial host in the burring Northumbrian voice we know so well even\nto-day. \"I'll give a look to our primings while ye drink a stirrup-cup.\"\nMore than a look he gave. Strong spirit from the Low Countries might be\ngood jumping powder for the Keeper of Redesdale, but it was a damping\npotion for the keeper's musket when gently poured on its priming. At\nBatenshope, on the Whitelee ground, Reeds and Halls and Croziers met,\nand a joyous crew were the Croziers that night as they homewards rode up\nthe Rede valley. For at the first fire of Percival Reed's musket it\nburst, and he dropped from his horse a murdered man. The Reeds knew it\nfor treason, and the subsequent conduct of the Halls left them no room\nfor doubt. It was, indeed, a fine foundation for a family feud, and for\ngeneration after generation the feud went on.\n\nWhat was the end of Hall of Girsonfield no one has chronicled; it is not\nhard to imagine the purgatory of his latter years.\n\nBut it is not of him but of his innocent victim that tales are still\ntold in the Rede valley.\n\nFrom the night when his spirit was by treachery and violence reft from\nhis body, there was no rest for Percival Reed.\n\nIn the gloaming, when trees stand out in the semblance of highway\nrobbers, and a Liddesdale drow meets a North Sea haar, his sorrowful\nspirit was wont to be seen by the lonely traveller, making moan, seeking\nrest. Far and near, through all that part of the Border that he had so\nfaithfully \"kept,\" the spirit wandered. A moan or sigh from it on the\nsafe side of the Carter Bar would scatter a party of Scottish reivers\nacross the moorland as no English army could have done. Any belated\nhorseman riding out of the dark would take the heart out of the most\nvaliant of Northumbrians because they feared that they saw \"Parcy Reed.\"\nNot always in the same form did the Keeper appear. That was the terror\nof it. At times he would come gallantly cantering across the moorland as\nhe had done when blood ran warm in his veins. At other times he would be\nonly a sough in the night wind. A feeling of dread, an undefinable\nsomething that froze the marrow and made the blood run cold. And yet,\nagain, he would come as a fluttering, homeless soul, whimpering and\nformless, with a moaning cry for Justice--Justice--Judgment on him who\nhad by black treachery hurried him unprepared to his end. The folk of\nRedesdale bore it until they could bear it no longer. The blood of many\na Hall was spilt by the men of Percival Reed's clan without giving any\nease to that clamouring ghost. At last they sought the help of a\n\"skeely\" man. He was only a thatcher, but whilst he plied his trade of\ncovering mortal dwellings with sufficient to withstand the blasts of\nheaven, he had also studied deeply matters belonging to another sphere.\n\"Gifted,\" says his chronicler, \"with words to lay it at rest,\" he\nsummoned the ghost to his presence, and \"offered it the place and form\nit might wish to have.\"\n\nFive miles of land did that disembodied spirit of the Keeper of\nRedesdale choose for his own. As might be guessed, he fixed on the banks\nof the Rede, and he chose that part of it that lies between Todlawhaugh\nand Pringlehaugh. The fox that barks from the bracken on the hillside at\nearly morning, the grouse that crows from the heather, the owl that\nhoots from the fir woods at night, to those did the ghost of Percival\nReed act as keeper. By day he roosted, like a bat or a night bird, on\nsome tree in a lonely wood. By night he kept his special part of the\nmarches. Still the Keeper of Redesdale was Percival Reed. Todlaw Mill,\nin ruins long ago, was his favourite haunt, and there, as the decent\nfolk of the valley went on the Sabbath to the meeting-house at Birdhope\nCragg, they often saw him, a dreary sight for human eyes, patiently\nawaiting his freedom. The men would uncover their heads and bow as they\npassed, and the Keeper of Redesdale, courteous in the spirit as in the\nbody, would punctiliously return their salutations.\n\nThus did the years wear on until the appointed days were fulfilled, and\nthe Rede Valley knew its Keeper no more. On the last day of the time\nfixed by him, the skeely man was thatching a cottage at the Woollaw.\nSuddenly he felt something touch him, as though the wing of a bird had\nbrushed by. He came down the ladder on which he stood, and it seemed as\nthough the bird's feathers had brushed against his heart, and had come\nfrom a place where the cold and ice are not cold and ice as mortals know\nthem, for \"he was seized,\" says the chronicler, \"with a cold trembling.\"\nSome power, too strong for his own skill to combat, had laid hold on\nhim, and shivering, still shivering, he fell into the hands of Death.\n\nSuch was the passing of Percival Reed, Keeper of Redesdale, who took\nwith him, when at length he relinquished his charge, a humble henchman,\na hind of the Rede Valley.\n\n\n\n\nDANDY JIM THE PACKMAN\n\n\nIt was the back end of the year. The crops were all in, and but little\nwas left of the harvest moon that had seen the Kirn safely won on the\nfarms up \"Ousenam\" Water. A disjaskit creature she looked as the wind\ndrove a scud of dark cloud across her pale face, or when she peered over\nthe black bank below her, only to be hidden once more by an angry drift\nof rain. It was no night for lonely wayfarers. Oxnam and Teviot were\nboth in spate, and their moan could be heard when the wind rested for a\nlittle and allowed the fir trees to be still. Only for very short\nintervals, however, did the tireless wind cease, and always, after a\nshort respite, the trees were attacked again, and made to beck and bow\ntheir dark heads like the nodding plumes of a hearse. The road from\nCrailing was in places dour with mud, heavy-rutted by harvest carts,\nwith ever and anon a great puddle that stretched across from ditch to\nditch. But dismal or not dismal, the night had apparently no evil effect\non the spirits of the one man who was trudging his homeward way from\nCrailing to Eckford.\n\nDandy Jim, the packman, was a young fellow who wanted more than evil\nweather and a dreich, black night to depress him. A fine, upstanding lad\nhe was, with a glib English tongue that readily sold his wares, and\nwhich, along with a handsome, merry face, helped him with ease into the\ngood graces of those whom he familiarly knew as \"the lasses.\" Dandy Jim\nhad had many a flirtation, but now he felt that his roving days were\nnearly past. He was seriously thinking of matrimony.\n\n\"She's a bonny lass,\" thought he contemplatively, dwelling on the charms\nof the young cook at the farmhouse he had left just past midnight,\n\"bonny and thrifty, and as fond o' a laugh as I am mysel. That bit shop\nas ye come out o' Hexham, with red roses growing up the front o't, and\nfine-scented laylock bushes at the back, that would do us fine....\"\n\nAnd so, safely wrapped up in happy plans and in thoughts of his\napple-cheeked lady-love, Jim manfully splashed through puddles and\ntramped through mud, conscience free, and fearful of nothing in earth or\nout of it. The graveyard at Eckford possessed no horrors for him.\n\"Bogles,\" quoth he, \"what's a bogle? I threw muckle Sandy, the wrestler,\nat Lammas Fair, an' pity the bogle that meddles wi' me.\"\n\nBut, nevertheless, Jim, glancing towards the old church with its\nsurrounding tombstones as he went by, saw something he did not expect,\nand quickly checked the defiant whistle that is, somehow, an infallible\naid to the courage of even the bravest. There was a light over there\namong the graves, a flickering light that the wind lightly tossed, and\nthat, somehow, did not suggest likeable things, even to Dandy Jim.\nStock-still he stood for a couple of minutes watching the yellow glimmer\namong the tombstones, and then, with grim suspicion in his mind, he\nwalked up to the churchyard gate. Nowadays we have only an occasional\n\"watch-tower\" in an old kirkyard, or a rusted iron cage over a\ngrass-grown grave to remind us of times when human hy\u00e6nas prowled abroad\nafter nightfall, and carried off their white, cold prey to be chaffered\nfor by surgeons for the dissecting-rooms. But Dandy Jim's day was the\nday of Burke and Hare, of Dr. Knox, and of many another murderous and\nscientific ghoul, and a lantern's gleam in a churchyard in the small\nhours usually meant but one thing. As he expected, a gig stood at the\nchurchyard gate; a bony, strong-shouldered, chestnut mare tethered to\nthe gate-post, munching, mouth in nose-bag. In the gig was a sack,\nstanding upright--a remarkably tall sack, five foot ten high at least,\nstiffly balanced against the seat.\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said Jim to himself, \"it was a six-foot coffin when they\nplanted Jock the day. Him an' me was much of an age and of a height,\npoor lad; and here he is now, off to Edinburgh to be made mincemeat\nof.\"\n\nBut even as he thought, he acted. The mare threw up an inquiring head as\nshe felt a light step in the gig, and a sudden lightening of her load.\nBut the wind wailed round the church and the rain beat down, dimming the\nglass in the flickering lantern, and every now and then Jim could hear a\npick striking against a stone or a heavy thud as of a spadeful of damp\nearth being beaten down. Out of the gig came the sack, and out of the\nsack speedily came the packman's erstwhile acquaintance, Jock. A gap in\nthe hedge across the road conveniently accommodated Jock's unresisting\nbody, over he went into the next field, and once again the mare started\nas Dandy Jim sprang into the gig with one bound and quickly struggled\ninto the empty sack. He was only just in time. A parting clatter of\npickaxe and thud of spade, a swing of the lantern, that sent a yellow\nlight athwart some grey old headstones, rough voices and hasty steps,\nand two men appeared, pushed their implements into the back of the gig,\nreleased the mare from her nose-bag, clambered in, one on either side of\nthe upright sack, and drove off at a quick trot.\n\nFor some time they proceeded in silence.\n\n\"A good haul,\" at last one man remarked; \"a young chap--in fine\ncondition.\"\n\n\"A heavy load for the little mare,\" said he who held the reins;\n\"fifteen stone if he's a pound. Not an easy one to tackle afore he died\nfor want o' breath.\"\n\nPackman Jim lurched against the speaker ere the words were well out of\nhis mouth. With an oath the man shoved him back, and Jim stiffly leaned\nagainst the seat in as nearly the attitude of the corpse, to whom he was\nacting as understudy, as he was able to assume. They had got a little\nbeyond Kalefoot, and the flooded river was sending its moaning voice\nabove the sough of the wind and the drip of the rain when one of the men\nspoke again to his companion. His voice was husky, and he spoke in a low\ntone as though he feared some eavesdropper.\n\n\"Before God, man,\" he said, \"I can feel the body moving.\" The other, in\nhis voice all the horror of a dread he had been trying to hide, answered\nin a shrill scream, \"It's _warm_, I tell ye!--the corpse is _warm!_\"\n\nThen came Dandy Jim's opportunity. His face was white enough in the\nuncertain glimmer of the gig's lamps when he thrust his head out of the\nsack and looked first at one and then at another of his companions. In a\ndeep and hollow voice he spoke:\n\n\"If you had been where I hae been, your body would burn too,\" said he.\n\nA screech and a roar were, according to Dandy Jim, the result of his\nremark, and on either side of the gig a man cast himself out into the\ndarkness, the rain, and the mud, and ran--ran--in heedless terror for an\nunknown sanctuary. What happened to the pair no subsequent historian has\nrecorded, but when Dandy Jim shortly afterwards wed an apple-cheeked\ncook and took up his abode in a rose-covered cottage near Hexham, he no\nlonger trudged the Border roads with a pack on his back, but drove a\nuseful gig, drawn by a very willing, strong-shouldered, chestnut mare.\n\n\n\n\nTHE VAMPIRES OF BERWICK AND MELROSE\n\n\nAt Berwick-on-Tweed a man had died. In life he was a man of much weight,\none of the wealthiest of the freemen. He did his good deeds with pomp.\nThe devoutness of his religion was visible for every man to see, and his\nlook of sanctity as he went to pray was surely an example and a reproach\nto every rough mariner whose boat was moored in the harbour beneath the\nwalls.\n\nBut when death came to him, an evil thing befell the reputation of that\nholy man of means.\n\nThose tongues that had been tied in his lifetime began to wag. The dark\npassages of his history, of the doors to which he had held the keys,\nwere thrown open. And a horrified town discovered that their respected\nfellow-citizen had been a man of foul life, guilty of many a fraud and\nof many a crime, and that a dog's death had been too good a death for\nhim. What wonder that every decent person in the town spoke of him with\nhorror? But the horror they had of him who had so deceived them was but\na little thing when compared with the hideous dread that the impostor\ninspired ere he had lain for a week in his grave in Berwick. Men who\nlived in those days had many an evil thing to dread, for wolves, ghouls,\nand vampires were as terribly real to them as in our day are the\nmicrobes of cancer, of fever, or of tuberculosis. And when a man who was\nnotoriously a sinner came to his end, there was in the grave no rest for\nhim, nor was there peace for his fellow-men. Night after night he was\nsure to rise from his tomb and go a-hunting for a human prey. He sucked\nblood, and so drained the life of the innocent clean away. He devoured\nhuman flesh. He chased his victims as though he were a mad dog, sending\nthem crazed by his bite, or worrying and mangling them to a dreadful\ndeath.\n\nThis citizen, then, was not likely to rest in peace, and but a night or\ntwo after the earth had been heaped over his grave, he was up and out\nand rushing through the dark streets where his decorous footsteps had so\noften fallen solidly by day, so often slunk stealthily by night.\n\nBy Satan's agency he was set free, all men averred, yet the master that\nhe had faithfully served did but little to pleasure him. For all the\nnight through, as long as darkness lasted, the dead sinner was hunted\nthrough the deserted streets by a pack of baying hell-hounds. Round the\nwalls, down by the quay, up Hyde Hill, through the Scots Gate, down\nlanes and byeways and back again round the walls--a weariful hunt it\nwas. Thankfully must the quarry have welcomed the first streaks of\nlight on the grey sea line, when the chase was ended and he was\npermitted to rest in his coffin once more.\n\nOnly the bravest durst venture out of doors after dusk, and the good\npeople of Berwick lay a-trembling in their beds as the hunt swept past\ntheir very doors, and the blood-curdling howls of the hounds turned\ntheir hearts to water within them.\n\nBut always, in such a case, there are to be found one or two bold\nspirits, or one or two so heedless of what is passing around them that\nthey rush into danger unawares. Such there were at Berwick-on-Tweed, and\nto them the hunted soul spoke as he fled past, the hell-hounds slavering\nat his heels. \"Until my body is burnt,\" he cried, \"you folk of Berwick\nshall have no peace!\" And as they rushed for sanctuary into the nearest\ndwelling they fancied they could still hear the tormented wretch's\nshriek, shrill above the baying of the dogs--\"Burn! burn! Peace! peace!\"\n\nSo the people of the town took counsel together, and having solemnly\nconcluded that \"were a remedy further delayed, the atmosphere, infected\nand corrupted by the constant whirlings through it of the pestiferous\ncorpse, would engender disease and death to a great extent,\" they\nresolved to follow the vampire's own suggestion. Ten young men,\n\"renowned for boldness,\" were appointed to lay the Horror. They went to\nthe grave, dug up the corpse, cut it limb from limb, then burned it\nuntil a little heap of white ash was all that remained of the man of\nevil life, whose shade had brought dread to all the citizens of Berwick.\nBut their wise action must, unfortunately, have been taken too late.\nVery soon afterwards a great pestilence arose, and decimated the town's\npopulation. \"Never did it so furiously rage elsewhere,\" says William,\nCanon of Newburgh, the learned churchman, who has chronicled for us the\ntale, \"though it was at that time general throughout all the borders of\nEngland.\" According to him, the vampire had done his evil work. And as\nman, woman, and child were carried by night to the graves prepared for\nthe plague-stricken, there were those who vowed they could still hear\nthe distant sound of baying hounds, and above them the shrill scream of\nthe man who in life had seemingly walked so godly a walk, and who had\ngiven example to the rough mariners down at the quay as he daily went to\npray.\n\nSuch is the story of the vampire at Berwick, and of the way in which\nvaliant men laid him. But the old Canon of the Austin Friars has yet\nanother tale to tell of a vampire on the Border. Destruction by fire was\nnot the only means of laying the unholy spirit that \"walked\" to the hurt\nof its fellow-creatures. When a suicide was buried, or when one who was\na reputed witch, warlock, or were-wolf, or who had been cursed by his\nparents or by the church, was laid in the grave, it was always well to\ntake the precaution of driving a stake through the body. Such a stake\n(in Russia an aspen) driven at one blow bereft the evil thing of all its\npower. Only in the reign of George IV was the custom in the case of\nsuicides abolished. If the precaution had not been taken at burial, in\nall probability when the vampire had already done some harm, the corpse\nwas exhumed and the ghastly ceremony gone through. And always, so it was\ndeclared, the body of the vampire was found with fresh cheeks and open,\nstaring eyes, well nourished by the blood of his victims. In such\ncondition was found the vampire of Melrose, whose tale is also told by\nWilliam of Newburgh.\n\nMany a holy man has chanted the Psalms under the arches of Melrose\nAbbey, but the vampire priest had never lived aught but a worldly,\ncarnal life. He held a post that suited him well, as chaplain to a\ncertain illustrious lady whose property lay near the Eildons, and who,\nso long as her Mess John performed his duties as family priest, paid no\nheed to his mode of occupying his time when these were performed.\n\nThe chaplain was of the type of the sporting parson of later days. He\nloved the hunt. He loved a good bottle, a good horse, a good dog. \"_The\nHundeprest\"_ was the name he went by. Other things he also loved that\nmade not for sanctity, and when, at last, he died, his death was no more\nholy than his selfish, sensual life had been. No protecting aspen stake\nhad been driven through his body, and so when he was laid to rest under\nthe shadow of the monastery, for him rest there was none. The holy\nbrothers inside the walls protected themselves from him, when he came\na-wandering, by vigils and by prayers. The lady whose chaplain he had\nbeen was less well protected, and when, night after night, her sleep was\nbroken by horrible groans and murmurings from a thing that always seemed\njust without her room, and almost about to enter, she became nearly\nfrantic. She came to Melrose, and with tears besought the holy fathers,\nwho owed much to her bounty, to wrestle for her in prayer and drive this\nevil thing away. The monks of Melrose did for her what they could. Not\nonly did they pray, but two stout-hearted friars and two powerful young\nlaymen all well armed were appointed to guard the grave of the lady's\nlate chaplain, and to go on duty that very night.\n\nIt was chill autumn, and as they paced the damp grass of the graveyard\nthere was a smell of dead leaves in the air, and a grey mist crept up\nfrom the Tweed that moaned as it bore its flooded waters to the sea.\nWhen midnight came they expected to see the Hundeprest, but midnight\npassed in safety, and in \"the wee, sma' hours\" the two laymen and one of\nthe monks went into the nearest cottage to warm their icy feet. Now came\nthe chance of the vampire. With \"a terrible noise\" the Hundeprest\nsuddenly appeared, a thing of horror, and rushed at the monk who was\nslowly pacing towards the grave. The holy man bravely stood the charge,\nand, as the monster was almost touching him, he swung the axe which he\ncarried, and drove it with all his might into the body of his diabolic\nadversary. With a groan, the vampire turned and fled away, and the\nfriar, the tables turned, ran in pursuit until the grave of the\nHundeprest was reached, and the horror vanished.\n\nNothing of the encounter was to be seen when the other three watchers\nreturned, but grey dawn was near, and at the first sign of light the\nfour men, with pick-axe and spade, opened up the grave. Even as they dug\ntheir spades turned up mingled blood and clay, and when they came to the\ncorpse of the Hundeprest, they found it fresh as on the day he died, but\nwith a terrible wound in the body, from which the blood still oozed\naway.\n\nWith horror they bore it out of sight of the monastery of which he had\nbeen so unworthy a brother. A cleansing fire burned it to ashes, and a\nshrewd, clean wind that blew from over the Lammermoors swept away all\ntrace of the accursed thing. No pestilence came to Melrose. Perchance in\nthe twelfth century it was by prayer and fasting that the holy men won\nthe day.\n\n\n\n\nA BORDER MIDDY\n\n\nOne blustering February evening towards the close of the eighteenth\ncentury there sat in a back room in a little inn at Portsmouth three\nmidshipmen, forlorn-looking and depressed to a degree quite at variance\nwith the commonly accepted idea of the normal mental condition of\nmidshipmen. It was a room, not in the famous \"Blue Posts\"--that hostelry\nbeloved by lads of their rank in the service--but in a smaller, meaner,\nless frequented house in a very different quarter of the town, a quarter\nnone too savoury, if the truth were told.\n\nWhy they had betaken themselves to this particular tavern in preference\nto that generally used by them, who can say. Perhaps--as Peter Simple's\ncoachman remarked on that occasion when Peter first made acquaintance\nwith Portsmouth--perhaps it was because they had too often \"forgotten to\npay for their breakfastesses\" at the \"Blue Posts,\" and had not the\nwherewithal to pay up arrears. In any case, here they were, and,\nmidshipman-like, during their stay they had recklessly run up a larger\nbill than they had means to settle. There was no possibility of\nfollowing the course recommended by the drunken sailor, namely, to \"cut\nand run,\" for the landlady of the inn was much too astute a personage to\nmake that a possibility, and she had too little faith in human nature\ngenerally, and in that of midshipmen in particular, to let her consent\nto wait for her money till time and the end of their cruise again\nbrought their frigate back to Portsmouth. Pay they _must_, by some means\nor other, for already the Blue Peter was flying at the fore and the\n_Sirius_ would sail at daylight. If she sailed without them it was very\nplain that there was an end of their career in the Navy--they would be\n\"broke.\" Small wonder that the three middies were in the last stage of\ngloom. Their entire possessions, money and clothes, could not cover one\nhalf of what they owed, and every compromise had been rejected by the\nobdurate landlady. Appeal to their friends was useless, for time did not\nadmit of an answer being received before the ship sailed. And escape was\nhopeless, for the one window that the room possessed was heavily barred,\nthe door carefully locked, and the key kept in the capacious pocket of\nthe landlady.\n\nIt was the very deuce of a situation--the devil to pay and no pitch hot.\nAgain and again as the evening wore on they discussed possibilities;\nagain and again the same conclusion was arrived at. Hope was dead. No\ndoubt in the end their friends might pay up, but they groaned as the\ncertainty forced itself on them that their career at sea was as good as\nover. If only they had been entitled to any prize-money! But\nprize-money there was none, and the few guineas each had had from home\nhad long been idly squandered.\n\n\"We're done, my boys; we're done! Oh, Lord, what swabs we have been!\"\ncried the senior of the three with a groan, laying his head on the\ntable.\n\n\"Oh, never say die!\" said another, a cheery-faced, ruddy lad with a\nnoticeable Scottish accent. \"I've been in as tight a hole before and got\nout of it all right. We've a few hours yet to come and go on.\nSomething's pretty sure to turn up.\"\n\nAs he spoke the key was put in the door, and in came the landlady.\n\n\"Well! wot's it goin' to be? Am I to get that there money you owes me,\nor am I not? You ain't got much time for shilly-shallyin', I can tell\nyou, young gentlemen. An' paid I'm agoin' to be, one way or other.\"\n\nShe was a big-boned, florid, dark-eyed woman, well over thirty, somewhat\ninclined to be down-at-heel and slatternly, though not yet quite\ndestitute of some small share of good looks; a woman solid of step and\nunattractive to the eye of youth; moreover, as they knew from recent\nexperience, possessed of a rasping tongue.\n\n\"None o' ye got anything to say? Well, then, I'll tell you what I'm\nready to do and let you go. One of you shall marry me! I don't care two\nstraws which of you it is. But if you three're to get aboard your ship\nafore she sails, one of you's got to come with me to the parson this\nnight an' be spliced. Take it or leave it; them's my terms. For the good\no' my business I must 'ave a 'usband, now my old dad's gone aloft.\nWhether he's on the spot or not I don't care not the value of a reefer's\nbutton, so long as I can show my 'lines.' I'll give you 'alf an hour to\nmake up your minds an' settle atween you who's goin' to be the lucky\none.\"\n\nAnd with that she left the room, again carefully locking the door and\ntaking away the key.\n\nTruly were they now between the devil and the deep sea. And no amount of\ndiscussion improved the prospect.\n\n\"We _can't_ do it, you know,\" piteously cried one. \"I'll see her shot\nfirst.\"\n\n\"Blest if I see any other way out of it,\" said another.\n\n\"And she's pretty old. She _might_ perhaps die before we came back,\nmightn't she?\" hopefully ventured the third.\n\n\"Oh, stow that! She's not more than forty, and she's likely to live as\nlong as any of us.\"\n\n\"Well, if you won't allow that _she's_ likely to oblige us by leaving\nthis world, at anyrate you'll admit that there's always a goodish chance\nthat the husband-elect may run up against a French cannonball and get\nout of the scrape _that_ way. Anyhow, we've come to the end of our\ntether. The alternative's ruin. It's pretty black to windward, whichever\nway you look at it, but one way spells ruin for the lot of us; the\nother, at the worst, means disaster for only one. I vote we draw lots,\nand the man who draws the shortest lot wins--er ... at least he marries\nthe lady,\" said the cheery-faced boy, with rather a rueful laugh.\n\n\"You'll laugh perhaps on the wrong side of your face before all's done.\nBut, all right. If we must, we must. You make ready the lots, Watty, and\nI'll take first draw. Only, I think if the bad luck's mine, I'll slip\nover the side some middle watch,\" said the senior middy miserably.\n\nWith haggard young faces two drew, leaving the third lot to the Scottish\nboy.\n\n\"Thank Heaven!\" cried the first, wiping his brow as he saw that his, at\nleast, was not a short lot. \"It's yours, Watty, old boy,\" he said to the\nmiddy from north of the Tweed.\n\n\"My God! what will my dear old mother say?\" groaned the poor boy, with\nface grey as his own Border hills in a November drizzle. \"Promise me, on\nyour honour, both of you, to keep this miserable business a dead secret\nfor ever.... Well, I've got to face it. Bring the woman in, and let's\nhave it over and get aboard.\"\n\nWatty Scott was a scion of a good Scottish Border family, a youth\ncareless and harum-scarum as the most typical of middies, but a\ngentleman, and popular alike with officers and men. He was about\neighteen, had already distinguished himself in more than one brush with\nthe enemy, and was looked on as a most promising officer. But now...!\n\n     \"Oh, little did my mother ken,\n     The day she cradled me,\"\n\n(might he have wailed), in what dire scrape the recklessness inherent in\nher boy would land him.\n\n\"I _thought_ you'd take my terms,\" said the landlady, when she came into\nthe room. \"Faith! an' I've got the pick o' the basket! Well, come along,\nmy joker; we'll be off to the parson. But you'll take my arm all the\nway, d'ye see!--as is right an' nat'ral for bride and bridegroom. You\nain't agoin' to give _me_ the slip afore the knot's tied, I can tell\nyou. Not if _I_ knows it, young man.\"\n\nBroken clergymen, broken by drink or what not, ready to go through\nanything for a consideration, were never hard to find in those days in a\ntown such as Portsmouth, and all too soon the ceremony, binding enough,\nso far as Watty could see, was over. Then the new-made wife insisted,\nbefore the three lads left her, that she should stand them a good\ndinner, and as much wine as they cared to drink to the health of bride\nand bridegroom.\n\n\"An' now,\" she said to her husband ere the youngsters departed, \"I aint\nagoin' to send my man to sea with empty pockets. Put _that_ in your\npurse!\"\n\nBut Watty would have none of the five guineas she tried to force on him.\n\n\"Well, I think none the worse of you for that,\" she cried. \"Come, give\nus a kiss, at anyrate.\" And with a shudder Watty Scott saluted his\nbride.\n\nNever did the grey waters of the English Channel look more cheerless\nthan they appeared to one unhappy midshipman of H.M.S. _Sirius_ next\nmorning, as the frigate beat down channel in the teeth of a strong\nwesterly breeze; never before had life seemed to him a thing purposeless\nand void of hope. \"To have and to hold from this day forward, for better\nfor worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and\nto cherish, till death us do part.\" The words rang in his ears still,\nwith a solemnity that even the red-nosed, snuffy, broken-down parson who\nhiccuped through the service had not been able to kill. But, God! the\nirony of the thing--the ghastly mockery! _To love and to cherish till\ndeath us do part_! Verily, the iron entered into his soul; day and night\nthe hideous burden crushed him. The castles in the air that, boylike, he\nhad builded were crumbled into dust. Was _this_ the end of all his\ndreams? Well, at least there was that friendly cannon-ball to be prayed\nfor, or a French cutlass or pike in some boat expedition, if the Fates\nwere kind.\n\nThe frigate's orders were--Halifax with despatches; thereafter, the\nWest India Station for an indefinite time. Six or eight weeks at\nHalifax, varied by some knocking about off the Nova Scotia coast, did\nnot tend to relax Watty's depression, but rather the contrary. For just\nbefore the frigate took her departure from those latitudes a lately\nreceived Portsmouth journal which reached the midshipmen's berth had\nrecorded the arrest on a serious charge of, amongst others, a woman\ngiving her name as \"Mrs. Walter Scott, licensee of the Goat's Head\nTavern, Portsmouth.\" Now the Goat's Head Tavern was that little inn\nwhere in an evil moment the three lads had taken up their abode before\nthe sailing of the _Sirius_, and to Watty it appeared as if his disgrace\nmust now be spread abroad by the four winds of heaven.\n\nIt was mental relief to get away out to sea, and to feel that now at\nleast there was again some probability of the excitement of an action.\nTo Bermuda, thence to Jamaica, were the orders; and surely in no part of\nthe world was a ship of war more certain of active employment. Those\nwere days removed by no great number of years from Rodney's famous\nvictory over de Grasse, and not yet had we completed the reduction of\nthe French West India Islands; the greatest glutton of fighting could\nscarce fail to have his fill.\n\nOne night, after the frigate had left Bermuda, it had come on to blow\ndesperately hard from the north-west, and with every hour the gale\nincreased, till at length--when sail after sail, thundering and\nthreshing, had come in--the ship lay almost under bare poles, straining\nin every timber and nosing her weather bow into the mountainous seas\nthat swept by at intervals, ere they roared away into the murk to\nleeward.\n\nIt was the middle watch, and Watty had been standing for some time\nholding on by the lee mizzen rigging, peering eagerly into the darkness.\n\n\"I've thought two or three times, sir, that I can see something to\nleeward of us,\" he reported to the officer of the watch.\n\nAnd presently the \"something\"--a mere patch of denser black in a\ndarkness emphasized more than relieved by the grey-white crests of\nbreaking seas--resolved itself into a large vessel, which as day broke\nwas seen to be a frigate, like themselves under the shortest of canvas,\nand with all possible top-hamper down on deck. Pitching and rolling\nheavily, she lay; sometimes, as a sea struck her, half buried in a\ngrey-green mountain of foam and flying spray that left her spouting\ncascades of water from her scuppers; one moment, as she rose, heaving\nher fore-foot clean out of the water, showing the glint of the copper on\nher bottom; the next, plunging wildly down, till some mighty billow,\nroaring aloft between the vessels, hid each from the other's ken as\neffectually as if the ocean had swallowed them.\n\nThe stranger had hoisted French colours, and the _Sirius_ beat to\nquarters. But as far as possibility of engaging was concerned, the ships\nmight have been a hundred leagues apart: the sea ran far too high. And\nso there all day they lay, impotent to harm each other.\n\nWhen grey dawn came on the second morning, bringing with it weather more\nmoderate, the French frigate was seen under easy sail far to leeward,\nevidently repairing damage aloft, and, in spite of every effort on the\npart of the _Sirius_, it was late afternoon ere the first shot was\nfired.\n\nDarkness had begun to fall as the French ship struck her colours after a\nbloody action in which her losses mounted to over one hundred men,\nincluding her captain and several officers. In less degree the _Sirius_\nsuffered; and of those who fell, Watty was one. Early in the engagement\nhe was carried below, badly torn by a severe and dangerous splinter\nwound in the head.\n\n\"There goes poor Watty--out of his trouble, anyhow,\" cried one of the\nthree friends.\n\nThereafter, the life in him hovered long 'twixt this world and the next,\nand weeks passed ere, in the house of a friend at Kingston, Jamaica, he\ncame once more to his full senses. Even then his progress was but\ndilatory.\n\n\"I can't make the boy out,\" said his doctor. \"He _ought_ to get well\nnow. Yet he doesn't. Doesn't seem to make an effort, somehow. If he was\na bit older you'd think he didn't _want_ to live. It's not natural. If\nhe were to get any little complication now, he'd go.\"\n\nAnd so the listless weeks dragged on, and it was but a ghost of the once\nmerry boy that each morning crept wearily and with infinite labour from\nhis room to the wide, pleasant verandah. And there he would pass his\ndays, vacantly listening with dull ears to the cool sea-breeze\nwhispering through the trees, or brooding over his misery. Sometimes, in\nhis weak state, tears of self-pity would roll unheeded down his cheeks;\nhe pined for the heather of his native hills, for the murmur of Tweed\nand Teviot, and for the faces of his own people. Never again could the\nhappiness be his to live once more in the dearly loved Border land; for\nhow could he face home when that terrible fate awaited his landing at\nPortsmouth. \"Oh! _why_ had he been guilty of folly so great? Why had he\nthus made a shipwreck of life's voyage almost at its very outset?\"\n\nYet at last there came a morning when the cloud of depression began to\nlift from his mind. An English packet had arrived, bearing despatches\nfor the Admiral, and, as Watty languidly turned the pages of a late\nSteel's List, ambition once more awoke on finding his name amongst the\npromotions. Braced in mind, and roused from his apathy by this\nunlooked-for good fortune, he turned to other papers brought out by the\npacket, and waded steadily through the news sheets. There was little at\nfirst that interested him. But presently, as he picked up a little\nPortsmouth journal, a paragraph that caught his eye fetched from him a\nshout that roused the house and brought his host flying to the verandah.\n\n\"What the deuce ails you? Confound it, the boy's off his head again!\" he\ncried.\n\n\"Heaven be thanked! My wife's hanged!\" shouted Watty.\n\n\"Oh! mad as a March hare!\" fussed his host, running into the house.\n\"Mad, sure enough. Must send off a boy for the doctor.\"\n\nBut Watty's news was true. The paragraph which had caught his eye as he\npicked up the Portsmouth paper was, in effect, the continuation and\nconclusion of that other announcement which he had seen at Halifax, and\nwas indeed an account of the execution for robbery and murder of certain\npersons, amongst whom, as \"accessory before the fact,\" was the landlady\nof the \"Goat's Head\" Tavern.\n\nIt is uncertain if Lieutenant Walter Scott ever returned to settle in\nthe Border; but he was a cousin of Sir Walter, who gave to Captain Basil\nHall, R.N., some outline of such a story as is here told.\n\n\n\n\nSHEEP-STEALING IN TWEEDDALE\n\n\n     \"The cattle thereof shall ye take for a prey unto yourselves.\"\n     (Josh. viii. 2.)\n\n     \"The men are shepherds, for their trade hath been to feed cattle.\"\n     (Gen. xlvi. 32.)\n\nIn days even earlier than those of the early Israelites, to a certain\nclass of persons the flocks and herds of a neighbour have been an\nirresistible temptation. The inhabitants of few, if indeed of any, lands\nhave been quite free from the tendency to \"lift\" their neighbour's\nlive-stock (though probably it has not been given to many, in times\neither ancient or modern, to emulate the record in \"cattle duffing\" of\nAustralia and Western America). In the Scottish Border in the days of\nour not very remote forefathers, to take toll of the Southron's herds\nwas esteemed almost more a virtue than a vice, and though times had\nchanged, even so recently as a couple of centuries back it may have\nseemed to some no very great crime to misappropriate a neighbour's\nsheep. March dykes or boundary fences were then things unknown; the\n\"sheep wandered through all the mountains, and upon every high hill.\"\nWhat, therefore, so natural as that the flocks should in time draw\ntogether and blend; what so easy for a man, dishonestly inclined, as to\nalter his neighbour's brand and ear-mark, hurry off to some distant\nmarket, and there sell a score or two of sheep to which he had no title?\nThe penalty on conviction, no doubt, was heavy--at the least, in\nScotland, flogging at the hands of the common hangman, or banishment to\nthe Plantations; but more commonly death. The fear of punishment,\nhowever, has never yet put an end to any particular form of crime, and\nhere detection was improbable if the thief were but clever. He might be\naided, too, by a clever dog, for \"some will hund their dowg whar they\ndarna gang themsel',\" and a really clever dog may be taught almost\nanything short of speaking.\n\nIn the year 1762 men's minds, in the upper reaches of the Tweed, began\nto be sore perplexed by an unaccountable leakage in the numbers of their\nsheep. Normal losses did not greatly disturb them; to a certain\npercentage of loss from the \"loupin' ill,\" from snowstorm, from chilly\nwet weather during lambing, they were resigned. But the losses that now\ndisquieted them were quite abnormal. It was not as if the sheep were\nperishing on the hillside; then at least their skins would have been\nbrought in, and the element of mystery would not have agitated the minds\nof owners. But here were sheep constantly vanishing in large numbers\nwithout leaving even a trace of themselves. Something must be very far\nwrong somewhere. They were angry men, the Peeblesshire hill farmers,\nthat summer of 1762, angry and sore puzzled, for up Manor Water and the\nLeithen, by Glensax Burn and the Quair, and over the hills into\nSelkirkshire, the tale was ever the same, sheep gone, and never a trace\nof them to be found.\n\nIn Newby was a tenant, William Gibson, whose losses had been\nparticularly severe, and, not unnaturally, Gibson was in a very\nirritable frame of mind; so upset, indeed, was he that, before the faces\nof the men, he blurted out on one occasion the statement that in his\nopinion these continued losses were due chiefly to carelessness or\nignorance of their work, if not to something even worse, on the part of\nthe shepherds. Now, to throw doubt on their knowledge or skill was bad\nenough, but any insinuation as to their honesty was like rubbing salt on\nopen wounds. It touched them on the raw, even though no direct\naccusation had been made, for a finer, more capable, careful, and honest\nclass of men than the Border shepherd has never existed anywhere. Deep,\ntherefore, was their anger, wrathful the mutterings that accompanied\nthem in their long tramps over the windy hills; it would have gone ill\nwith any one detected in possession of so much as a lamb's tail to which\nhe might fail to establish his legal right.\n\nEyes sharpened by resentment were continually on the watch, yet the\nlosses continued, now less, now more, but always a steady percentage,\nand it seemed beyond mortal power to guess how and when these losses\noccurred. But at last it chanced one day that Gibson, for some purpose,\nhad mustered his ewes and lambs, and as the men went about their work,\none of the older shepherds, Hyslop by name, halted abruptly as a lamb\nran up to a certain ewe, and suckled.\n\n\"Dod!\" cried Hyslop, \"thon's auld Maggie an' her lamb!\"\n\nNow \"Maggie\" was a black-faced ewe, so peculiarly speckled about the\nface that no one, least of all a Border shepherd, could possibly make\nany mistake as to her identity. She had been missing for some days, and\nwas given up as lost for good and all. Yet here she was suckling her\nlamb as if she had never been away.\n\nSomething prompted Hyslop to catch the ewe. Then he whistled long and\nlow, and swore beneath his breath.\n\n\"Hey!\" he cried to Gibson. \"What d'ye think o' that?\"\n\n\"God! It canna be,\" muttered Gibson.\n\nAnd:\n\n\"Aye! _That's_ gey queer like!\" chorused the other shepherds.\n\nWhat had caught the quick eye of old Hyslop was a fresh brand, or\n\"buist,\" on the ewe's nose; the letter \"O\" was newly burned there,\nnearly obliterating an old letter \"T.\" The latter was Mr. Gibson's\nfire-brand; \"O\" that of his not distant neighbour, Murdison, tenant in\nOrmiston. Gibson and Murdison were on friendly terms, and both were\nhighly respectable and respected farmers. Necessarily, this discovery\nanent the brands was most disturbing, and could not fail to be difficult\nof satisfactory explanation. Gibson did not wish to act hastily, but all\nhis private investigations pointed only to the one conclusion, and there\nwas no room for doubt that the ewe had been seen by shepherds on other\nfarms making her way across the lofty hills that lie between Newby and\nWormiston, as the latter place was locally called. Still, he hesitated\nto act in so ugly looking an affair, and it was only after long and\npainful consultation with a neighbour, himself of late a heavy loser,\nthat Gibson went to Peebles in order to get the authority necessary to\nenable him to inspect the flocks on Ormiston.\n\nWith heavy heart, Gibson, accompanied by Telfer, a well-known Peebles\nofficer of the law, trudged out to Ormiston. As they neared the\nfarm-house a shepherd, leaning against an outbuilding, turned with a\nstart at sight of them, slipped suddenly round a corner of the outhouse,\nand presently was seen, bent nearly double, in hot haste running for a\nfield of standing corn.\n\n\"Aye! yon's John Millar awa'. I'm feared things looks bad,\" muttered\nGibson to his companion as they approached the door of the farm-house.\n\"You keep ahint in the onstead, John Telfer, and I'll get Murdison to\ncome oot. We'll never can tell him afore his wife.\"\n\n\"Wulliam Gibson! Hoo are ye? Man, this is a sicht for sair een,\" cried\nMurdison heartily to his visitor. \"Come awa' in ben, and hae a glass.\"\n\nA greeting so friendly brought a lump into Gibson's throat that he found\nit hard to swallow.\n\n\"Na, I canna come in,\" he answered in a low voice; \"John Telfer's ahint\nthe onstead, wantin' to speak to ye.\"\n\n\"John Telfer! what can _he_ want wi' me?\" cried Murdison, going grey in\nthe face. \"Oh, aye! In one minute,\" he said, hastily stepping back into\nthe kitchen and whispering a few words to his wife. Gibson did not hear\nthe words, but his heart sank like lead as he noticed Mrs. Murdison\nfling herself into a chair, bury her face in her hands, and wail, \"Oh\nGod! my heart will break.\"\n\n\"Alexander Murdison, I hae a warrant here, and I maun hae a bit look at\na wheen o' your sheep,\" said the officer of the law when Murdison came\nwith Gibson into the Steading.\n\nQuite enough was soon seen to make it necessary for Murdison and Millar,\nhis shepherd, to be taken to Peebles, where bail was refused. The case\ncame on a few months later, in Edinburgh, before Lord Braxfield, and it\ncreated intense interest, not only throughout the Border but amongst the\nentire legal faculty. It was proved that thirty-three score of sheep\nwere found on Ormiston bearing Murdison's buist branded over, and, as\nfar as possible, obliterating, the known buists of other farms. None of\nthese sheep had been sold to the prisoners. Many of the animals were\nknown, and were sworn to, by the shepherds on sundry farms, in spite of\nbrands and ear-marks having been altered with some skill. It was proved\nalso that Murdison had sold to farmers at a distance many scores of\nsheep on which the brands and ear-marks had been \"faked.\" Evidence in\nthe case closed at 5 P.M. on a Saturday, the second day of the trial;\nspeeches of the counsel and the judge's summing up occupied until 11\nP.M. of that day; and the jury sat till 5 o'clock on Sunday morning,\nwhen they brought in a verdict, by a majority, against Murdison, and an\nunanimous verdict against Millar, his shepherd. Both prisoners were\nsentenced to death, and though an appeal was made on various grounds,\nthe sentences were eventually carried out.\n\nWhilst he lay in prison under sentence Millar confessed the whole affair\nto a friend, and the story, as told by the shepherd, possessed some very\ncurious features. He and his master, Murdison, had jointly conceived a\nscheme by means of which it seemed possible to defraud their neighbours\nalmost with impunity. And, indeed, but for some mischance against which\nno one could guard, such as happened here when the ewe made back to her\nold home and her lamb, they might have gone undetected and unsuspected\nfor an indefinite time. The shepherd owned an extraordinarily clever\ndog, without whose help the scheme could not possibly have been worked,\nand operations were carried out in the following manner.\n\nMurdison knew very well what sheep his neighbours possessed, and where\non the hills they were likely to be running. Millar, with his dog\n\"Yarrow,\" was sent by night to collect the sheep which master and man\nhad determined to steal, and to one so familiar with the hills this was\nno difficult task. The chief danger was that in the short nights of a\nScottish summer he might be seen going or returning. Therefore, when\ndaylight began to appear, if the sheep had already been got well on\ntheir way towards Ormiston, Millar would leave \"Yarrow\" to finish the\ndrive single-handed, a task which the dog always carried out most\nsuccessfully if it could be done reasonably early, before people began\nto move abroad out of their houses. But as soon as the dog caught sight\nof strangers he would at once leave the sheep and run home by a\ncircuitous route. One such instance Millar particularly mentioned.\n\nHe had collected a lot of old ewes one night, but had utterly failed,\neven with \"Yarrow's\" help, to get them down a steep hill and across\nTweed in the dark. Accordingly, as usual when day broke, he left the\newes in charge of the dog, and by low-lying ways, where he would be\nlittle likely to attract attention, he betook himself home. From a spot\nat some distance Millar looked back and for a time watched \"Yarrow,\" in\ndead silence, but with marvellous energy, trying to bustle the ewes into\nthe river. Time and again he would get them to the edge of the pool and\nattempt to \"rush\" them in; time and again he failed, and the ewes broke\nback--for of all created creatures no breathing thing is so obstinate as\nan old ewe. Finally, the dog succeeded in forcing two into the water,\nbut no power on earth could drive the others farther than the brink, and\nthe only result was that by their presence they effectually prevented\nthose already in the water from leaving it, and in the end the two were\ndrowned. At last \"Yarrow\" seemed to realise that he was beaten, and that\nto persevere farther would be dangerous, and he left the ewes and\nstarted for home. The sheep were seen later that day making their way\nhome, all raddled with new keel with which Millar had marked them in a\nsmall \"stell\" which he had passed when the ewes were first collected.\n\n\"Faking\" the brands, Millar confessed, used to be done by him and his\nmaster on a Sunday, in the vault of a neighbouring old peel tower, and\nat a time when everyone else was at church. It was easy enough, without\nexciting suspicion, to run the sheep into the yards on a Saturday night,\nand thence to the vaults, and no one would ever see the work of\naltering the buists going on, for \"Yarrow\" sat outside, and always, by\nbarking, gave timely notice of the approach of any undesirable person.\n\nThe report was current in the country after the executions that the dog\nwas hanged at the same time as his master, a rumour probably originated\nby the hawking about Edinburgh streets of a broadside, entitled the\n\"Last Dying Speech and Confession of the Dog Yarrow.\" In reality\n\"Yarrow\" was sold to a farmer in the neighbourhood of Peebles, but,\nstrange to say, though as a thief he had been so supernaturally clever,\nas a dog employed in honest pursuits his intelligence was much below the\naverage. Perhaps he was clever enough to be wilfully stupid; or maybe he\nhad become so used to following crooked paths that the straight road\nseemed to him a place full of suspicion and dread.\n\nIn his _Shepherd's Calendar_ Hogg tells several tales of dogs owned by\nsheep-stealers, to which he says he cannot attach credit \"without\nbelieving the animals to have been devils incarnate, come to the earth\nfor the destruction of both the souls and bodies of men.\" And certainly\nthere was something uncanny, something almost devilish and malevolent,\nin the persistency with which they lured their masters on to crime. One\nyoung shepherd, for instance, after long strivings succumbed to the\ntemptation to steal sheep from a far-distant farm, where at one time he\nhad been employed. Mounted on a pony, and accompanied by a dog, the\nyoung man arrived at the far-off hill one moon-lit night, mustered the\nsheep he meant to steal, and started to drive them towards Edinburgh.\nThen, before even he had got them off the farm, conscience awoke--or was\nit fear of the consequences?--and he called off his dog, letting the\nsheep return to the hill. Congratulating himself on being well out of an\nugly business, he had ridden on his homeward way a matter of three miles\nwhen again and again there came over him an eerie feeling that he was\nbeing followed, though when he looked back nothing was to be seen but\ndim moor and hill sleeping in the moonlight. Yet again and again it\nreturned, that strange feeling, and with it now something like the\nwhispering of innumerable little feet brushing through bent and heather.\nThen came a distant rushing sound and the panting as of an animal sore\nspent, and hard on the shepherd's tracks there appeared over a knoll an\noverdriven mob of sheep flying before the silent, demoniacal, tireless\nenergy of his own dog. He had never noticed that the animal had left\nhim, but now, having once more turned the sheep towards their home, and\nseverely chid his dog, he resolved that it should not again have the\nchance to play him such a trick. For a mile all went well, then suddenly\nthe beast was gone. Dawn was breaking; he dared not stop where he was,\nnor dared to return to meet the dog. All that he could do was to take a\nroute he was certain his dog did not know, and so would be sure not to\nfollow, and thus he might abandon the animal to its own devices, hoping\nthat he himself might not be compromised. For in his own mind he was\nvery sure that the dog had once more gone back to collect the sheep. By\na circuitous route which he had never followed before, going in at least\none instance through a gate, which he securely fastened behind him, the\nshepherd at length reached a farm-house, where, as it chanced, both his\nsister and his sweetheart were in service. Here he breakfasted, and\nremained some time, and still there was no sign of the dog. All was no\ndoubt well; after all, the beast must have somehow missed him in the\nnight and had gone home; after the punishment he had received he would\nnever have gone back again for the sheep. So, comparatively light of\nheart, the shepherd was just about to start on his journey, when up\nthere came to him a man:\n\n\"Ye'll hae missed your dowg, I'm thinking? But ye needna' fash; he's\nwaitin' for ye doon by the Crooked Yett, wi' a' your yowes safe enough.\"\n\nIt was useless after this. The wretched man gave in; he struggled no\nmore, but actually went off with the sheep and sold them. And the\ngallows ended his career. But how the dog followed him is a mystery, and\nwhy he waited for him at the \"Crooked Yett.\" For miles he must have\ntracked him by the scent of the feet of the pony the shepherd rode. But\nhe never came within sight of the farm-house, and how did he know to\nwait at the gate?\n\nInstances of depravity amongst animals are not altogether unknown,\nthough they are rare. A case is mentioned in _Blackwood's Magazine_ of\nOctober 1817, where a lady walking along a London street had her bag\nsnatched from her by a drover's dog. The animal, apparently without any\nmaster, was noticed lying, seemingly asleep, by the pavement-side, but\non the approach of the lady it sprang suddenly up, snatched from her\nhand what is described as her \"ridicule,\" and made off at full gallop.\nOn inquiry it was ascertained that the dog was well known as a thief,\nand that his habit was to lie in the street, apparently taking no notice\nof passers-by until a lady with a bag, or some poor woman carrying a\nbundle, came by, when he would jump up, snatch the bag or bundle from\nits bearer's hand, and make off, no doubt to join a master who waited in\nsecurity whilst his dog stole for him. On the special occasion here\nmentioned the lady lost with her bag one sovereign, eighteen shillings\nin silver, a pair of spectacles, and various papers and small articles.\n\nThere is also on record the case of a good-looking spaniel which was\nbought in London from a dog-fancier by a wealthy young man. The new\nowner soon observed that, when out with the dog, if he entered a shop\nthe animal invariably remained outside for a time, and that, when at\nlast he did follow his master, the presence of the latter was\npersistently ignored, nor would the spaniel take any notice when his\nmaster left the shop, but continued unconcernedly to sniff about; or\nelse he would lie down and seem to fall asleep. Invariably after this\nthe animal would turn up at home, carrying in his mouth a pair of\ngloves, or some other article which his master had happened to handle\nwhilst in the shop. By going to establishments where he was known, and\ngiving notice of what he expected to happen, the owner of the dog was\nenabled to try a series of experiments, and he found that the spaniel\nwould sometimes remain quietly in a shop for hours until the door\nchanced to be left open, when, if no one appeared to be watching him, he\nwould jump up on the counter, seize some article, bolt with it down the\nstreet, and make his way home.\n\nThere was also known to the writer, some years ago, a big,\nhonest-looking, clever mongrel, which was taken by his master to India.\n\"Sandy\" became quite a regimental pet, but, though friendly with the\nwhole regiment, he clung throughout faithfully to his master. He was a\nbig, heavy dog, with a good deal of the bull in him, and more than a\nsuspicion of collie. The combination of these two breeds made him an\nexceptionally formidable fighter. Nothing could flurry him, and his\ngreat weight and powerful jaw gained him an easy victory over anything\nhe ever met, even when tackled one dark night by a young panther.\nUnfortunately he developed a passion for killing everything that walked\non four legs--short of a horse or an elephant--and of domestic pets and\nof poultry he took heavy toll. Nothing could break him of this\npropensity; he would take any punishment quite placidly, and then\nstraightway repeat the offence at the first opportunity. And he\ndeveloped also a curious habit of tracking his master when he dined out.\nNo matter how \"Sandy\" was fastened up in barracks, before the meal was\nhalf over in the bungalow where his master happened to be dining, in\nwould march the dog, quite calm and apparently at home, and would make\nwilling friends with everyone at table, except with his master, whom he\nwould steadily ignore throughout the evening. Though \"Sandy\" was very\nfar from being a lady's dog, and though at ordinary times he would take\nsmall notice of ladies, yet now he would most gently and affectionately\nsubmit to be caressed and fondled by all the ladies at table, and would\napparently in reality be the \"sweet,\" good-natured \"pet\" they styled\nhim; yet too well his master knew from bitter experience that already\nthat evening had Death, in the shape of \"Sandy,\" stalked heavy-footed\namongst the domestic pets and poultry of that bungalow. And morning\nalways revealed a formidable list of dead. \"Sandy's\" bite was sure; he\nleft no wounded on the field of his labours.\n\n\n\n\nA PRIVATE OF THE KING'S OWN SCOTTISH BORDERERS\n\n\nAs the evening closed in, the heavy south-westerly gale that had raged\nthroughout the long-drawn summer's day gradually dropped, and blew now\nonly in fitful gusts. Instead of the sullen, unending roar of artillery,\nwhich till past mid-day had stunned the ear, there was now to be heard\nonly the muttering of distant thunder; the flash of guns was replaced by\nthe glare of lightning flickering against the dark background of heavy\ncloud that hung low on the horizon; and, except for an irregular\nsplutter of musketry, or an occasional dropping shot from direction of\nthe town, the ominous, sustained rattle of small-arms had now entirely\nceased.\n\nThe night of the 31st July 1759 had seen the French army march out\nbeyond the ramparts of Minden, to take up position against the Allied\nForces under Duke Ferdinand of Brunswick. So fiercely blew the gale then\nthat it drowned the sound of the town clocks striking midnight; so\nfuriously raged the storm with the coming of day that, to windward, even\nthe roar of cannon could not be heard, and it was only the dense clouds\nof smoke that told they were engaged.\n\nAs day broke on the 1st of August the French, under a heavy artillery\nfire, had attacked with fury, but now, repulsed and broken at every\npoint, they were driven back to their old position behind the town\nramparts, where for a few hours longer they staved off surrender.\n\nOn the Allied right, where fighting had been hottest and most stubborn,\nthe chief brunt of the action fell on six regiments of British infantry,\nsupported by three battalions of Hanoverians. Never have troops of any\nnation reaped greater glory, nor earned more lasting fame, than that day\nfell to the lot of those battalions.\n\nIn the first line were the 12th, 37th, and 23rd Regiments; in the second\nline, the 20th, 51st, and 25th, the latter that famous regiment raised\nin Scotland in the year 1688 by the Earl of Leven, and then called\n\"Leven's\" or the Edinburgh Regiment. At Minden it fought as Sempil's\nRegiment, later it was known as the King's Own Borderers, and now it is\nfamiliar to all as the King's Own Scottish Borderers. Entirely\nunsupported, these two lines of scarlet-clad men marched steadily\nagainst a mass of cavalry, the flower of the French army. Without haste,\nwithout even a sign of hesitation or of wavering, over ground swept by\nthe fire of more than sixty cannon, they moved--a fire that ploughed\nthrough their ranks and mowed down men as the hurricane blast smites to\nthe earth trees in a forest of pines. Not till the threatening\nsquadrons of horse began to get into motion did these British regiments\nhalt, and then, pausing coolly till the galloping ranks were all but\nwithin striking distance, they fired a volley so withering that men and\nhorses fell in swathes, while the survivors reeled in confusion back on\ntheir supports. Never before had volley so crushing been fired by\nBritish troops. Up to that day, musketry had seldom been blasting in\neffect; firelocks then in use were singularly clumsy weapons, noted for\nanything but accuracy, and, to add to their inefficiency, it was not the\npractice to bring the cumbersome piece to the shoulder, and thus to take\naim, but rather, the method was to raise the firelock breast high and\ntrust to chance that an enemy might be in the line of fire. Now all was\nchanged. During the Peace troops had been taught to aim from the\nshoulder, and Minden showed the effect.\n\nIn spite of their losses, however, the French horse rallied and came\nagain to the attack, this time supported by four brigades of infantry\nand thirty-two guns. \"For a moment the lines of scarlet seemed to waver\nunder the triple attack; but, recovering themselves, they closed up\ntheir ranks and met the charging squadrons with a storm of musketry\nwhich blasted them off the field, then turning with equal fierceness\nupon the French infantry, they beat them back with terrible loss.\"[2]\n\n[2: Fortescue, _History of the Army_.]\n\nYet again the enemy came on; squadrons that up to now had not\nencountered those terrible islanders, thundered down upon them,\nundaunted. Through the first line this time the horsemen burst their\nway, and surely now they must carry all before them. But no farther went\nthe measure of their success; the second line shattered them to\nfragments, and all was over. Back behind the ramparts fell the French,\ncrushed and dispirited, for nothing now remained to them but surrender.\nAnd for this great victory Prince Ferdinand's thanks were chiefly\nbestowed on those British regiments whose magnificent valour and\nsteadiness had alone made it possible.\n\nBut the British cavalry, under Lord George Sackville, did not come in\nfor equal commendation. Lord George and the Prince had long been at\ndaggers drawn. Hence, probably, it may have been, that when the French\nwere broken and in full flight, and Prince Ferdinand's repeated orders\nto bring up his cavalry reached Lord George, that officer ignored or\nwilfully disobeyed them. The Marquis of Granby, Lord George's second in\ncommand, had already begun to move forward with the Blues, and behind\nwere the Scots Greys and other famous regiments, thirsting to be at the\nthroats of the French. But Lord George Sackville's peremptory orders\nbrought them to a grudging and reluctant halt. Thus, throughout an\nengagement which brought honour so great to their countrymen, the\nBritish cavalry stood idle in the rear, chafing at their inaction and\nopenly murmuring.\n\nAnd now that all chance of further fighting was over for the day,\nparties of the men, irritated and bent on picking a quarrel, had strayed\nfrom their own lines, and made their way over to the bivouacs of the\nBritish infantry regiments, where already camp fires were twinkling, and\nthe men around them slaking with wine throats parched by long hours of\nmarching and fighting.\n\nThose were days when, after a victory, discipline went to the wall and\nwas practically non-existent; they were days when the bodies of those\nwho were killed in action were robbed, almost as they fell--nay, when\neven the wounded, as they lay helpless, were stripped naked by their own\ncomrades and left to perish on the field (though _that_, indeed, was\ncommon enough amongst our troops even in the Peninsular War half a\ncentury later). And now, here at Minden, as ever after a great\nengagement, when villages or towns are sacked, much plunder had fallen\ninto the hands of the victorious army; wine and brandy from the\nwine-houses of the wrecked villages was being poured recklessly down the\never-thirsty throats of the men, and soldiers, already half drunk, were\nto be seen knocking out the heads of up-ended wine-casks the quicker to\nget at their contents, whilst others, shouting and singing, reeled\nabout, many of them perhaps with a couple of loaves, or a ham, or what\nnot, stuck on their bayonets. Such scenes, and scenes worse by far,\nwere but too common in those days, and even the authority of officers\nwas of small avail at such a time.\n\nInto the midst of such a pandemonium as this came small parties of the\ncavalry, most of them already excited with drink and ready for any\ndevilry. Among the noisiest and most quarrelsome of the dragoons were\ntwo non-commissioned officers--brutal-looking ruffians both of them--who\nmade their way from group to group, drinking wherever the chance\noffered, shouting obscene songs, and making themselves insufferably\noffensive whenever a man more quietly disposed than his comrades\nhappened to be met. Boastful and quarrelsome, these two, with a few\ndragoons of different regiments, at length attached themselves to\nSempil's Regiment, amongst whom it chanced that a group of men, more\nquiet and well-behaved than the general run, sat around a fire, cleaning\ntheir arms or cooking rations, and discussing the battle and the heavy\nlosses of the regiment. It was not difficult to guess that the majority\nof the group were men bred among the great, sweeping, round-backed hills\nof the Scottish Border--from \"up the watters\" in Selkirk or\nPeeblesshires, some of them, others again perhaps from Liddesdale,\nEskdale, or Annandale, or one of the many dales famous in Border\nhistory; you could hear it in their tongue. But also there was in those\nquiet, strongly-built men something that spoke of the old, dour,\nunconquerable, fighting Border stock that for so many centuries lived\nat feud with English neighbours. Many of them had joined the regiment\nfour years earlier, when it had passed through the Border on its march\nfrom Fort William to Buckinghamshire.\n\nBut if they had seen much service since then, never had they seen\nanything to approach this famous day of Minden, and as the long casualty\nlist was discussed, many were the good Border names mentioned that\nbelonged to men now lying stiff and cold in death, who that morning when\nthe sun rose were hale and well.\n\n\"Rob Scott's gane,\" said one.\n\n\"Ay, and Tam Elliot,\" said a grizzled veteran. \"I kenned, and _he_\nkenned, he wad never win through this day. He telled me that his deid\nfaither, him that was killed at Prestonpans, had twice appeared tae him.\nAnd we a' ken what _that_ aye means. Some o' you dragoon lads maybe saw\nas muckle as ye cared for o' auld Scotland that day o' Prestonpans?\"\n\n\"And if we did, Scottie, we made up for it later,\" bawled one of the two\ndragoon non-commissioned officers.\n\n\"Ay? And whan was that, lad? At Falkirk, belike!\"\n\n\"No, it wasn't at Falkirk, Scottie. But fine sport we had when we went\nhuntin' down them rebels about your Border country, after Culloden had\nsettled their business. By G----! I mind once I starved an old Scotch\nwitch that lived up there among your cursed hills. She was preaching,\nand psalm-singing, and bragging about how the Lord would provide for the\nwidowed and fatherless, or some cant of that sort. But _I_ soon put her\nto the test.\"\n\n\"Ay?\" said a stern-faced, youngish man, dressed in the uniform of a\nprivate of Sempil's Regiment, jumping up hurriedly in front of the\ndragoon, \"ay? And what did ye do?\"\n\n\"Do?\" replied the cavalryman; \"why, I just sliced the throat of the old\nwitch's cow, and I cut all her garden stuff and threw it into the burn.\nI'm thinking it would take a deal o' prayer to get the better o' that!\nBut, oh! no doubt the Lord would provide, as she said,\" sneered the man.\n\n\"And was that in Nithsdale?\" asked the young Borderer.\n\n\"It was,\" said the dragoon.\n\n\"An' ye did that, an' ye hae nae thocht o' repentance?\"\n\n\"Repentance! What's there to repent? D---- you, I tell you she was a\nwitch, and I gave her no more than a witch deserves,\" roared the\nhalf-tipsy dragoon.\n\n\"Then, by God! I tell _you_ it was my mother that you mishandled that\nday. Draw! you bloody dog! Draw!\" shouted the now thoroughly roused\nBorderer, snatching from its scabbard the sabre of a dragoon who stood\nclose at hand.\n\nIt was no great fight. The cavalryman had doubtless by far the greater\nskill with the sabre; but drink muddled his brain and hampered his\nmovements, and the whirlwind attack of the younger man gave no rest to\nhis opponent nor opportunity to steady himself. In little more than a\nminute the dragoon lay gasping out his life.\n\n\"Had ye rued what ye did, ye should hae been dealt wi' only by your\nMaker,\" muttered the Borderer as the dead man's comrades bore away the\nbody. \"Little did I look to see _you_ this day after a' they years, or\nto have _your_ bluid on my hands. It was an ill chance that brought us\nthegither again, and an ill day for me an' mine that lang syne brought\nyou into our quiet glen.\"\n\nBut the incident did not end here. The private soldier had slain his\nsuperior in rank, and but for the strenuous representations of his\ncompany commander and sure friend, a native of his own part of the\nBorder, it had gone hard with Private Maxwell.\n\nThe story, as told to his captain, was this. Maxwell, then a half-grown\nboy, lived with his mother in a lonely cottage in a quiet Dumfriesshire\nglen. They came of decent folk, but were very poor, sometimes in the\nwinter being even hard put to it to find sufficient food. The father,\nand all the family but this one boy, were dead; the former had perished\non the hill during a great snowstorm, and the sons, long after, had all\ndied, swept off by an outbreak of smallpox. Thus the widow and her one\nremaining boy were left almost in destitution; but by the exercise of\nsevere economy and by hard work, they managed to cling to their little\ncottage.\n\nOne morning--it was a day in the summer of 1746; the heather was\nbursting into bloom, shadows of great fleecy clouds trailed sleepily\nover the quiet hillsides, larks sang high in the heavens, blue-bells\nswung their heads lazily in the gentle breeze, and all things spoke of\npeace--there came the tramp of horses down the glen, past the rocks\nwhere the rowan-trees grew, and so up to the cottage door.\n\n\"Hi, old lady!\" shouted the sergeant in charge of a half-dozen dragoons,\n\"we must ha' some'at to eat and drink. We've been scouring them infernal\nhills since break o' day, and it's time we picked a bit.\"\n\n\"Weel, sirs,\" said the poor widow, \"it's but little I hae gotten, but\nthat little ye shall freely hae.\" And she brought them \"lang kale\" and\nbutter, and for drink offered them new milk, saying, as she handed it to\nthe man, that this was her whole stock.\n\n\"Whole stock!\" growled one who did not relish such food, \"whole stock! A\nlikely story! I daresay, if the truth was known, the old hag's feeding a\nrebel she's got hidden away in some snug hole hereaway.\"\n\n\"'Deed, sirs, there's no rebels here. An' that's a' my son an' me has to\nlive on.\"\n\n\"How do you live in this outlandish spot all the year round, then,\nmistress?\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir,\" said the woman, \"the cow and the kailyaird, and whiles a\npickle oat meal, wi' God's blessing, is a' my _mailen_. The Lord has\nprovided for the widow and the faitherless, and He'll aye provide.\"\n\n\"We'll soon see about that,\" said the ruffian. With his sabre, and\npaying no heed to the helpless woman's lamentations or to the\nhalf-hearted remonstrances of his comrades, he killed the poor widow's\ncow; then going to the little patch of garden, he tore up and threw into\nthe burn all the stock of kail.\n\n\"There, you old rebel witch,\" said he, with a heartless laugh, as the\nparty set forward again, \"you may live on God's blessing now.\"\n\nIt broke the poor toil-worn widow's heart, and she died ere the summer\nwas ended. Lost to the ken of his few friends, her boy wandered\nsorrowfully to another part of the country, and winter storms soon left\nbut the crumbling walls and broken roof of what had been his home.\n\nThirteen years, almost to a day, passed ere fate brought together again\nthe man who committed that foul wrong and his surviving victim. If\nretribution came with halting foot, it came none the less surely, for\n\"though the mills of God grind slowly, they grind exceeding small.\"\n\n\n\n\nHIGHWAYMEN IN THE BORDER\n\n\nIt can scarcely be said that the Border, either north or south of Tweed,\nhas ever as a field of operations been favoured by highwaymen. Fat\npurses were few in those parts, and if he attempted to rob a farmer\nhomeward bound from fair or tryst--one who, perhaps, like Dandie Dinmont\non such an occasion, temporarily carried rather more sail than he had\nballast for--a knight of the road would have been quite as likely to\ntake a broken head as a full purse.\n\nThere has occasionally been some disposition to claim as a north country\nasset, Nevison, the notorious highwayman, who is said to have been the\ntrue hero of the celebrated ride to York, which, in his novel,\n_Rookwood_, Mr. Harrison Ainsworth assigns to Dick Turpin. Nevison,\nhowever, was a north countryman only in the sense that he was born in\nYorkshire, and he never did frequent any part of the north country, but\nconfined his operations chiefly to districts adjacent to London, where\nhe flew at higher game than in those days was generally to be found\ntravelling Border roads. Nor in reality was it he who took that great\nride to York. The feat was accomplished in the year 1676 by a man named\nNicks, if Defoe's account is to be relied on. Nicks committed a robbery\nat Gadshill, near Chatham, at about four o'clock one summer's morning.\nKnowing that, in spite of his crape mask, his victim had recognised him,\nNicks galloped to Gravesend, where, together with his mare, he crossed\nthe Thames by boat, then swung smartly across country to Chelmsford, and\nthence on, with only necessary halts to bait his horse, by way of\nCambridge, through Huntingdon, and so on to the Great North Road.\nWithout ever changing his mount, he reached York early that evening,\nhaving taken only fifteen hours for a journey of two hundred miles. If\nthe time is correct, she must have been a great mare, and he a\nconsummate horse-master. At his subsequent trial, as it was proved\nbeyond question that in the evening of the day on which the robbery took\nplace he had played bowls in York with well-known citizens, the jury,\nholding it to be impossible that any person could have been on the same\nday in two places so far apart as Gadshill and York, on that ground\nacquitted the prisoner.\n\nBut if Nevison, nor Nicks, nor Turpin, ever crossed into Scotland, there\nwere others, less known to fame, who occasionally tried their fortune in\nthat country. In the early part of the year 1664, robberies, highway and\notherwise, were of extraordinary frequency in Scotland, and this was\nattributed to the great poverty then prevalent amongst the people,\nowing to \"the haill money of the kingdom being spent by the frequent\nresort of our Scotsmen at the Court of England.\"\n\nIn 1692-3 there seems to have been what one might almost call an\nepidemic of highway robbery over the southern part of Scotland, and he\nwas quite a picturesque ruffian who robbed William M'Fadyen near\nDumfries on 10th December 1692. Or, rather, there were two ruffians\nengaged in the affair. M'Fadyen was a drover who had been paid at\nDumfries a sum of \u00a3150 for cattle sold. Sleeping overnight in the town,\nthe drover started for home next morning before daylight. Possibly he\nhad seen at the inn the previous evening some one whose appearance or\nmanner made him uneasy, and being a cautious man, with a good deal of\nmoney in his possession, he had hoped by an early start to give this\nsuspected person the slip.\n\nA clear, cold December morning, stars winking frostily in a cloudless\nsky, and a waning moon casting sharp black shadows over the whitened\nground, saw him out of Dumfries, and well on his homeward road. And, as\nhe blew on his fingers, and beat his unoccupied hand briskly against his\nthigh, to warm himself withal, M'Fadyen chuckled to think how cleverly\nand quietly he had slipped unnoticed from the inn and through the town.\nThey must be up early indeed who would weather on _him_! And so,\nruminating somewhat vain-gloriously, he pushed on over the ringing\nground, his horse snorting frosty breaths on the chill air, and inclined\nto hump his back and squeal on the smallest excuse. Mile after mile\nslipped easily behind him, and the sun began to show a blood-red face\nover the hill; a \"hare limped trembling through the frozen grass,\" and\ncrows cawed hungrily as they flew past on sluggish, blue-black wing,\nquesting for food. The world was awake now, and M'Fadyen reckoned that\nby a couple of hours after noon he should be safe home with his money.\nOnly--who was that on the road ahead of him? A soldier by his coat,\nsurely, with his servant riding behind. Well, so much the better; that\nwould be company for him over the loneliest part of his ride, across the\nmoor which bore an evil name. So M'Fadyen pressed on, and soon he caught\nup the two riders, first the servant, \"mounted upon ane dark grey horse\"\nand armed with a \"long gun\"; then the master, also riding a dark grey\nhorse, and dressed in a scarlet coat with gold-thread buttons. A tall\nman, the latter--a striking-looking man, quite a personage, with thin\nrefined face and high Roman nose; instead of a wig he wore his own brown\nhair tied in a cue behind, and over one eye he had a notable\npeculiarity, \"a wrat (wart) as big as ane nut.\" In his holsters this\ngentleman carried a brace of pistols.\n\nSurely here was good fortune for M'Fadyen! A party so well armed could\nafford to look with contempt on any highwayman that ever cried \"Stand\nand deliver\" over all broad Scotland. And it was not long before the\nhonest drover, in the joy of his heart at finding himself in such goodly\ncompany, had expressed to the red-coated stranger the pleasure it would\ngive him if he might be granted the escort across the moor of a\ngentleman so well armed and mounted; \"for,\" said he, \"in sic ill times\nit was maist mischancey wark to ride far ane's lane.\" Little objection\nhad the tall gentleman in red to make to such a proposition, and on they\nrode, amicably enough, with just such dryness of manner on the\nstranger's part as the humble drover might expect from an army officer,\nyet nothing to keep his tongue from wagging. \"It was a gey kittle bit\nthey were comin' to, where the firs stude, and he wad hae liked ill to\nbe rubbit. Muckle? O--oo, no; just a wee pickle siller, but nae man\nlikit to lose onything. And folk said they highwayman wad skin the\nbreeks aff a Hielandman. No that he was a Hielandman, though his name\ndid begin wi' a \"Mac.\"\n\nAnd so chattering, they had already won half-way across that lonely\nstretch of moor regarding which the drover had had misgivings. And even\nas they came abreast of that thick clump of stunted firs, up to M'Fadyen\nrode the servant, pointing towards the trees, and saying: \"This is our\nway. Come ye wi' me.\"\n\nThere were few roads--such as they were--in the south of Scotland with\nwhich M'Fadyen's business as a drover had not made him familiar, and\nnaturally he refused now to leave a track which he knew to be the right\none. Whereupon the servant up with his \"long-gun\" and struck him heavily\nover the head with the butt; and as M'Fadyen strove to defend himself\nand to retaliate, up rode the master, clapped a pistol to his breast,\nand forced him to go with them behind the clump of trees. The last\nM'Fadyen saw of his pleasant escort was the two knaves cantering over\nthe heath, bearing with them his cloak-bag containing his \u00a3150.\n\nA great fuss was made over this robbery, and the Privy Council took the\nmatter up. The chief robber was undoubtedly an officer, said M'Fadyen,\nand besides the large wart over his eye, there were other marks which\nmade him noticeable--for example, \"the little finger of his left hand\nbowed towards his loof.\" Notwithstanding these tell-tale marks, neither\nrobber was ever found; M'Fadyen and his hard-earned \u00a3150 had parted\ncompany for ever. And though the Privy Council went so far as to\n\"recommend Sir James Leslie, commander-in-chief for the time being of\ntheir Majesties' forces within this kingdom, to cause make trial if\nthere be any such person, either officer or soldier, amongst their\nMajesties' forces, as the persons described,\" no one was ever brought\nto book, either amongst the troops in Scotland, or amongst \"the officers\nwhich are come over from Flanders to levy recruits.\"\n\nNot so fortunate as this scarlet-coated gentleman was Mr. Hudson,\n_alias_ Hazlitt, who in 1770 stopped a post-chaise on Gateshead Fell,\nnear Newcastle, and robbed the occupant, a lady who was returning to\nNewcastle from Durham. A poor-spirited creature was this Hudson, a\nlittle London clerk gone wrong, and he trembled so excessively when\nrobbing the lady that she plucked up spirit, and, protesting that half a\nguinea was all she had, got off with the loss of that modest sum, not\neven having her watch taken. Despite his pistol, one cannot but feel\nthat of the two the lady was the better man, and that, had it occurred\nto her, she might very readily have bundled the highwayman neck and crop\ninto her chaise, and handed him over to the authorities.\n\nHis career, however, was almost as brief as if she had done so. That\nsame evening he robbed a mounted postman of his mail-bags--having first\nascertained that the postman was unarmed. And here Hudson came to the\nend of his tether. The postman gave the alarm, and the robber was\narrested in Newcastle the following day, some of the property lost from\nthe mail-bags still in his possession. At his trial the following week\nat Durham Assizes he did not attempt to make any defence, but after\nconviction, by confessing where the booty was hid, he made what\nreparation lay in his power. Poor wretch! He had not even the posthumous\nsatisfaction of going down to posterity as a bold, bad man, a hero of\nthe road. Not for him was it to emulate Jack Shepherd or Dick Turpin; he\nwas of feebler clay, unfitted to excel in evil-doing.\n\nAfter the barbarous fashion of the day, they hanged his body in chains\non the scene of his poor, feebly-executed crimes; and there, on\nGateshead Fell, through many a dreary winter's night, fringed with\nloathly icicles, lashed by rains, battered by hail, dangled that\npitiful, shrunken figure, creaking dolefully, as it swung to and fro in\nthe bitter blasts that come howling in from a storm-tossed North Sea.\nAnd far from acting as the warning intended to others, so little was\nthis gruesome thing a \"terror to evil-doers,\" that the vicinity of the\ngibbet actually became a place noted for the frequency of crimes of\nviolence.\n\nThere have been others, of course, who might perhaps be recognised as\nBorder highwaymen, though not many of them could claim to have achieved\neven moderate notoriety. Drummond, who was hanged at Tyburn in 1730,\ncertainly began his infamous career in the north, but that was quite a\npetty beginning, and--at least after his return from transportation to\nthe Virginian Plantations--his chief haunts were Hounslow or Bagshot\nHeaths, or other places in the neighbourhood of London.\n\nBut at least there was one Border highwayman--or is \"footpad\" here the\nmore correct term?--who, if the story is true, may surely claim to have\nbeen the most picturesque and romantic of criminals. In this instance\nthe malefactor was a woman, not a man, and her name was Grizel Cochrane,\nmember of (or at least sprung from) a noble family, which later produced\none of the most famous seamen in the annals of naval history. Her story\nis very well known, and it may therefore be sufficient to say here that\nher father, having been concerned in one of the many political\nconspiracies which in those days were judged to merit death, lay in\nprison under sentence, and that, to save his life, the brave lady,\ndisguised as a man, on two separate occasions, on Tweedmouth moor,\nrobbed the mail by which her father's death warrant was being conveyed\nfrom London to Edinburgh. Thus she twice prevented the sentence from\nbeing carried out, and eventually the prisoner was pardoned.\n\nThe greater number of highway robberies in the Border, however, were\naccomplished without the aid of a horse or the disguise of a crape mask.\nThe Border highwayman, as a rule, was no picturesque Claude Duval, no\nchivalrous villain of romance who would tread a measure in the moonlight\nwith the lady whose coach he had plundered, thereafter returning her\njewels in recompense for the favour of the dance. He was much more often\nof the squalid type--in a word, a footpad--frequently a member of some\nwandering gipsy gang, who, attending country fair or tryst, had little\ndifficulty in ascertaining which one of the many farmers present it\nwould be easiest and most profitable to rob as he steered his more or\nless devious course homeward in the evening across the waste. What the\nfarmer had that day been paid for his cattle or sheep he usually carried\nwith him, probably in the form of gold; for in those days there were of\ncourse no country agencies of banks in which the money might be safely\ndeposited. Not unusually, too, the farmer had swallowed enough liquor to\nmake him reckless of consequences; and the loneliness of the\ncountry-side, and the absence of decent roads, too often combined with\nthe condition of the farmer to make him an easy prey to some little band\nof miscreants who had dogged him from the fair.\n\nFrequently, too, these robbers were in league with the keepers of low\nroadside public-houses, where passengers on their homeward way were\nencouraged--nothing loth, as a rule--to halt and refresh steed and\nrider, and possibly whilst they drank their pistols were tampered with.\nWho does not remember the meeting of Harry Bertram and Dandie Dinmont in\nsuch a place? And who has not read in the author's notes to _Guy\nMannering_, Sir Walter's account of the visit to Mump's Ha' of Fighting\nCharlie of Liddesdale, and what befell him thereafter? In spite of a\nhead that the potations pressed on him by an over-kind landlady had\ncaused to hum like an angry hive of bees, Charlie had sense enough,\nafter he had travelled a few miles on his homeward way, to examine his\npistols. Finding that the charges had been drawn and tow substituted,\nCharlie, now considerably sobered, carefully reloaded them, a precaution\nwhich certainly saved his money, and possibly his life as well, for he\nwas presently attacked by a party of armed men, who, however, fled on\nfinding that \"the tow was out.\"\n\nMump's Ha' was in Cumberland, near Gilsland. In olden days it was a\nplace of most evil repute, but one may question if in ill name it could\ntake precedence of a similar establishment which in the days of our\ngreat-grandfathers stood on Soutra Hill, on the Lauder road. Travellers\nhad need to give this place a wide berth, for it was a veritable\nden--indeed \"Lowrie's Den\" was the name by which it was known, and\nfeared, by every respectable person. Many a bloody, drunken fight took\nplace there, many were the evil deeds done and the robberies committed;\nnot even was murder unknown in its immediate vicinity.\n\nWell for us that in our day we know of such places only by ancient\nrepute. When we talk regretfully of \"the good old days,\" we are apt to\nleave out of the reckoning those Mump's Ha's and Lowrie's Dens of our\nforefathers' times; we forget to add to the burden of a journey such\nitems as indifferent roads and highway robbers, and the possibility of\nreaching one's destination minus purse, watch, or rings. From an\nencounter with highwaymen, few passengers emerged with flying colours,\nhaving had the best of the deal. Not to many persons was such fortune\ngiven as fell to the lot of a country lass near Kelso one winter's\nevening. She had little enough to lose in the way of money or valuables,\nand it was \"bogles,\" more than the fear of footpads that disturbed her\nmind as she stumped along that muddy road in the gathering gloom.\nConsequently, after one terrified shriek, it was almost a relief to her\nto find that the two figures which bounced out on her from the\nblackness, demanding her money, were flesh and blood like herself, and\nnot denizens of another world. Five or six shillings was all that the\npoor lass possessed, but they took that paltry sum. Only, when she pled\nhard that they should leave her at least a trifle to take to her mother,\nwho was very poor, one of the footpads relented, and with a gruff, \"Hey,\nthen!\" thrust three coins back into her not unwilling hand. With a\nmixture of joy and fear the girl fled into the darkness, but as she ran,\nshe thought she heard a shout, and soon, to her consternation, she made\ncertain that hurrying footsteps were coming up behind her. In dire\nterror now, she left the road, and crept into some bushes in an adjacent\nhollow. There, with thumping heart, she cowered whilst two men ran\npast, and presently, whilst she still lay hid, they returned, vowing\nloud vengeance on some person who had \"done\" them. It was long ere the\npoor girl dared leave her shelter, late ere she got home to tell her\ntale to an anxious mother. But when the three rescued shillings were\nproduced, the cause of the robbers' anger was not far to seek; they were\nnot shillings that came this time from the depths of a capacious pocket,\nbut three golden guineas.\n\n\n\n\nCIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE\n\n\nWhen the skipper of some small coastal trading craft is able to retire\nfrom leading a sea-faring life, it is usually within close range of the\nbriny, tarry whiffs that with every breeze come puffing from the harbour\nof some little port out of which he has formerly traded that he sets up\nhis shore-going abode. There, when he has paid off for the last time,\nand everything, so to speak, is coiled down and made ship-shape, he\nsettles within easy hail of old cronies like himself; and if he should\nchance to be one of those who have lived all their days with only their\nship for wife, then he not unnaturally falls easily into the habit of\ndropping, of an evening, into the snug, well-lit bar-parlour of the\n\"Goat and Compasses\" or the \"Mariner's Friend,\" or some such house of\nentertainment, with its glowing fire and warm, seductive, tobacco-and\ngrog-scented atmosphere, there to wile away the time swopping yarns with\nold friends. Sometimes, if opportunity offer, he is not averse from a\nmild game of cards for moderate points; and usually he takes, or at\nleast in old days he used to take, his liquor hot--and strong.\n\nCaptain Alexander Craes was one of those retired merchant skippers; but\nhe had not, like the majority of his fellows, settled near the\nsea-coast. It was Kelso that had drawn him like a loadstone. An\ninland-bred man, in his boyhood he had run away to sea, and the sea,\nthat had irresistibly woed his youthful fancy, had no whit fulfilled his\nboyish dreams. It was not always blue, he found; the ship was not always\nrunning before a spanking breeze; more kicks than ha'pence, more\nrope's-endings than blessings, came his way during the first few years\nof his sailor life. Perhaps it was because he had been ashamed to go\nback and own himself beaten, or perhaps it was his native Border\ndourness that had caused him to stick to it; but at any rate he did\nstick to it--though, like most sailors, he growled, and even swore\nsometimes, that he hated the life. And now, in the winter of 1784-5,\nhere he was in Kelso, stout, weather-beaten, grey-headed, over fifty,\nliving within earshot of the deep voice of flooded Tweed roaring and\nfretting over the barrier with which the devil, at bidding of Michael\nScott the Wizard, long syne dammed its course. Many a time when the\ncaptain's little vessel, close hauled, had been threshing through\nleaden-grey seas under hurrying, leaden-grey skies and bitter snow\nsqualls, with a foul wind persistently pounding at her day after day, he\nhad thought, as some more than ordinarily angry puff whitened the water\nto windward and broke him off his course, with the weather leech of his\nclose-reefed topsail shivering, how pleasant it must be to be a\nlandsman, to go where he pleased in spite of wind or weather. Ah! they\nwere the happy ones, those lucky landsmen, who could always do as they\nchose, blow high, blow low.\n\nWell, here he was at last, drinking in all a landsman's pleasures,\nenjoying his privileges--and not too old yet, he told himself with\nself-conscious chuckle, to raise a pleasant flutter of expectation in\nthe hearts of Kelso's widows and maidens. Not that he was a marrying\nman, he would sometimes protest; far from it, indeed. Yet they did say\nthat the landlord of a rival inn was heard to remark that \"the cauptain\ngaed ower aften to Lucky G----'s howf. It wasna hardlys decent, an' her\nman no deid a twalmonth.\" Maybe, however, the good widow's brand of\nwhisky was more grateful to the captain's palate, or the company\nassembled in her snug parlour lightsomer, or at least less dour, than\nwas to be found at the rival inn, where the landlord was an elder of the\nkirk and most stern opponent of all lightness and frivolity. Whatever\nthe cause, however, it is certain that the captain did acquire the habit\nof dropping in very frequently at the widow's, where he was always a\nwelcome guest. And it was from a merry evening there that, with a\n\"tumbler\" or two inside his ample waistcoat, he set out for home one\nblack February night when a gusty wind drove thin sleety rain rattling\nagainst the window panes of the quiet little town, and emptied the\nsilent, moss-grown streets very effectively.\n\nAn hour or two later, it might be, two men, Adam Hislop and William\nWallace, were noisily steering a somewhat devious and uncertain course\nhomeward, when one of them tripped over a bulky object huddled on the\nground, and with an astonished curse fell heavily.\n\n\"What the de'il's that? Guide us, it's a man! Some puir body the waur o'\nhis drink, ah'm thinkin'. Haud up, maister! Losh! it's the cauptain,\" he\ncried, as with the not very efficient aid of his friend he tried to\nraise the prostrate man. But there was more than drink the matter here.\n\n\"There's bluid on him!\" cried one who had been vainly essaying to clap a\nbattered hat on to the head of the form that lay unconscious in the mud.\nA hard task it was presently, when his senses began to return, to get\nthe wounded sailor unsteadily on his legs; a harder to get him home. The\ncaptain could give but a poor account of how he came to be lying there;\nthickly and indistinctly he tried to explain that he had laid a course\nfor his own moorings, and had been keeping a bright look-out, when\nsuddenly he had been brought up all standing, and he thought he must\nhave run bows on into some other craft, for he remembered no more than\ngetting a crack over his figurehead. Morning was treading on the heels\nof night before Hislop and Wallace had got the damaged man home and had\nleft him safely stowed in bed, and themselves were peacefully snoring,\nunconscious of coming trouble.\n\nA day or two passed quietly, and the damaged man already was little the\nworse of his adventure. Then, however, the rumour quickly spread that\nnot only had the Captain been assaulted, but that he had been robbed.\nGossip flew from tongue to tongue, and folk began to look askance on\nWallace and Hislop, muttering that \"they aye kenned what was to be the\noutcome\"; for who, thought they, but Wallace and Hislop could have been\nthe robbers? They had found him lying, the worse of liquor, having\ndamaged his head in falling, and they had robbed him, either then or\nwhen they undressed him in his room, believing that he would have no\nrecollection of what money he had carried that night, nor, indeed, much\nof the events of the entire evening. It was all quite plain, said those\namateur detectives. They wondered what the fiscal was thinking of that\nhe had not clapped the two in jail lang syne. So it fell out that,\nalmost before they realised their danger, the two men were at Jedburgh,\nbeing tried on a capital charge.\n\nThe evidence brought against them was for the most part of no great\naccount, and the old sea captain was unable to say that either man had\nassaulted him, or, indeed, that he had any clear recollection of\nanything that had happened after he left the inn. They might have got\noff--indeed they _would_ have got off--but for one unfortunate\ncircumstance, which in the eyes of the jury completely damned them. In\npossession of one of them was found a guinea, which the captain had no\nhesitation in identifying as a peculiarly-marked coin which he had\ncarried about with him for many years. That was enough for the jury.\nThey and counsel for the prosecution would credit no explanation.\n\nThe story told by Hislop and Wallace was that on the night of the\nassault they had been drinking and playing cards in a public-house in\nKelso; that late in the evening a soldier had come in and had joined in\nthe game, losing a considerable sum; that in consequence of his losses\nhe had produced a guinea, and had asked if any of the company could\nchange it. Hislop had given change, and the guinea found in his\npossession was that which he had got from the soldier. \"A story that\nwould not for a moment hold water,\" said counsel, when the unfortunate\nmen failed to produce evidence in support of their story; and the judge,\nin his summing up, agreeing with the opinion of counsel for the\nprosecution, the jury brought in a verdict of guilty, and both men were\ncondemned to be hanged.\n\nOn May 17, 1785, this sentence was carried out. But here arose\ncircumstances which caused the credulous--and in those days most people\nwere credulous--first to doubt, and finally to believe implicitly in the\ninnocence of the convicted men. From first to last Wallace and Hislop\nhad both most strongly protested that they were entirely guiltless.\nThat, of course, went for nothing. But when, on the day of execution,\nthe ropes which were used to hang the poor creatures both broke; when\nthe man who ran to fetch sounder hemp fell as he hurried, and broke his\nleg, then the credulous and fickle public began to imagine that\nProvidence was intervening to save men falsely convicted. Then, too, the\ntale spread abroad among a simple-minded people how a girl, sick unto\ndeath, had said to her mother that when Hislop's time came she would be\nin heaven with him; and it was told that as Hislop's body, after\nexecution, was carried into that same tenement, in a room of which the\nsick girl lay, her spirit fled. Judgment, also, was said to have fallen\non a woman who occupied a room in that house, and who had violently and\nexcitedly objected to the body of a hanged man being brought to defile\nany abode which sheltered her. That same evening the body of her own\nson, found drowned in Tweed, was carried over that threshold across\nwhich she had tried to prevent them from bringing the corpse of Hislop.\nAll these events tended to swing round public opinion, and those who\nformerly had been most satisfied of their guilt, now most strenuously\nprotested their entire belief in the innocence of the hanged men. The\nyears slipped away, however, and there had arisen nothing either to\nconfirm or to dissipate this belief; only the story remained fresh in\nthe minds of Border folk, and the horror of the last scene grew rather\nthan lessened with repeated telling.\n\nBut there is a belief--not always borne out by facts--that \"murder will\nout\"; a faith that, \"though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they\ngrind exceeding small.\" Ten years had passed, and the spring of 1795 was\nat hand, when it chanced one day that a citizen of Newcastle, homeward\nbound from Morpeth, had reached a point on the road near Gosforth; here,\nwithout word or challenge, a footpad, springing on to the road, fired a\npistol at the postillion of the postchaise, knocking off the man's cap\nand injuring his face. The frightened horses plunged, and dashed off\nmadly with the vehicle, leaving in the footpad's possession no booty of\ngreater value, however, than the postillion's cap.\n\nLater in the same day the same footpad fired, without effect, on two\nmounted men, who galloped off and gave the alarm, and a well-armed band\nsetting out from Gosforth soon captured the robber, still with the\nincriminating postillion's cap in his possession. He was a man named\nHall, a soldier belonging to the 6th Regiment of Foot, of which a\ndetachment was then stationed in the district. And he was in uniform,\nthough, as a measure of precaution, and not to make himself too\nconspicuous, he wore his tunic turned inside out--a disguise that one\nwould pronounce to be something of the simplest.\n\nThere was, of course, no possible defence--indeed, he owned up, and at\nthe next assizes was condemned to death. And here the link with the fate\nof Wallace and Hislop came in. As he lay awaiting execution, Hall\nconfessed that it was he, that February night in 1785, who had stunned\nand robbed Captain Craes. He had seen the old sailor making his not very\nsteady way homewards, and had followed him, and at the loneliest part of\nthe street, where no house showed a light, he came up behind and tripped\nhim; and as the captain essayed to get again on his feet, Hall had\nstruck him a violent blow on the head with a cudgel, stunning him. The\nman told, too, how a little later he had gone into a public-house to get\na drink, and that there he found some men playing at cards; he had\njoined them, and had lost money, and one of the men (Hislop, as he\nafterwards understood) had changed for him a guinea which he had a\nlittle time before taken from the pocket of the man he had stunned.\n\nThus were Wallace and Hislop added to the long list of the victims of\ncircumstantial evidence.\n\n\n\n\nILLICIT DISTILLING AND SMUGGLING\n\n\nFrom about the close of the seventeenth until well on in the nineteenth\ncentury, smuggling was carried on to a large extent in the Border\ncounties of England and Scotland, not only as regards the evasion of\ncustoms duties on imported articles, but as well in the form of illicit\ndistillation.\n\nIn the good old times, better than half-way through the eighteenth\ncentury, cargoes consisting of ankers of French brandy, bales of lace,\ncases of tobacco, boxes of tea, and what not, were \"run\" almost nightly\non certain parts of the coasts of Berwick, Northumberland, and Galloway,\nborne inland by long strings of pack-horses, and securely hid away in\nsome snug retreat, perhaps far up among the Border hills. Few of the\ninhabitants but looked with lenient eye on the doings of the\n\"free-traders\"; few, very few, deemed it any crime to take advantage of\ntheir opportunities for getting liquor, tea, and tobacco at a cheaper\nrate than they could buy the same articles after they had paid toll to\nthe King. Smuggled goods, too, were thought to possess quality and\nflavour better than any belonging to those that had come ashore in\nlegitimate fashion; the smuggler's touch, perhaps, in this respect was--\n\n     \"... sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes\n     Or Cytherea's breath\";\n\nit imparted to the brandy, apparently, a vague, unnameable something\nthat tickled the palate of the drinker, to the tobacco an extra aroma\nthat was grateful to the nostrils of those who smoked it. Nay, the very\nterm \"smuggled\" raised the standard of those goods in the estimation of\nsome very honest folk, and caused them to smack their lips in\nanticipation. Perhaps this superstition as to the supreme quality of\nthings smuggled is not even yet wholly dead. Who has not met the hoary\nwaterside ruffian, who, whispering low,--or at least as low as a throat\nrendered husky by much gin _can_ whisper,--intimates that he can put the\n\"Captain\" (he'd promote you to be \"Admiral\" on the spot if he thought\nthat thereby he might flatter you into buying) on to the \"lay\" of some\ncigars--\"smuggled,\" he breathes from behind a black and horny paw, whose\ncondition alone would taint the finest Havanna that ever graced the lips\nof king or duke--the like of which may be found in no tobacconist's\nestablishment in the United Kingdom. There have been young men, greatly\ndaring, who have been known to traffic with this hoary ruffian, and who\nhave lived to be sadder and wiser men. Of the flavour of those weeds the\nwriter cannot speak, but the reek is as the reek which belches from the\nPit of Tophet. However, in the eighteenth century our forefathers, for a\nvariety of reasons, greatly preferred the smuggled goods, and many a\nsquire or wealthy landowner, many a magistrate even, found it by no\nmeans to his disadvantage if on occasion he should be a little blind; a\nstill tongue might not unlikely be rewarded by the mysterious arrival of\nan anker of good French brandy, or by something in the silk, or lace, or\ntea line for the ladies of his household. People saw no harm in such\ndoings in those good old days; defrauding the revenue was fair game. And\nif a \"gauger\" lost his life in some one or other of the bloody\nencounters that frequently took place between the smugglers and the\nrevenue officers, why, so much the worse for the \"gauger.\" He was an\nunnecessarily officious sort of a person, who had better have kept out\nof the way. In fact, popular sentiment was entirely with the smugglers,\nwho by the bulk of the population were regarded with the greatest\nadmiration. Smuggling, indeed, was so much a recognised trade or\nprofession that there was actually a fixed rate at which smuggled goods\nwere conveyed from place to place; for instance, for tea or tobacco from\nthe Solway to Edinburgh the tariff was fifteen shillings per box or\nbale. A man, therefore, owning three or four horses could, with luck,\nmake a very tidy profit on the carriage, for each horse would carry two\npackages, and the distances were not great. There was certainly a good\nsporting chance of the convoy being captured in transit, but the\nsmugglers were daring, determined men, and the possibility of a brush\nwith the preventive officers merely added zest to the affair.\n\nOf the other, the distilling branch of the smugglers' business, a great\ndeal was no doubt done in those lonely hills of Northumberland and\nRoxburgh and the other Border counties. There they had wealth of fuel,\nabundance of water, and a plentiful choice of solitary places admirably\nadapted to their purpose; it was easy to rig up a bothy, or hut of turf\nthatched with heather, in some secluded spot far from the haunts of\ninconvenient revenue officers, and a Still that would turn out excellent\nspirit was not difficult to construct. With reasonable care the thing\nmight be done almost with impunity--though there was never wanting, of\ncourse, the not entirely unpleasurable excitement of knowing that you\nwere breaking the law, that somebody _might_ have turned informer, and\nthat at any moment a raid might be made. Every unknown face necessarily\nmeant danger, each stranger was a person to be looked on with suspicion\ntill proved harmless. Even the friends and well-wishers of the illicit\ndistiller did not always act in the way most conducive to his comfort\nand well-being, for if his still turned out a whisky that was extra\nseductive, he speedily became so popular, so run after, and the list of\nhis acquaintances so extended, that sooner or later tidings of his\nwhereabouts leaked round to the ears of the gaugers, and arrest, or a\nhasty midnight flitting, was the outcome. Besides, such popularity\nbecame a severe tax on the pocket of the distiller, for the better the\nwhisky the greater the number of those who desired to sample it, and the\noftener they sampled it, the more they yearned to repeat the process.\nNor was it safe to make a charge for the liquor thus consumed, lest it\nmight chance that some one of those who partook of it might, out of\nrevenge for being charged, lay an information.\n\nAbout the end of the eighteenth century there lived in a remote glen on\nCheviot a Highlander, one Donald M'Donald, who was famous for the\nsoftness and flavour of the spirit he distilled. Whether it was a\npeculiar quality imparted to his whisky by some secret process known\nonly to Donald himself, a knowledge and skill perhaps handed down from\nfather to son from generation to generation, like the secret of the\nbrewing of heather ale that died with the last of the Picts, one cannot\nsay. Only the fact remains that, like the heather ale of old, Donald's\nwhisky was held in high esteem, its effects on the visitors who began in\nnumbers to seek the seclusion of his bothy, as \"blessed\" as were ever\nthose of that earlier mysterious beverage beloved of our Pictish\nancestors:\n\n     \"From the bonny bells of heather\n       They brewed a drink long-syne,\n     Was sweeter far than honey,\n       Was stronger far than wine.\n     They brewed it, and they drank it,\n       And lay in a blessed swound\n     For days and days together\n       In their dwellings underground.\"\n\nDonald M'Donald had formerly been a smuggler, but he had wearied of that\ntoo active life, and he had longed for an occupation more sedentary and\nless strenuous. Distilling suited his temperament to a nicety. It was\nwhat he had been used to see as a boy when his parents were alive, for\nhis father before him had been a \"skeely\" man in that line. So Donald\nbuilt to himself a kind of hut in a wild, unfrequented glen. A little\nburn, clear and brown, ran chattering past his door; on the knolls\namongst the heather grouse cocks crowed merrily in the sunny August\nmornings, and the wail of curlews smote sadly on the ear through the\nlong-drawn summer twilights. Seldom did human foot tread the heather of\nthat glen in the days before Donald took up his abode there; to the\nraven and the mountain-fox, the muir-fowl and the whaup, alone belonged\nthat kingdom.\n\nFrom afar you might perhaps smell the peat reek as he worked his\nprimitive Still, but unless the smoke of his fire betrayed him, or you\nknew the secret of his whereabouts, it had been hard to detect the\nexistence of Donald's hut, so skilfully was it constructed, so gently\ndid it blend into the surrounding landscape. Even if it were\naccidentally come upon, there was nothing immediately visible which\ncould excite suspicion. At a bend in the stream, where the banks were\nsteep, and the burn tumbled noisily over a little linn, dashing past the\nrowan trees that clung there amongst its rocks, and plunging headlong\ninto a deep black pool, stood Donald's hut. Little better than a\n\"lean-to\" against a huge rock, it seemed; at one end a rude doorway,\nfilled by a crazy door that stood ajar, walls of turf, windowless and\nheather-thatched, innocent of chimney, but with an opening that allowed\nthe smoke of his fires to steal up the face of the rock before it\ndispersed into the air. That was all that might be seen at first\nglance--that and a stack of peat near the door. Inside, there were a\ncouple of rough tables, made of boards, one or two even rougher seats, a\nquantity of heather in a corner, tops upper-most, to serve as a bed;\nfarther \"ben,\" some bulky things more than half hidden in the deep gloom\nof that part of the hut that was farthest from the door and from the\nlight of the fire. And over and through everything an all-pervading reek\nof peat that brought water to the eyes of those not inured to such an\natmosphere, and caused them to cough grievously. To the Highlander it\nwas nothing; he had been born in such an atmosphere, and had lived in\nit most of his days. But to visitors it was trying, till Donald's Dew of\nCheviot rendered them indifferent to the minor ills of life.\n\nOne day, as Donald was busily engaged with his Still, a charge for which\nhe was just about starting, there came to the door of his hut a man\nleading a horse from which he had just dismounted. This man did not wait\nfor an invitation to enter, but, having made fast his reins to the\nbranch of a neighbouring rowan tree, walked in and sat down, with a mere\n\"Good day.\"\n\n\"A ferry goot tay,\" politely replied Donald. But he was not altogether\nhappy over the advent of this stranger; there was a something in the\nmanner of the man that roused suspicion. However, there he was. It\nremained only to make the best of it, and to be careful not to show that\nhe suspected anything. Perhaps the man was harmless after all; and, in\nany case, it might be just as well to pretend that he was not possessed\nof any great knowledge of English. There was nothing to be gained by\ntalking.\n\n\"Have ye not such a thing as a drop of spirits in the house?\" inquired\nthe stranger. \"I'm tired with my ride.\"\n\nDonald \"wasna aaltogether sure. Mebbes perhaps there micht pe a wee\ndrappie left in ta bottle.\" But there was no dearth of fluid in the\nbottle that, with Highland hospitality, he set before the strange man,\nalong with cheese and oatcake. Donald took a liberal \"sup\" himself, and\nsat down, purposely near the door, just in case of any possible coming\ntrouble, and out of the corner of his eye he kept a wary gaze on his\nuninvited guest, who had also helped himself liberally to the whisky,\nand was already making a great onslaught on the cheese and oatcake.\n\n\"Aye, capital whisky; cap-i-tal whisky,\" said the stranger graciously.\n\"And I daresay there's more where that came from, if the truth were\nkenned.\"\n\nBut that was a suggestion which Donald found it convenient to ignore. He\nhad \"ferry little English,\" he said.\n\n\"And I daresay, now,\" pursued the stranger, in tones if anything perhaps\na trifle over-hearty, \"I daresay, now, the devil a drop of it will ever\nhave helped to line the King's pocket? Eh?\"\n\nBut here, again, Donald's knowledge of English was at fault; he \"wad no\npe kennin' fhat his honour's sel' wad pe sayin'.\"\n\n\"And what might your name be?\" presently inquired this over-inquisitive\nguest.\n\n\"Ach, it micht joost pe Tonal,\" said the Highlander.\n\n\"Donald? Aye, and what more than Donald?\"\n\n\"Ooh, there wull pe no muckle mair. They will joost be calling me Tonal\nM'Tonal.\"\n\n\"Donald M'Donald? Aye, aye. I thought so. Well, Donald, I'm an excise\nofficer, and you've been distilling whisky contrary to the law. I'll\njust overhaul your premises, and then you'll be coming with me as a\nprisoner. And you'd best come quietly.\"\n\n\"Preesoner?--_Preesoner_? Her honour will no be thinkin' o' sic a thing.\nThere micht aiblins pe a thing or twa in ta hoose tat his honour wad pe\nlikin' to tak' away, but it iss no possible tat he can do onything wi'\nher nainsel'.\"\n\n\"It's no use talking, my mannie. Duty's duty. You must come wi' me.\"\n\n\"Ochon! Ochon! Tuty wull pe a pad thing when it's a wee pit pisness sic\nas this. Yer honour wull joost be takin' the pits o' things in ta bothy,\nan' her nainsel' wull gang awa' an' no say naething aboot it at aal.\"\n\n\"I'm not here to argue with you,\" cried the exciseman, getting\nimpatient. \"You're my prisoner. I confiscate everything here. If there's\nany resistance, I can summon help whenever I please. You'd best come\nquietly.\"\n\n\"Oh, 'teed tat's ferry hard; surely to cootness very hard indeet. But\nshe wull no pe thinkin' aaltogether tat she wull pe driven joost like a\nmuckle prute beast either. Her nainsel' wull mebbes hef a wheen freends\ntat could gie her help if she was wantin't. Could ye told me if there\nwud pe ony o' them tat wad pe seem' yer honour comin' in here?\"\n\n\"Not one of _your_ friends, my mannie. Nor nobody else.\"\n\n\"Then, by Gott, there wull pe nopody tat wull pe seem' ye go oot,\"\nshouted Donald in an excited, high-pitched scream, as he snatched a\nheavy horse-pistol from behind the door, and cocked it. \"If ye finger\neither your swort or your pistol, your plood wull pe on your ain head.\nShe wull pe plowin' your prains oot.\"\n\nA very different man this from the submissive, almost cringing, creature\nof a few minutes back! Now, there stood a man with set mouth and eyes\nthat blazed evilly; the pistol that covered the gauger was steady as a\nrock, and a dirk in the Highlander's left hand gleamed ominously as it\nreflected the glow from the fire in the middle of the room.\n\nThe exciseman had jumped to his feet at Donald's first outburst. But he\nhad underrated his man, and now it was too late. To attempt to draw a\npistol now would be fatal--that was a movement with which he should have\nopened the affair. The exciseman was disposed to try bluster; but\nbluster does not always win a trick in the game, more especially when\nthe ace of trumps, in the shape of a pistol, is held by the adversary.\nIn this instance, after a long glance at the Highlander, the gauger's\neyes wavered and fell; he swallowed hard in his throat once or twice,\nand lost colour; and finally he sat down in the seat from which a\nminute ago he had sprung full of fight. Then slowly, and almost as it\nseemed, against his own volition, his hand went out and closed on the\nwhisky bottle. He helped himself largely, drank copiously, without\ndiluting too much with water, but still said never a word. Now his\ncolour came back a little, and he nibbled at the oatcake and cheese.\nThen more whisky. Gradually the man became talkative--even laughed now\nand then a trifle unsteadily. And all the time Donald kept on him a\nwatchful eye, and had him covered, giving him no opportunity to turn the\ntables. For here the Highlander saw his chance. He had no wish to murder\nthe gauger, but, at any price, he was not going to be taken. If,\nhowever, he kept the man a little longer in his present frame of mind,\nit was very evident that presently the exciseman would be too tipsy to\ndo anything but go to sleep. And so it proved. From being merely\nmerry--in a fashion somewhat tempered by the ugly, threatening muzzle of\na pistol, he became almost friendly; from friendly he became aggrieved,\nmoaning over the insult that a breekless Highlander had put on him; then\nthe sentimental mood seized him, and he wept maudlin tears over the\ningratitude and neglect shown to him by his superior officers; finally,\nin the attempt to sing a most dolorous song, he rolled off his seat and\nlay on his back, snorting.\n\nAs soon as he had satisfied himself that the enemy was genuinely\nhelpless and not shamming, Donald promptly set about saving his own\nproperty. The exciseman's horse still stood where his master had left\nhim, hitched to a rowan tree a few yards from the door. Him Donald\nimpressed into his service, and long before morning everything in the\nhut had been removed to a safe hiding-place, and scarcely a trace was\nleft to show that the law had ever been broken here, or that illicit\nwhisky had been distilled.\n\nBefore daylight came, however, the exciseman had awakened in torment--a\nracking headache, deadly thirst, a mouth suggestive of a bird-cage, all,\nin fact, that a man might expect who had partaken too freely of raw and\nfiery whisky. He felt, indeed, extremely and overpoweringly unwell, as,\nwith an infinity of trouble, he groped his devious way to the open air,\nand to the burn that went singing by. Here, after drinking copiously, he\nlay till grey dawn, groaning, the thundering of the linn incessantly\njarring his splitting head. Then, when there was light enough, the\nunhappy man rose on unsteady feet, and started looking for his horse. A\nfruitless search; no sign of a horse could be seen, beyond the trampled\nspace where he had stood the previous night, and a few hoof-prints in\nthe soft, peaty soil elsewhere. There was no help for it; he must tramp;\nand with throbbing temples he pursued a tottering and uncertain course\nhomewards. Next day he returned, full of schemes of revenge, and with\nhelp sufficient to overcome any resistance that Donald and his friends\ncould possibly make, even if they thought it wise to attempt any\nresistance whatever, which was unlikely.\n\nIt was a crestfallen gauger that reached Donald's bothy on this second\nvisit. He found his horse, it is true, pinched and miserable, and with\nstaring coat, and without saddle or bridle. But of Donald or of the\nStill, or the products of that Still, not a sign--only a few taunting,\nill-spelled words traced in chalk, with evident care and much painful\ntoil, on the knocked-out head of an old cask.\n\nIn another part of this volume mention has already been made of Frank\nStokoe, who, after being \"out\" in the '15 with Lord Derwentwater, died\nin great poverty. His family never again rose to anything like\naffluence, nor even to a status much above that of the ordinary\nlabouring classes, but his descendants were always big, powerful men,\nperhaps slow of brain, but ready with their hands, and there was at\nleast one of them who was afterwards well known in Northumberland. This\nwas Jack Stokoe, a noted and very daring smuggler.\n\nJack lived in a curious kind of a den of a house far up one of the wild\nglens that are to be found in that moorland country which lies between\nthe North and the South Tyne. It could scarcely be claimed that he was a\nfarmer--indeed, in those days there was nothing to farm away up among\nthose desolate hills--and therefore Stokoe made no attempt to pose as\nanything in the bucolic line; it was a pretty open secret that his real\noccupation was neither more nor less than smuggling. But he had never\nyet been caught while engaged in running a contraband cargo, and,\nwhatever reason there may have been for suspicion, no revenue officer\nhad ever had courage to make a raid on his house. There came, however,\nto that district a new officer, one plagued with an abnormally strong\nsense of duty, a \"new broom,\" in fact, an altogether too energetic\nenthusiast who could by no means let well alone, but must ever be poking\ninto other people's affairs in a way that began at length to create\nextreme annoyance in the minds of those honest gentlemen, the smugglers.\n\nNow it chanced that this officious person had lately received sure\ninformation of the safe landing of an unusually valuable cargo, large\npart of which was reported to be stowed somewhere on Stokoe's premises,\nand he resolved to pay Jack a surprise visit. Accordingly, the\nPreventive man went to the nearest magistrate, demanding a warrant to\nsearch. The magistrate hummed and hawed. \"Did the officer think it\nnecessary to disturb Stokoe, who was really a very honest, douce lad?\nWell, well, if he must, he must, and there was an end of it! He should\nhave the warrant. But Jack Stokoe was a man, he'd heard say, who had no\nliking to have his private affairs too closely inquired into, and if\nill came of it--well, the officer must not forget that he had been\ncautioned. A nod was as good as a wink.\"\n\nNotwithstanding these well-meant hints, the gauger made his way across\nthe hills to Stokoe's house. He was alone, but then he was a powerful\nman, well armed and brave enough, and never in all his experience had a\nbold front, backed by the majesty of the law, failed to effect its end.\nIf he found anything contraband there was no doubt in his mind as to the\nresult. Stokoe should accompany him back as a prisoner.\n\nThere was no one at Stokoe's when the officer arrived, except Jack\nhimself and a little girl, and when the gauger showed his warrant and\nbegan his search, Stokoe made no remark whatever, merely sat where he\nwas, smoking. The gauger's search was very thorough; everything was\ntopsy-turvy before many minutes had passed, but nothing could he find.\nThere remained the loft, to which access was given by a ladder somewhat\nfrail and dilapidated. Up went the gauger, and began tossing down into\nthe room below the hay with which the place was filled. Quite a good\nplace in which to hide contraband articles, thought he. And still Stokoe\nsaid never a word. Then, when all the hay was on the floor below and the\nloft bare, and still nothing compromising had been found, down came the\ngauger, preparing to depart.\n\n\"Hey! lassie,\" at length then came the deep voice of Stokoe; \"gie me\nBroon Janet.\"\n\nThe little girl slipped behind the big box-bed, and handed out a very\nformidable black-thorn stick. Up then jumped Stokoe.\n\n\"Ye d----d scoundrel, ye've turned an honest man's hoose upside doon. Set\nto, and leave it as ye fand it. Stow that hay where it was when ye cam'\nhere; and be quick aboot it, or I'll break every bane in your d----d\nbody.\"\n\nThe gauger backed towards the door, and drew a pistol. But he was just a\nfraction of a second too late; \"crack\" came Stokoe's cudgel and the\npistol flew out of his hand, exploding harmlessly as it fell, and before\nhe could draw another he was at Stokoe's mercy. There was no choice for\nthe man; Stokoe took away all his arms, and then compelled him to set to\nand put back everything as he had found it. There was nothing to be\ngained by obstinately refusing. Stokoe was a man of sixteen or seventeen\nstone, a giant in every way, and as brave as he was big--a combination\nthat is not always found. He could, literally, have broken every bone in\nthe gauger's body, and the chances in this case were strongly in favour\nof his doing it if his adversary chose to turn rusty. Truly \"the de'il\nwas awa' wi' the exciseman.\"\n\nSo for hours the unhappy Preventive officer toiled up and down that\nrickety ladder, carrying to the loft again all the hay he had so lately\nthrown down, and putting the whole house as far as possible again in\nthe state in which it had been when he began his search. And all the\nwhile Stokoe sat comfortably smoking in his big chair by the fire,\nsaying never a word.\n\nAt length the task was ended, and the gauger stood dripping with\nperspiration and weary to the sole of his foot and the foot of his soul,\nfor all this unwonted work came on top of an already long day's duty.\nThen:\n\n\"Sit doon!\" commanded Stokoe, an order that the poor man obeyed with\nalacrity and thankfulness. Stokoe slipped behind the box-bed, was absent\na few minutes, and then returned, bringing with him a keg of brandy.\nSetting that upon the table, he was not long in drawing from it in a\n\"rummer\" a quantity of spirit that four fingers would never half\nconceal. \"Now, drink that,\" he said, handing the raw spirit to his\ninvoluntary guest. Then when the liquor had all disappeared, said he:\n\"You are the first that has ever searched my house. See you be the last!\nYe're a stranger i' thae parts, so we'll say nae mair aboot it this\nnicht. But mind you this--if ever ye come again, see that ye be measured\nfor your coffin before ye start.\"\n\nTradition has no record of Jack Stokoe having ever again been\ndisturbed.\n\n\n\n\nSALMON AND SALMON-POACHERS IN THE BORDER\n\n\nWhat is it that causes a salmon to be so irresistible a temptation to\nthe average Borderer? He knows that it is illegal to take \"a fish\" from\nthe water at certain seasons, and at other times except under certain\ncircumstances. Yet at any season and under any circumstances the sight\nof a fish in river or burn draws him like a magnet, and take it he must,\nif by any means it may be done outside the ken of the Tweed\nCommissioners and their minions. Even if he be a rigid observer of the\nlaw, a disciplinarian of Puritan fervour, in his heart he takes that\nsalmon, and his pulse goes many beats faster as, standing on the bank,\nhe watches the \"bow wave\" made by a moving fish in thin water, or sees\nit struggle up a cauld.\n\nOne can remember the case of a middle-aged gentleman, the most strict of\nPresbyterians, a church-goer almost fanatical in his attendance, one who\nwould have suffered martyrdom rather than be compelled to forego long\nfamily prayers morning and evening; a man ordinarily rigid in his\nobservance of the law to its last letter, unforgiving of those who even\nin the mildest manner stepped an inch beyond the line. Yet that old\nman, returning after long years to the scenes of his boyhood from a far\nland, where like Jacob of old he had \"increased exceedingly, and had\nmuch cattle,\" when in remote Border waters one day he was tempted by the\nEvil One with a salmon, fell almost without a struggle. To secure that\nsalmon the old gentleman must needs get exceeding wet; moreover, it was\nclose time. There was no shadow of excuse. But he was a boy again; fifty\nyears had slipped off his shoulders. And I know not what came of the\nsalmon, but it left the water; nor do I know what the watcher said who\ncame over the hill inopportunely. Maybe the trouser-pocket where the old\ngentleman kept his silver was a good deal lighter, and that of the\nwatcher a good deal heavier, when the twain parted. And therein the old\ngentleman sinned doubly; for himself he broke the law, and he put\ntemptation in the way of the watcher, and caused him also to sin and to\nbe guilty of grave dereliction of duty. Yet there it was! The most rigid\nof his kind in pursuit of virtue and in observance of the law, saw \"a\nfish\"--and straightway, irresistibly the old Adam moved within him. Nay!\nUnder certain circumstances hardly would one trust even a black-coated\nBorder minister if a salmon provoked him too sorely.\n\nIn former days, many were the ways whereby a fish might be induced to\nquit his native element. Now, it is different; though even now possibly\nhis end might not in every case endure too close scrutiny. But in the\ndays when our grandsires and great-grandsires were young, salmon were\nregarded as of small value; they sold possibly at _2d._ the pound, and\nservants in Tweedside homes were wont to bargain that they should not be\nforced to eat salmon every day of the week. Then, practically no method\nof capture was illegal; you might take him almost when, where, and how\nyou pleased. Indeed, one reads that at St. Boswells in 1794 the\nneighbourhood was \"seldom at a loss for a small salmon, which proves a\ngreat conveniency to families.\" It was not as if such a thing as a close\nseason had never been known. Five hundred years before the date above\nmentioned there were laws in existence regulating the capture of salmon,\nand in the reign of James I of Scotland the law was most stringent. In\n1424 it was enacted that \"Quha sa ever be convict of Slauchter of\nSalmonde in tyme forbidden be the Law, he shall pay fourtie shillings\nfor the unlaw, and at the third tyme gif he be convict of sik Trespasse\nhe shall tyne his life.\" But the law had fallen into disuse--was, in\nfact, a dead letter; practically there was no \"tyme forbidden,\" or at\nleast the close season was as much honoured in the breach as in the\nobservance, and, especially in the upper waters of Tweed and her\ntributaries, countless numbers of spawning fish were annually\ndestroyed.\n\nBut as the salmon fisheries of Great Britain grew in value, so were\nvarious destructive methods of capturing the fish declared to be\nillegal, and many a practice that in earlier days was regarded as\n\"sport\" may now be indulged in not at all. Some of those practices were\npicturesque enough in themselves, and brimmed over with excitement and\nincident; indeed, as portrayed in the pages of _Guy Mannering_, they\nwere, to use Sir Walter's own words, \"inexpressibly animating.\" Such,\nfor instance, were \"burning the water\" and \"sunning.\" Others, such as\nrake-hooking, cross-lining, and decking salmon out of shallow water,\nwere mere poaching devices with little redeeming virtue, commending\nthemselves to nobody, except as a means of filling the pot.\n\nThen there was the taking of salmon from the \"redds\" as they spawned, of\nall methods of capture the least allied to \"sport,\" for the fish then\nwere soft and flabby, and almost useless as food. Nevertheless, there\nwas in that, too, a strong element of excitement, for the weapon used,\nthe clodding or throwing leister, required no mean skill in the using.\nThis throwing leister was a heavy spear, or rather a heavy \"graip,\"\nhaving five single-barbed prongs of unequal length but regularly\ngraduated. To the bar above the shortest prong was lashed a goats'-hair\nrope, which was also made fast to the thrower's arm, carefully coiled,\nas in a whaling-boat the line is coiled, so that it may run free when\nthe fish is struck. This leister (or waster) was cast by hand at fish\nlying in not too deep water--generally, in fact, when they were on the\nspawning beds. It was with this weapon, as one may read in Scrope's\n_Days and Nights of Salmon Fishing_, that Tam Purdie--Sir Walter's\nPurdie--when a young man captured that \"muckle kipper\" that seemed to\nhim to be the \"verra de'il himsel',\" so big was he. One Sunday forenoon,\nas he daundered by the waterside (instead of being, as he should have\nbeen, at church) Tam saw him slide slowly off the redd across the\nstream.\n\n\"Odd! my verra heart lap to my mouth whan I gat the glisk o' something\nmair like a red stirk than ought else muve off the redd. I fand my hair\ncreep on my heid. I minded it was the Sabbath, and I sudna hae been\nthere. It micht be a delusion o' the Enemy, if it wasna the de'il\nhimsel'.\"\n\nAll that peaceful Sabbath day Tam's meditations were disturbed by\nvisions of great salmon. And as at family worship that night his master\nread aloud from \"the Word,\" Tam quaked to realise that no syllable had\npenetrated his dulled ears, but that, with the concluding solemn \"Amen,\"\nhad come to his mind the resolution to clip the wings of the Sabbath,\nand at all costs to capture that fish before anyone could forestall him.\nAccording, as soon as his too ardent mind judged that the hands of the\nclock must be drawing near to midnight, Tam arose, and, rousing a farm\nboy to bear the light for him as he struck, with \"clodding waster\" in\nhand set off for the river. Now this clodding waster (or leister) was a\npossession of which Tam was inordinately proud; amongst his friends its\ntemper and penetrating power were proverbial. It had been made for him\nby the Runcimans of Yarrowford, smiths celebrated far and wide for the\nmarvellous qualities they imparted to all weapons made by them. As\nPurdie said: \"I could hae thrawn mine off the head o' a scaur, and if\nshe had strucken a whinstane rock she wad hae been nae mair blunted than\nif I had thrawn her on a haystalk.\" Yet when anon he came to cast this\nleister at the muckle kipper, \"the 14 lb. waster stottit off his back as\nif he had been a bag o' wool.\" That was proof enough, if any were\nneeded, that a fish so awesome big must be something uncanny and beyond\nnature. In a cold sweat, Tam and the boy fled from the waterside and\ncast themselves shivering into their beds over the byre at home. But as\nhe lay awake, unable to close an eye, Purdie's courage crept back to\nhim, and again he resolved that have that fish he would, muckle black\nde'il or no. So again he roused his now reluctant torch-bearer, and\nhaving with difficulty convinced him that the fish was actually a fish,\nand not the devil let loose on them for their sin in having broken the\nSabbath--\"Irr ye _sure_, Tam, it wasna the de'il?\" the boy\nquavered--before daylight they again found the spot where the great\nkipper lay. And whether it was that this time, knowing that it really\nwas Monday morning, Purdie threw with easier conscience and consequently\nwith surer aim, or to what other cause who may say, but certain it is\nthat the man and the boy, soaked to the skin and chilled to the marrow,\ntriumphantly bore home that morning to the mill, where Purdie's father\nthen lived, a most monstrous heavy fish.\n\nThe leister used in \"sunning\" or in \"burning the water\" differed\nsomewhat in shape from the weapon with which Tam Purdie secured his big\nkipper. It, too, had five single-barbed prongs, but these were all of\nequal length, and the wooden handle of this implement was straight, and\nvery much longer than that of the throwing leister; sixteen feet was no\nunusual length for the handle of the former weapon.\n\nBurning the water, as its name implies, was a sport indulged in at night\nby torchlight. Sunning, on the other hand, was the daylight form of\n\"burning,\" but it could be practised only when the river was dead low,\nand then not unless the weather were very calm and bright. The salmon,\nas they lay in the clear, sun-lit water, were speared from a boat, and\nvast numbers were so killed; indeed, the frightened fish had small\nchance of escape, for spearing began at the pool's foot, and men with\nleisters blocked the way of escape up stream. No doubt into this, as\ninto its kindred sport \"burning,\" excitement in plenty, and boisterous\nfun, entered largely; many a man, miscalculating the depth of water in\nwhich a fish lay, to the unfeigned delight of his comrades, took a\nrapid and involuntary header into the icy stream. But both sports\npartook too much of the nature of butchery--carts used to be needed to\ncarry home the spoil--and they are \"weel awa' if they bide.\" \"Bide\" they\nmust, though in times not remote one has heard faint whisperings of the\nburning of the waters in some far-off district of the Border. Nor are\nthere wanting those who yet openly defend the practice, deeming it\nindeed no sin, but rather a benefit to the water, to take from it some\nof the superfluous fish, which, say they, would otherwise almost\ncertainly die of disease and contaminate the stream.\n\nYet, if in our day the water has been burned, it cannot have been\noftener than once in a way, and probably no great harm has resulted. Nor\ncan the game be worth the candle, one could imagine, for watchers now\nare many and alert, in the execution of their duties much more\nconscientious than was common in days gone by. There are none now, we\nmay hope, like the bailiff of Selkirk in the early part of last century,\nwho constantly find salmon in close time mysteriously appearing on their\ndinner-table. Yet this early nineteenth-century bailiff could truly\nswear that such a thing as salmon on his table he never had seen. For it\nappears that his wife, canny woman, having first brought in a platter of\npotatoes, was wont to tie round his eyes a towel before she brought in\nthe boiled fish; and before she again took away the towel, every vestige\nor trace of salmon had been carefully removed from the room. Obviously\nthat bailiff, honest man, could not report a breach of the law which had\nnever come under his observation!\n\nOf various forms of netting which in olden days were legal, but now,\nhappily, are forbidden, there was that by means of the Cairn net, a most\ndestructive form, and that by the Stell net, which was worse; but to\ndescribe these obsolete instruments is unnecessary, and might be\ntedious. There was also the Pout net, an implement somewhat like a very\nlarge landing-net, wherewith a man might readily whip many a fish out of\nflooded water. That, however, need not be considered as in these days a\nserious form of poaching.\n\nOf all poachers of salmon, perhaps that one with whom one is least out\nof sympathy was the man--is he now extinct, one wonders?--who, fishing\nwith trout-rod and fly, and bearing on his back the most modest of trout\ncreels, instantly, when he came to a likely cast for a fish, was wont to\nchange his trout fly for a salmon one. If he hooked a salmon and a\nwatcher appeared on the scene, invariably the fish \"broke\" him. If no\nwatcher put in an appearance, generally the angler found that he had\nsudden and pressing business at home, and that fish left the riverside\nsnugly smuggled inside the lining of a coat, or in a great circular\npocket made for the purpose. It was such an one that, nigh on a hundred\nyears ago, Mr. Scrope caught red-handed one day on his rented salmon\nwater near Melrose. The man was a guileless creature from Selkirk, too\ninnocent, it appeared, to be able to account for the salmon flies in the\ninside of his dilapidated hat, or for the 10 lb. salmon reposing in his\npocket.\n\n\"Dodd! I jalouse it's mebbes luppen in whan I was wadin' the watter,\" he\nsaid with artless smile. \"They're gey queer beasts, fish.\"\n\nStill to this day there may perhaps be found instances where they have\n\"luppen in\" to a too capacious pocket; for the nature of the salmon has\nnot changed, and they are still \"gey queer,\" and are found occasionally\nin \"gey queer\" places. There was, one remembers, not so long ago, a\ncertain boy from Eton, or from some other of the great public schools,\nwho, with a sister, wandered one lowering autumn evening by the brown\nwaters of a Border stream. And how it happened there is none to say,\nsave those who dimly saw it, but there came a vision of a water-bailiff,\nscant of breath, pounding heavily across the fields, whilst a maiden,\nfleet of foot, sped away through the gloom, sore handicapped by the\nantics of a half-dead and wholly slippery fish that nothing would induce\nto stay inside her jacket. And whether she won free, I know not. But it\nis said there was salmon steak for breakfast next morning in that\nmaiden's home.\n\nSurely the devil played but an amateur part when he essayed to break\ndown the stern virtue of St. Anthony with temptations no stronger than\nthose over which the good Saint so easily triumphed. Had he clapped the\nholy man down by the banks of a Border stream when fish were running in\nthe autumn, there might have been another tale to tell--that is, if a\nclose season had existed in medi\u00e6val times. I trow we should have seen\nSt. Anthony nipping hot-foot over the hill, with the bosom of his monk's\ngown protruding in a way at which no honest water-bailiff could possibly\nhave winked. Things as strange have happened in our own day; but maybe\nthey were due to that drop of reiver blood which courses more or less\nswiftly through the veins of most Border folk, and which, now that there\nare no cattle to \"lift\" from the English side, impels them for want of\nbetter to lift from the water a salmon whenever opportunity may offer.\n\nThere was lately, it is said, a lady of ancient Border lineage, who sat\none day with a grown-up daughter in the library of her ancestral home.\nIt was the hunting season, and at intervals the two glanced anxiously\nfrom the windows in full expectation of seeing the hounds sweep in full\ncry over the fields of which the library commanded a view.\n\n\"They must be coming,\" cried the daughter, starting up. \"There's one of\nthe stable-boys running over the lawn.\"\n\nAnd, indeed, past the old trees a youth was to be seen skirting the\nlawn, flying down terraces, making towards a burn which ran through the\ngrounds before joining a small tributary of Tweed. At best speed mother\nand daughter followed the boy, who had halted excitedly by the burn\nside. But what the cause of his agitation might be they could not for\nthe moment conjecture; certainly the burn had no apparent connection\nwith hunting, nor indeed was there sign of horse or hound. What they\nfound was something very different. A mile or so up the rivulet there\nwas a farm-steading, and in that steading was the usual water-driven\nthreshing-mill. It happened that this particular day had been selected\nby the farmer as one on which he might advantageously thrash part of his\ncrop. Consequently, the water from his mill pond was now making a\ntemporary spate in the little stream, which, in the course of nature,\nhad caused many salmon to run their noses into the burn's unexplored\nmeanderings. When the two ladies reached the stream's bank, they found\nthe stable-lad up to his knees in the water, and a fish, not over\nsilvery, already floundering high and dry, far from its native element;\nin shallow, broken water, two or three others vainly struggled to gain\nhigher latitudes.\n\n\"Oh-h! _mother!_\" cried the daughter excitedly.\n\nAnd said the elder lady with little hesitation:\n\n\"Get them out, Jim; get them out. We'll kipper them.\" Then, after a\nthoughtful pause: \"I think I'd like to catch one myself.\"\n\nSo into the water she plunged, and the three--the lady and her daughter\nand the stable-boy--were so busily and excitedly plowtering in the burn,\nengaged in this most nefarious and illegal capture of fish, that they\nfailed to hear or to see that hounds and a full field had swept over the\nhill in front, and had checked, in full view of them, at a small strip\nof wood in their immediate neighbourhood; in fact, there was little\ndoubt these poachers must, a few minutes before, have headed the fox.\nMost embarrassing of all, however, was the fact that amongst the riders\nwas one in immaculate pink, whose face flushed a deeper shade than his\ncoat as he pulled up not a hundred yards distant. For what must be the\nfeelings of a Justice of the Peace, of strictest principles, who,\nwithout warning, lights upon the wife of his bosom, his innocent\ndaughter, and one of his servants, all engaged in the most barefaced\npoaching?\n\n\"Good _Gedd!_\" he was heard to say--if indeed the words were no\nstronger--as, mercifully, the hounds picked up the scent again at that\nmoment, and the chase swept on.\n\nThere are none so blind as those who will not see, however, and nothing\nmore was ever heard of this episode. But report has it that the lord of\nthat manor has no great partiality for kippered salmon.\n\nBut salmon-poaching is perhaps not entirely confined to the human\nspecies. There have been instances known where dogs have been the most\naccomplished of poachers--generally, it must be said, in conjunction\nwith a two-legged companion. The lurching, vagabond hound that one sees\nnot infrequently in certain parts of the country, following\nsuspicious-looking characters clad in coats with suspiciously roomy\npockets, might, no doubt, be easily trained to take salmon from burns,\nor from the shallow water into which, in the autumn, the fish often run.\nAnd, to the present writer's mind, a black curly-coated retriever\nrecalls himself as a poacher of extreme ability. A most lovable dog was\n\"Nero,\" but--at least as regards salmon--he was a most immoral breaker\nof the law. It was well, perhaps, that he lived in days when\nwater-bailiffs were neither so numerous, nor so strict in the execution\nof their duties, as they now are, for nothing could cure him of the\nhabit, when he saw a fish struggling up a shallow stream, of dashing in,\nseizing that salmon in his teeth, and laying it at the feet of his\nembarrassed master, who, far from being connected with the poaching\nfraternity, was, indeed, a magistrate, to whom the gift of a salmon in\nsuch circumstances brought only confusion.\n\nAfter all, is there not generally a something lovable in the man who\npoaches purely for _sport's_ sake? Who can fail to mourn the end of\npoor, harmless, gallant, drucken Jocky B----, who gave his life for his\nlove of what he conceived to be sport? \"Here's daith or glory for\nJocky,\" he cried, when the watchers surrounded him, leaving but the one\npossibility of escape. And in that swollen, wintry torrent into which he\nplunged, the Bailiff Death laid hands on Jocky. Perhaps even now in the\nshades below, his \"ghost may land the ghosts of fish\"; mayhap, with a\ncleek such as that to which his cold fingers yet stiffly clung when they\nfound him in the deep pool, he may still, now and again, be permitted\nwith joyous heart to lift from the waters that ripple through Hades\nspectral fish of fabulous dimensions.\n\nSalmon do not now appear to be so numerous in Tweed as apparently they\nwere eighty or a hundred years ago; it is said that in 1824, when the\nnets had been off the lower reaches of the river for the Sunday,\nsometimes as many as five hundred salmon and grilse would be taken at\nKelso of a Monday morning by the net and coble. It is a prodigious haul\nof fish. One's mouth, too, waters as one reads of the numbers that were\nin those days taken in most stretches of the river by rod and\nline--though probably a goodly number of them were kelts.\n\nYet, even now, if in the month of November, when waters are red and\nswollen, one stands by Selkirk cauld, the fish may be seen in numbers\nalmost incredible. By scores at a time you may see them, great and\nsmall, hurl themselves into the air over the great wave which boils at\nthe cauld-foot. And the bigger fish, landing--if one may use the\nterm--far beyond the first upheaval of the wave, will rush stoutly up\nthe swirling, foaming rapid, perhaps half-way to the smooth water above\nthe cauld, ere they are swept back, still valiantly struggling, into the\nseething pool below. The smaller fish less frequently succeed in\nclearing the wave, but generally pitch nose foremost into the water\nwhere it begins to rise, and are hurled back head over tail in impotent\nconfusion. Some of the heavier fish, too, after their jump may be seen\nto come down with portentous skelp on top of the retaining wall of the\nsalmon-run in mid-stream, thence--apparently with \"wind bagged\"--to be\nignominiously hurried back into the deep pool from which they have but\nthe moment before hurled themselves. The general effect of the spectacle\nis as if one watched an endless kind of finny Grand National\nSteeplechase; one grows dizzy with the constant rise and fall of\ninnumerable fish over the big jump, and it is almost a relief to turn\nand watch the bailiffs with their landing-nets lift from the shallow,\nrushing water at the cauld-side fish after fish, which they carry up and\ncarefully put in the smooth water at top of the cauld. How many hundreds\nof salmon one may thus see in the course of a couple of hours, on a day\nwhen the river is in spate too heavy for the fish to succeed in\nascending the cauld, it is impossible to estimate.\n\nBig fish do not seem to have been so common in olden days as they are\nnow. Mr. Scrope mentions that in all his twenty years' experience he\nnever caught one above 30 lbs. weight, and very few above 20 lbs. Fish\nof that size are common now almost as sparrows in a London street, more\nespecially in the lower stretches of Tweed. Thirty pounds hardly excites\nremark, and salmon up to 40 lbs. or over are caught with fly nearly\nevery autumn. Much larger fish, too, have been taken of recent years;\none of 57 lbs. was landed in 1873, one of 57-1/2 lbs. in 1886, and\nvarious fish of over 50 lbs. weight at later dates, whilst in December\n1907 a dead fish of 60 lbs. was found in Mertoun Water.\n\nThen there was that giant fish lost near Dryburgh by Colonel Haig of\nBemersyde, \"perhaps the greatest salmon ever hooked in Tweed,\" as Sir\nHerbert Maxwell remarks in his _Story of the Tweed_. Lost fish are\nproverbially the largest fish, but in this instance it was not the\nfisher who boasted of the weight. Late one evening, fishing in the Haly\nWeil, the Colonel got fast in something heavy which, resistless as fate,\nbored steadily down the river a full half mile to the Tod Holes in\nDryburgh Water. Here, heavy and sullen, and never showing himself, he\nploughed slowly about, and Colonel Haig, already overdue at home, became\nimpatient, believing that he must have foul-hooked a moderate-sized\nfish. Darkness was fast coming on, and at last the Colonel told his\nattendant to wade in and try to net the fish.\n\n\"He's that muckle I cannot get him in, sir,\" cried the lad after a time.\n\nBut the Colonel could not wait.\n\n\"Nonsense,\" he said. \"Get his head in. I can't stop here all night.\"\n\nThen came the not uncommon result of trying to net a big fish in an\nuncertain light; the rim of the net fouled the gut cast, and away went\nthe fish. It would spoil the story not to tell the rest of it in Sir\nHerbert Maxwell's own words.\n\n\"The Colonel did not realise the magnitude of his disaster until two or\nthree weeks later, when he happened to be waiting for a train at St.\nBoswells Station. The porter came to him and said:\n\n\"'Hae ye ony mind, Colonel, o' yon big fush ye slippit in the Tod Holes\nyon nicht?'\n\n\"'Oh, I mind him well,' replied the Colonel; 'a good lump of a fish he\nwas, I believe, but I never saw him rightly.'\n\n\"'Ay,' said the other dryly; 'yon wad be the biggest sawmon that ever\ncam oot o' the water o' Tweed, I'm thinking.'\n\n\"'Why, what do you know about him?' asked the Colonel.\n\n\"'Oh, I ken fine aboot the ae half o' him, ony way,' replied the porter.\n'Ye see, there was twa lads clappit amang the trees below the Wallace\nstatue forenenst ye, waiting till it was dark to set a cairn net, ye\nken. Weel, didna they see you coming doun the water taigled wi' a fish?\nAnd when ye cam to the Tod Holes, they saw ye loss him, and they got a\nvisee o' the water he made coming into the east bank, ye ken. There's a\nwee bit cairn there, ye ken, wi' a piece lound water ahint it, where\nthey jaloused the fish wad rest himsel a wee. Weel, they waited till it\nwas mirk night, and then they jist whuppit the net round him, and they\nsune had him oot. He was that big he wadna gang into the bag they had\nwi' them; so they cuttit him in twa halves; and the tae half they brocht\nto the station here to gang by rail to Embro'. Weel, if the tither half\nwas as big, yon fish bud to be seeventy pund weight; for the half o' him\nI weighed mysel, and it was better nor thirty-five pund. Ay, a gran'\nkipper!'\"\n\nYet occasionally, in olden days, a salmon big as Tam Purdie's muckle\nkipper was got by rod and line. In 1815 Rob Kerss, the famous \"Rob o'\nthe Trows,\" hooked a leviathan in Makerstoun Water--the biggest fish, he\nsaid, that ever he saw; so big that it took even so great a master as\nRob hours to land, and left him \"clean dune oot.\" At last the fish lay,\na magnificent monster, stretched on the shingle. With aching arms but\nthankful heart, Rob moved away a trifle to lift a stone wherewith to\nsmite his captive over the head. And with that, Rob's back being partly\nturned, from the tail of his eye he saw the salmon give a wammle. In\nnovels, it is usually \"but the work of a moment\" for the hero to turn\nand perform some noted feat. Here, alas! it was different. It was but\nthe work of a moment, certainly, for Rob to turn, and to jump on the\nhuge salmon. But there all resemblance to the typical hero ceased, for\nthe line fouled his foot, and broke as it tripped him up; and before the\nfisherman knew where he was, he and the salmon were struggling together\nin deep water. It was only Rob that came out. _Sic transit_. Trust not a\nfish till the bag closes on him.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GHOST THAT DANCED AT JETHART\n\n\nSix centuries before Edward the Peacemaker reigned over Britain, the\npeople of Scotland knew the blessing of having for a King one who was\nknown as \"The King of Peace.\"\n\nAlexander the Third was a child of eight when he inherited the Scottish\ncrown, and was only two years older when he married the Princess\nMargaret, eldest daughter of Henry the Third of England. Even in his\nearly boyhood the young King displayed a wisdom, an energy, and a\nforcefulness in his management of affairs that marked him for a great\nruler, and made his royal father-in-law's fond vision of gradually\ngaining such an ascendancy over Scotland, that he might in time be able\nto claim that kingdom as an appanage of England, fade altogether away.\nAlexander had only recently come of age when he had to defend his\ncountry against her old enemies, the Norsemen, and his complete victory\nwas a triumph for him and for his people. Nineteen years later, his only\ndaughter, Margaret, married Eric, King of Norway, and the Scots saw\npeace for them and for their children smiling on them from every side.\nBut if prosperity as a monarch was his, misfortune overshadowed King\nAlexander's private life. His wife died; his children died. His eldest\nson, born at Jedburgh, and married, as a lad, to a daughter of the Count\nof Flanders, died childless. His daughter, the young Queen of Norway,\ndied the year after her marriage, leaving behind her the baby who has\ncome down to us, even through chilly history, as a pitiful little\nfigure, known as \"The Maid of Norway.\"\n\nIn 1285 King Alexander was wifeless and childless, and the heir to the\nScottish crown was his two-year-old grandchild in \"Norroway ower the\nfaem.\"\n\nIn the eyes of all his people the King's duty was plain. He was only\nforty-four, a brilliant _parti_ for the daughter of any royal or noble\nhouse, and the Scots wished a man, not a maid, to rule over them. He\nmust, obviously, marry again. Joleta, also called Yolande, daughter of\nthe Count de Dreux, and a descendant of the Kings of France, was his\nchosen bride. She was of surpassing fairness, and even most of those who\nhad harboured scruples with regard to the match, because the maid had\nbeen destined for a nunnery, forgot such scruples when they looked upon\nher beauty.\n\nOn All Saints' Day, 1285, the wedding--a more brilliant function than\nanything that had ever before been held in Scotland--was celebrated in\nJedburgh Abbey. The little grey town on the Jed was packed with Scottish\nand French nobles and their retinues. Few were the noble houses that\nwere not there represented, and the monks of Beauvais--the black-cloaked\nAugustinian friars from St. Quentin's Abbey--who held rule at the Abbey\nof Jedburgh in those days, must have had their ears gladdened by the\nconstant sound of the French tongue coming from seigneur, squire, and\npage-boy who passed them on the causeway.\n\nThere was nothing awanting in pomp or in splendour at the royal wedding.\nThe trees were shedding their leaves, the bracken and the heather on the\nmoors were brown, and winds that swept across the Carter Bar and down\nfrom the Cheviots had a winter nip in them; but indoors there was warmth\nenough, and all the gorgeousness and feasting and merrymaking that the\nmost exacting of guests could desire for the marriage of a great king.\nThe banquet after the wedding was followed by a masque. Musicians\nushered into the banqueting hall of the castle a gorgeously attired\nprocession of dancers, many of them armed men. It was a radiant scene\nfor the bright eyes of Queen Yolande. Lights flashed on swords and on\narmour, and on the sumptuous trappings and brilliant-coloured attire of\nlords and of ladies, for courts in those days looked like hedges of\nsweet-peas in the summer sun. The musicians played their best, the\nguests mingled gaily with the dancing mummers, and then, suddenly, above\nall the sounds of music and of revel, there arose a cry, a woman's cry,\nshrill and full of fear. What was that grisly figure that appeared\namongst the dancers?--a grinning skeleton--a dancing Death. No masquer\nthis, but a grim messenger from the Shades, bringing dire warning to\none, at least, of that gay company. As it had come, so it vanished, but\nall the gaiety had gone from the merry throng. The ill-omened dancer had\nlaid a chilly hand on the heart of many a wedding guest.\n\nThere were some who said it was a monkish trick, contrived for his own\nends by one of the brethren from Beauvais, but, less than six months\nlater, all Scotland believed that the skeleton masquer at Jedburgh had,\nindeed, come to warn an unfortunate land of its approaching doom.\n\nOn a dark March night of 1286, King Alexander rode along the rough cliff\npath between Burntisland and Kinghorn on a horse that stumbled in the\ndarkness, and in the morning, on the rocks far down below, the grey\nwaves lapped against the ashen dead face of a mighty king.\n\nNot only was the fair Queen Yolande a widow. Scotland was widowed\nindeed. For long years thereafter she was to be a battlefield for\nfiercely contending nations, and if the ghost that danced at Jethart was\ntruly a portent of the death of the King of Peace, it also was a portent\nof the death of many a gallant warrior and of much grievous spilling of\ninnocent blood in the woeful years to come.\n\n\n\n\nA MAN HUNT IN 1813\n\n\nIt was a clear, crisp, sunny day, early in March 1813, that the laird of\nWauchope was riding into Hawick. A little snow still lay on the crest of\nCheviot and on some of the foot-hills, and a smirr of hoar-frost\nsilvered the turf by the roadside; but the sun was bright--strong to\novercome frost and snow--and in it the leaves that still clung to the\nbeech hedges shone like burnished copper.\n\nWalter Scott of Wauchope was one of the most popular men in Liddesdale.\nHe it was who had, by his own exertions, raised the Light Company of\nRoxburghshire Volunteers, a band of nearly a hundred men of fine\nphysique and first-rate horsemanship, whose bearing was the admiration\nof everyone when the laird marched them into Hawick on that momentous\nnight in 1804 when \"Boney\" was supposed to have landed on Scottish\nshores. Mr. Scott's services had not been forgotten. A captain's\ncommission in the 1st Regiment of Roxburgh Local Militia now belonged to\nhim, and he squared his shoulders with an air and gave the military\nsalute to those on the road with whom he exchanged greetings.\n\nIt was a morning for only peace and goodwill to be abroad, and the\nlaird rode on in cheerful frame, and put his horse to a canter along the\nturf. But as he cantered, the good steed's ears suddenly went back, he\nplunged, swerved, and answered his master's voice and heels by standing\nstock-still, staring affrightedly at what at first, to his rider, seemed\na mere limp, inanimate bundle of old clothing lying half in, half out of\nthe ditch. In a moment the laird was standing beside the mysterious\nheap, and found an old, white-haired man, grievously mishandled, with\nblood on his face, blood dabbling the dead leaves in the ditch, blood on\nthe turf where the pure hoar-frost had lain. There was but little life\nleft in him, and it was not easy for him to explain his sorry plight\nwhen the words came only with hard-fought breathing, hoarse and low.\n\n\"She will pe a pedlar,\" he said, \"an' she will haf peen robbed and\nmurdered.... Och, so little she will pe hafing, and now all gone....\nOchone, ochone!\" Gently the laird put his questions to the dying man.\nThe robbery had been committed only a short time before. The assailant\nwas a big man--\"a fery big man\"--an Irishman, and he could not have gone\nfar. Up again on his wondering steed sprang the laird, and at\nsteeplechase pace rode on. Near Birney-knowe he came in sight of his\nquarry, a powerful six-footer, but carrying too much flesh to do more\nthan a good sprint without failing. In a neighbouring field a ploughman\nwith his pair of horses was turning up the rich brown loam. \"_Hup_,\nJess! Woa-_hi_, Chairlie!\" sounded his cheerful voice from over the\ndyke, above the jingle of his horses' harness as they turned at the\nhead-rig with their greedy following of screaming, white-winged gulls.\n\n\"_Hi!_ Will Little!\" shouted the laird. \"Leave the plough, lad! There's\nmurder afoot the day! Come and help catch the murderer!\"\n\nWilliam Little, a handsome fellow of six feet, clean built and athletic,\nrequired but little explanation. In two minutes his pair was unyoked and\ntied to the beam of the plough, his coat off and cast at the back of the\ndyke, and as sturdy a pair of legs as any in Liddesdale had joined in\nthe chase. The robber had not failed to hear the laird's shouts, and as\nLittle unyoked his horses, he ran on, adding still more to the distance\nthat already separated him from his pursuers. Clearly his best chance\nwas to leave the high-road and get on to ground where it was impossible,\nor, at least, most unlikely, that a mounted man could follow him.\nThrough hedges he clambered, vaulted dry stone dykes, leapt ditches,\nmade somewhat heavy weather over the plough, but got away on rough turf\nup the hillside. The morning wore on, and both hunters and hunted wished\nthat the sun had shone less warmly on that March day. On a steep part of\nHigh Tofts Hill, however, the chase at last came to an end. The steep\nface of the hill was more than the laird's good steed could manage,\nthough nobly, in response to his call, did it do its best. He had to\nturn back and come round by a part where the ascent was less steep,\nwhile Little, hot but undaunted, went on with the chase alone. The\nrobber's extra weight was telling on him, and he was not in the hard\ntraining of the young Border farmer. The hill pumped him, he stumbled as\nhe ran, and, as Little gained on him yard by yard, he saw that he could\nrun no longer, but must come to bay. He turned round and faced his\npursuer, breathing hard, and with all his might tugging at a big\nbutcher's knife in his pocket. Ordinarily the knife came easily to his\nhand, but he had forgotten that the pocket was stuffed with articles\nstolen from the old pedlar. The knife was hopelessly jammed, and Little\nwas almost upon him. A large, sharp-pointed stone stuck out of the\nground at his feet. \"_Keep off!_\" he yelled to the ploughman. \"Hands\noff! or I'll scatter your brains!\" And as he threatened, he stooped to\nseize the stone and make good his threat. But the Fates that day had\nsigned the Irish villain's death-warrant. The good Border earth clung to\nthe stone, refusing to let it go. With all his force he tugged and\ntugged, but ere the earth could give way, Little had thrown himself upon\nhim, and when Mr. Scott appeared over the brow of the hill, the sturdy\nfarmer was still holding his own with a kicking, biting, struggling,\ncursing ruffian who would have had no compunction in adding another to\nhis list of victims that day. Between them, Little and the laird tied\ntheir captive's hands behind his back with part of the bridle reins, and\nwalked him back to Kirkton. There help was sent to the old Highlander,\nbut no doctor could undo the ill that had been wrought him, and he died\na few days later. In one of the Kirkton farm-carts the old man's\nmurderer was conveyed to Hawick, and from thence to Jedburgh jail. It\nwas too much a case of \"hot trod\" for him to do anything but plead\nguilty, and he hung on a gallows at Jedburgh, as many a worthier man had\ndone in earlier days. The laird lived for more than twenty years after\nhis man hunt on that March day in 1813, and his worthy fellow-huntsman\nhad no cause to forget his morning's work, for he was presented with a\nbaton and relieved from paying taxes for the rest of his natural life.\n\n\n\n\nLADY STAIR'S DAUGHTER\n\n\nThe story of the Bride of Lammermoor is one that all the world knows,\nbut how many are there who realise that the tragedy which Sir Walter\nScott's genius has given to the world is in truth one of the annals of a\nnoble Scottish family? Possibly among all the \"old, unhappy, far-off\nthings\" there is none more pitiful than the tale of the Earl of Stair's\ndaughter and her luckless lover, Lord Rutherfurd.\n\nThey were never laggards either in love or in war, those Border\nRutherfurds. \"A stout champion,\" according to contemporary history, was\nColonel Andrew Rutherfurd, Governor of Dunkirk, and afterwards of\nTangier, ennobled for his doughty deeds in foreign lands under the title\nof Earl of Teviot, and when, in 1664, he was slain by the Moors, his\ndistant relative, Lord Rutherfurd, inherited most of his fortune.\nPresumably the fortune was not great, and even in the old reiving days\nno Rutherfurd ever rolled in wealth. Moreover, Lord Stair was a staunch\nWhig, and Rutherfurd an ardent Jacobite, and so it was that when the\nyoung lord became a suitor for the hand of Janet Dalrymple, daughter of\nthat famous lawyer, James Dalrymple, first Lord Stair, neither her\nfather nor her mother smiled on his suit.\n\nSir James Dalrymple was made a baronet in the same year that Andrew\nRutherfurd got his title, and both he and his wife, Dame Margaret, a\ndaughter of Ross of Balniel, were ambitious folk. The worldly success in\nlife of her husband and of all her family was what Lady Stair constantly\nschemed and planned and worked for. A clever, hard, worldly woman, with\na witty and unsparing tongue, was Lady Stair, but obviously she was not\na popular member of the society in which she lived, and when her plans\nsucceeded in spite of all obstacles, there were many who were ready to\nsay that she belonged to the blackest sisterhood of her day, and that to\nbe \"worried at the stake\" and burned would only be the fate that she\ndeserved.\n\nLady Stair's daughter was singularly unlike the mother who bore her, for\nthe beautiful Janet Dalrymple was a gentle, shrinking, highly strung\ngirl, who was like wax in the hands of one who ruled her household with\na rod of iron. As a child her will had always had to bend to her\nmother's. Scarcely had she dared to hold an opinion on anything save\nunder her mother's direction, and so when it came about that the tricksy\ngod of love made her give her heart passionately and utterly to a man of\nwhom her parents disapproved, poor Janet Dalrymple must have felt as\nthough she were the victim of a sort of moral earthquake. Naturally she\ncould see no reason why the man who in her eyes was peerless was not\napproved by her parents. Surely his politics did not matter. He had\nmoney enough for all their needs, and he would make her the Lady\nRutherfurd; and, besides, what more could they want than just this--that\nhe loved her and she loved him, and they would love each other until\ndeath--and after it.\n\nThese reasons given to a woman of Lady Stair's type were scarcely likely\nto be listened to with much patience, and Janet Dalrymple and Lord\nRutherfurd soon saw that all their love-making must be done under the\nrose, and that they must wait as best they could for the obdurate\nparents to change their minds. Together they broke a gold coin, of which\neach wore a half, and solemnly called upon God to witness them plighting\ntheir troth, and together imprecated dreadful evils upon the one who\nshould prove faithless. Doubtless Lady Stair was too clever a woman not\nto have a shrewd suspicion that her daughter's attachment to Lord\nRutherfurd was something more than a mere piece of girlish sentiment;\nbut if she did know, the knowledge did not overburden her. Obviously\nanother suitor must be provided without loss of time. The expulsive\npower of a new affection must promptly be tried on the love-sick girl,\nwhose pale face was in itself enough to betray the condition of her\nheart.\n\nTo Lord Stair belonged the credit of finding one who was approved of by\nLady Stair as an entirely suitable match. David Dunbar, younger, of\nBaldoon in Wigtonshire, a solid young man with a good, solid fortune,\nwas the son-in-law of their choice; and Lady Stair found no difficulty\nin getting him to see that her beautiful daughter was undoubtedly the\nright wife for him.\n\nContemporary history furnishes us with no description of Andrew, Lord\nRutherfurd, but we learn from the Edinburgh printer who furnished the\nDunbar family with an enthusiastic elegy on the death of David Dunbar of\nBaldoon that apparently he was a little red-faced man, ardently keen\nabout agricultural pursuits, and deeply interested in the breeding of\ncattle and horses. Moreover, he was a student, well versed in modern\nhistory and in architecture, and with a good head for arithmetic (did he\nadd up the figures of the fortune of Janet Dalrymple entirely to his own\nsatisfaction?), and he had the additional amazing distinction chronicled\nby his eulogising biographer--\n\n     \"He learned the French, be't spoken to his praise,\n     In very little more than forty days.\"\n\nIt is impossible to tell how much of the love story of the girl whom he\nproposed to make his wife was known to young Baldoon. Possibly he had\nhad it lightly sketched to him by Lady Stair's skilled hand, as a mere\ngirlish fancy, likely to be very soon past and already entirely on the\nwane. In any case, Baldoon evidently saw no more difficulties in the way\nof his nuptials than did Lord and Lady Stair. The fact that the bride\n\"canna thole the man\" must ever be a purely secondary consideration in\nsuch matrimonial arrangements. Meantime the unhappy bride-elect had the\nscheme laid before her, and in spite of her sobbing protests, was\ncommanded to conform to the wishes of her parents.\n\nThe news of Lady Stair's triumph was not long in coming to Lord\nRutherfurd's ears, and he at once wrote to Janet Dalrymple to remind her\nthat she was pledged to him by everything that they both considered\nholy. No reply came from the unhappy girl, but a letter from Lady Stair\ninformed the distracted lover that her daughter was fully sensible of\nthe grave fault of which she had been guilty in entering into an\nengagement without the sanction of her parents, and that she now\nretracted her vows, and was about to give her hand to Mr. David Dunbar\nof Baldoon. Such an answer, written by the mother of his betrothed, and\nnot by the girl herself, was scarcely likely to be received with\nmeekness by one of the Rutherfurds of that ilk. Lord Rutherfurd demanded\nan interview with Janet Dalrymple, and absolutely declined to accept any\nreply that did not come to him from her own lips. It was a struggle\nbetween a high-spirited, determined man, deeply in love with her that he\nstrove for, and a woman whose heart was as hard as her brain was keen,\nand who did not scruple to use any means, fair or foul, by which to gain\nher own ends. The lion and the snake are unequal combatants, and in this\ncase the lion was worsted indeed. Lady Stair granted the interview, but\ntook care that not for one moment was her daughter permitted to be alone\nwith her lover. Lord Rutherfurd had many arguments that he had deemed\nunanswerable, but the lady's nimble wits and ready tongue found an\nanswer for each one.\n\nIt must have been a strange scene that took place that day in the old\nmansion of Carsecreugh. The girl herself was present, but, had the tales\nof Lady Stair's dealings with the Evil One been true, she could not have\nsubstituted for her beautiful, happy daughter any witch-made thing that\nlooked more lifeless than the poor, white-faced creature that sat with\nsilent lips and down-cast eyes, terror-ridden, broken-hearted.\n\nWith every impassioned word he spoke Rutherfurd hoped to bring some sign\nof life to her, to glean a look from her eyes that showed that her love\nwas still his, but he pled in vain. As for his arguments, Lady Stair\ncould quote Scripture with any minister in the land, and the texts she\nhurled at him were fearful missiles for one who had not the book of\nNumbers at his fingers' ends.\n\n\"If a woman vow unto the Lord, and bind herself by a bond, being in her\nfather's house in her youth; and her father hear her vow, and her bond\nwherewith she hath bound her soul, and her father shall hold his peace\nat her: then all her vows shall stand, and every bond wherewith she hath\nbound her soul shall stand. But if her father disallow her in the day\nthat he heareth; not any of her vows, or of her bonds wherewith she hath\nbound her soul, shall stand: and the Lord shall forgive her, because her\nfather disallowed her.\"\n\nSo quoted the pitiless voice. Even the devil, they say, can quote\nScripture for his own ends. Finally, the mother, again telling\nRutherfurd that her daughter acknowledged the wrongness of her conduct\nand desired to hold no further intercourse with him, turned to the\nwhite, marble creature, who seemed to hear nothing, to understand\nnothing, and commanded her to restore the broken half of the golden coin\nto him who had bestowed it. For the fraction of a second her icy fingers\ntouched Lord Rutherfurd's, and yet she spoke no word.\n\nTo the fiery Borderer it was an insupportable situation. His temper\nwent. The broken coin was cast to the ground, and with furious words he\npoured out on Lady Stair all his long pent-up anger. Then, turning to\nher who, so short a time before, had been all the world to him, he cast\non her the curse, \"For you, madam, you will be a world's wonder,\" and\nstrode from the room, his face ablaze with wrath, black murder in his\nheart. Scotland was no longer a friendly home for Andrew, Lord\nRutherfurd. He went abroad, and died there sixteen years later.\n\nMeantime the preparations for the marriage of young Baldoon with Lord\nStair's daughter went on apace. The bride showed no active dislike to\nthe bridegroom her parents had provided, but behaved as a mere lay\nfigure on which wedding garments were fitted, and which received with\ncold unresponsiveness all the attentions of the man who was to be her\nhusband. When the wedding day--August 24th, 1669--arrived, a large\nassemblage of relations and friends of both bride and bridegroom\nmustered at Carsecreugh. And still the white-faced lay figure\nmechanically went through all that was required of her, received the\ncompliments and jests of the company with chill politeness, but with\nnever a smile--a bride of marble, with a heart that had turned to stone.\nShe rode pillion to church behind a young brother who afterwards said\nthat the hand which lay on his as she held her arm round his waist was\n\"cold and damp as marble.\" \"Full of his new dress and the part he acted\nin the procession, the circumstance, which he long afterwards remembered\nwith bitter sorrow and compunction, made no impression on him at the\ntime.\"\n\nGreat were the festivities that Lord and Lady Stair had prepared for the\nwedding of their daughter with so eligible a suitor as the young laird\nof Baldoon, and when the ceremony in the church was over, there were\ngreat doings at Carsecreugh. Baldoon must either have been a very stupid\nman or a wilfully blind one, for his bride of snow seemed to look on\neverything that took place with vacant, unseeing, unsmiling eyes, and\nspoke and acted as one in a dream.\n\nIn the evening there was a dance. One can see the bright lights, the\ngaily-coloured wedding garments of the festive company, hear the sound\nof clarionet and of fiddle gaily jigging out country dances, and the\nloud hum of talk and laughter of the many guests. Baldoon, a proud\nhusband, tricked out in all the finery of a bridegroom of that day,\nleads out his bride, the beautiful Janet, in her white bridal robe. Can\nhe not feel the clammy chill of the little hand he takes in his? Why\ndoes he not understand the piteous look in the eyes of the girl whose\nfeet are treading so gay a measure? No trapped bird with broken wing was\never more pitiful.\n\nWhile the guests still were making merry, the bride and her bridesmaids\nwent up to the bridal chamber. The virgins who prepared Iphigenia for\nher sacrifice had a task no less terrible. Then, amidst the animal\njocularities that were looked on as wit in that day, the bridegroom\nfollowed, and the best man locked the door on the married pair and put\nthe key in his pocket.\n\nThe dance went gaily on, but not for long. High above the sound of the\nviolins, the laughter that grew more unlicensed as the night wore on,\nthe sound of voices, the thud of feet, the tap of heels and rustle of\nbrocades on a polished floor, came terrible shrieks and groans that made\nthe heart of each wedding guest stand still. There could be no doubt\nfrom which room they came, and the panic-struck company dashed upstairs\nlike a breakaway mob of cattle. The best man, livid-faced and with a\nshaking hand, unlocked the door, and on the threshold stumbled over the\nbody of the bridegroom, terribly wounded and streaming with blood. At\nfirst they could see no bride, and then, in the corner of the wide\nchimney, they found her crouching, with no covering but her shift, and\nthat dabbled with gore.\n\n\"She sat there grinning at them, mopping and mowing,\" so says Sir Walter\nScott--\"in a word, absolutely insane.\"\n\n\"Tak' up your bonny bridegroom!\" she screamed, with hysterical laughter,\nand pointed mockingly at what seemed to be the corpse of young Baldoon.\n\nSick in body she was, as well as sick in mind, and on September 12th,\n1669, a little over a fortnight from the day she was married, the Bride\nof Baldoon died.\n\nDavid Dunbar of Baldoon recovered from his wounds, but during the\nthirteen years that remained for him to live, he declined to help the\ncurious to elucidate the mystery of his attempted murder. In the words\nof Sir Walter Scott: \"If a lady, he said, asked him any question upon\nthe subject, he would neither answer her nor speak to her again while he\nlived; if a gentleman, he would consider it as a mortal affront, and\ndemand satisfaction as having received such.\"\n\nMany, of course, were the explanations given by the general public as to\nthe real happenings on that tragic wedding-night. The majority inclined\nto think that the bride herself, crazed by grief at the loss of her\nlover, tried to kill her husband rather than be his wife in anything\nsave legal formality. Others swore that the assailant was none other\nthan the discarded lover, and that Lord Rutherfurd, having left Baldoon\nfor dead, had escaped by the chimney where the unfortunate bride was\ncrouching. But in those days there was bound to be yet another factor\nbrought into the tale. Witches were held responsible for many a crime in\nScotland in the seventeenth century, and of course Lord Stair's \"auld\nwitch wife\" was adjudged guilty of the whole tragedy. In a sense,\ndoubtless, so she was, but the description given by the credulous of\nhow, on her marriage night, Janet Dalrymple was \"harled\" through the\nhouse by evil spirits in such a way as to cause her death shortly\nafterwards, is slightly at variance with the actual facts. Yet others\nthere were who said that she who had sworn solemnly by all that was holy\nto keep her plighted troth with Andrew Rutherfurd, had obviously handed\nherself over, body and soul, to Satan when the troth was broken, and\nthat he who would have slain David Dunbar was the Evil One himself.\n\n     \"He threw the bridegroom from the nuptial bed,\n     Into the chimney did so his rival maul,\n     His bruised bones ne'er were cured but by the fall.\"\n\nThe \"fall\" referred to by this scurrilous lampoon, written by Sir\nWilliam Hamilton, a bitter enemy of Lord Stair, was the accident by\nwhich Dunbar of Baldoon met his death. While riding from Leith to\nHolyrood on March 27, 1682, his horse fell with him. His injuries proved\nfatal, and he died next day, and was buried in Holyrood Chapel.\n\nOf the other actors in the tragedy there is little to tell. That great\nand able lawyer, Viscount Stair, has left behind him permanent record of\nthe ability that brought him his title. For fifty years his wife and he\nlived together, and history tells us that \"they were tenderly attached\nto the last.\" A witty, brilliant, worldly woman, she had the power of\nkeeping the love of her husband fresh and living to the very end. She it\nwas who is reported by a local historian, whose standard possibly may\nnot have been of the very highest, to have made \"one of the best puns\nextant.\" \"Bluidy Clavers\" was Sheriff of Wigtown in her day, and in her\npresence he dared to inveigh against one who was still the idol of\nPresbyterian Whigs, John Knox.\n\n\"Why are you so severe on the character of John Knox?\" asked the Lady\nStair. \"You are both reformers: he gained his point by clavers; you\nattempt to gain yours by knocks.\"\n\nWhen the lady died, in the year 1692, she left an order regarding the\ndisposal of her body which entirely confirmed the popular belief that,\nearly in life, she had bargained with the Evil One for the worldly\nsuccess of herself and her descendants, and had paid her soul as price.\n\nShe asked that her body might not be buried underground, but that the\ncoffin containing her should be stood upright in the family vault of\nKirkliston. While she remained so placed, she said, the Dalrymples\nshould flourish. But woe betide the line when that coffin should be\nmoved and laid on common earth as those of common people. Her orders\nwere carried out. Does she, a dismal sentry, keep guard there still? And\nwhat sort of a Purgatory has her poor soul had to pass through to atone\nfor the cruel murder of the child she bore?","title":"Stories of the Border Marches","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":88401}