{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_27449/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_27449","id":"gutenberg_27449","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/27449","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Ghost stories"],"text":"Produced by David Clarke, Louise Pattison and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                BORDER GHOST STORIES\n\n\n\n\n                _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_\n\n                _Tales of Northumbria_\n                  _Magnus Sinclair_\n       _The Lord Wardens of the Marches_, _etc._\n\n\n\n\n                BORDER GHOST STORIES\n\n                         BY\n\n                     HOWARD PEASE\n\n\n                      AUTHOR OF\n        'TALES OF NORTHUMBRIA,' 'MAGNUS SINCLAIR'\n           'THE LORD WARDENS OF THE MARCHES OF\n               ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND,' ETC.\n\n\n          ERSKINE MACDONALD LTD. LONDON, W.C. 1\n\n\n\n\n                _First published 1919_\n\n\n\n\n                         TO\n\n                    THE MEMORY OF\n\n                   SIR WALTER SCOTT\n\n          THE TUTELARY GENIUS OF THE BORDERLAND\n\n            THESE TALES ARE INSCRIBED BY A\n\n                  LATTER DAY BORDERER\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nCertain places, said Stevenson, cry out for a story, and Scott, in any\nnew surroundings, straightway invented an appropriate tale, if there\nwere not already a story or tradition in existence. One might even\nbelieve that the place itself tells its own tale to the sympathetic\nimagination.\n\nThus Mr. Bligh Bond in his book, _The Gate of Remembrance_, implies that\nthe whisperings of the _genius loci_ enabled him to make his astonishing\ndiscovery of the lost Edgar Chapel at Glastonbury Abbey.\n\n    'Multa modis simulacra videt volitantia miris,\n        Et varias audit voces, fruiturque Deorum\n    Colloquio, atque imis Acheronta affatur Avernis.'\n\nThe scene of the following ghost stories usually becomes manifest in the\ntext, but it might be mentioned that 'Castle Ichabod' stands for Seaton\nDelaval, that the 'Lord Warden's Tomb' is a reminiscence of Kirkby\nStephen, and that 'The Cry of the Peacock' is a suggestion from the Vale\nof Mallerstang.\n\nIf the ghost is not always visible in the tale, it is at least born of\nit.\n\nThus if there be no actual ghost in 'Ill-Steekit Ephraim' or in 'The\nBlackfriars Wynd' there are at least sufficiently 'ghostly' occurrences.\n\nAgain, in 'Apud Corstopitum' Penchrysa is held to haunt the Roman Wall\nbeside the limestone crags; Tynemouth Priory is thought to be revisited\nby Prior Olaf whenever the wind stays long in the eastern airt, and the\n'outbye' moors beside 'The Bower' may now be haunted by the spirit of\n'Muckle-Mouthed Meg.'\n\nThe stories marked by an asterisk have already been published in the\n_Border Magazine_; 'In the Cliff Land of the Danes' appeared originally\nin the _Northern Counties Magazine_ under the title of 'An Antiquary's\nLetter' (supposed to have been dictated by John Hall Stevenson of\nSkelton Castle, author of _Crazy Tales_, to his friend the Reverend\nLaurence Sterne at Coxwold), and has been slightly altered, as has also\n'The Muniment Room,' which appeared in the _Queen_ and the _Newcastle\nWeekly Chronicle_. He desires to thank the various editors concerned and\nthe Northern Newspaper Syndicate for their courtesy in permitting\nrepublication.\n\nIn his _Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft_, written nearly one\nhundred years ago, Sir Walter Scott says apologetically at the close of\nthe book: 'Even the present fashion of the world seems to be ill-suited\nfor studies of this fantastic nature; and the most ordinary mechanic has\nlearning sufficient to laugh at the figments which in former times were\nbelieved by persons far advanced in the deepest knowledge of the age.'\n\nBut surely the belief in, and love of ghosts will persist 'as long as\nthe moon endureth,' for fancy, imagination, and conscience combine\nagainst materialism, be it never so scientific, and even if the vision\nof the affrighted criminal be subjective it is a terrible reality to\nhimself.\n\n'_What! not see that little boy with the bloody pantaloons?_' exclaimed\nthe secret murderer, so much to the horror of his comrade that he\nrequested him, if he had anything on his mind, to make a clear\nconscience as far as confession could do it.[1] And, further, it is but\nsome seventeen years since the present writer was taken to see a certain\nnonagenarian--one Bobby Dawson--for some fifty years, if memory serve,\nwhipper-in to the Bilsdale hounds, who related in all good faith how he\nwith his hounds had once hunted a witch in the shape of a hare that\nescaped by a cundy, or underground drain, into a barn. When Dawson\nentered, there was the witch in the form of an old woman lying panting\non the hay.\n\nAgain, the writer has in his possession the copy of an '_Old Charm to\nmake Brave_,' which was transcribed by Mr. R. Blakeborough, author of\n_Yorkshire Wit, Character, Folklore, and Customs_, from the MS. book of\none David Naitby, a Bedale schoolmaster, during the early days of 1800.\nIt may interest the reader to quote a few lines therefrom:\n\n    '_We hid there (on the mountain top) in the shadow of the moon.\n    We left there an acorn yet green in its cup,\n    We left also a firchatt upon the great stone hurled by Thor;\n    To a fir branch we tied with a fine whang drawn from a bear we slew\n    The wing feather of an eagle which span towards us,\n    Yet it fell not to the earth, we twain caught it,\n    The one by the quill, the other by the feather part._'\n\nAfter this the tale of 'In the Cliff Land of the Dane' may appear to be\nnot so very improbable.\n\nOnce more, the uprising of the thrawn corpse from the coffin in\n'Ill-Steekit Ephraim' was narrated to the writer and his companion by a\nbed-ridden but very intelligent moorland 'wife' some years ago when\nwalking along the Roman Wall beside Hot Bank farm or cottage. Finally,\nhe can still remember his early thrills over strawberries and cream when\ntold of the appearances of 'the Silky' or 'little grey lady' at Denton\nHall, which suggested the harsher variant of 'In my Lady's Bedchamber.'\n\nIn conclusion, it might perhaps be mentioned that the altar to Sylvanus\nalluded to in 'Apud Corstopitum' is preserved at Stanhope Rectory on the\nWear, and that the writer possesses an altar dedicated--Deo (Mithras),\nby L. Sentius Castus of the 6th Legion, which was formerly excavated at\nRutchester Camp, North Wylam, and is now at Otterburn.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSir Walter Scott once said that no one had made more use of ghosts than\nhimself, but that he did not believe in them. Another authority\nexpressed his disbelief in them, 'because he had seen too many of them.'\n\nProfessor George Sinclair wrote his book, _Satan's Invisible World\nDiscovered_, to prove 'against the Saducees and Atheists of the present\nage, that there are Devils, Spirits, Witches, and Apparitions, from\nAuthentic Records, Attestation of Famous Witnesses, and undoubted\nVerity,' but as, _inter alia_, he includes in them an account of the\n'Strange Pranks plaid by the Devil at Woodstock in England, anno 1649,'\nit is evident that he simply accepted without any investigation the\ncommon hearsay, for it is well known that the Woodstock Devil was none\nother than the Commissioners' clerk, Giles Sharp,[2] who played these\ntricks upon his masters.\n\nModern investigation proceeding on scientific lines and by means of\nactual experience and experiment, seems to provide an explanation--mental\nand moral--for manifestations which our ancestors regarded as physical\nand material.\n\nOne need only mention in this connection the writings of William James,\nthe psychologist, the proceedings of the Psychical Research Society, the\nwonderful results of psycho-therapeusis dealing with the unconscious\nself, the subliminal 'consciousness,' or as Captain Hadfield prefers to\ncall it, 'heightened personality' in his paper on this subject 'The Mind\nand the Brain' in _Immortality_, to realise not only the greatness of\nthe advance in psychical knowledge, but also the vast new field of\ninvestigation thus opened out to the student.\n\n    OTTERBURN TOWER\n      NORTHUMBERLAND\n        _April 1919_\n\n[Footnote 1: _Demonology and Witchcraft._ Letter x.]\n\n[Footnote 2: Readers of _Woodstock_ will remember Sir Walter Scott's\naccount of 'Joseph Collins, commonly called Funny Joe--who, under the\nfeigned name of Giles Sharp, hired himself as a servant to the\nCommissioners.'\n\n'The account of this by the Commissioners themselves, or under their\nauthority, was repeatedly published....'\n\nIt is amusing to note that 'this narrative gave equal satisfaction to\nthe Cavaliers and Roundheads: the former conceiving that the licence\ngiven to the demons was in consequence of this impious desecration of\nthe King's furniture and apartments, so that the citizens of Woodstock,\nalmost adored the supposed spirits, as avengers of the cause of royalty;\nwhile the friends of the Parliament, on the other hand, imputed to the\nmalice of the Fiend the obstruction of the pious work, as they judged\nthat which they had in hand.']\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                              PAGE\n\n    IN THE BLACKFRIARS WYND                      1\n\n    BY PEDEN'S CLEUCH                           23\n\n    'ILL-STEEKIT' EPHRAIM                       31\n\n    THE COCK-CROW                               49\n\n    BY THE SHRINE OF SAINT CUTHBERT             59\n\n    *'MEENISTER' MACHIAVELLI                    67\n\n    ELDER 'MACHIAVELLI-ER'                      83\n\n    REPENTANCE TOWER                            99\n\n    *THE LORD WARDEN'S TOMB                    109\n\n    CASTLE ICHABOD                             121\n\n    THE MUNIMENT ROOM                          137\n\n    IN THE CLIFF LAND OF THE DANE              153\n\n    *THE DOPPEL-GANGER                         171\n\n    *IN MY LADY'S BEDCHAMBER                   179\n\n    *THE WARLOCK OF GLORORUM                   189\n\n    'MUCKLE-MOUTHED MEG'                       203\n\n    *THE PRIOR OF TYNEMOUTH                    223\n\n    THE HAUNTED ALE-HOUSE                      233\n\n    THE CRY OF THE PEACOCK                     245\n\n    KITTY'S BOWER                              255\n\n    THE TALE OF THE THREE ANTIQUARIES          271\n\n    APUD CORSTOPITUM                           283\n\n\n\n\nIN THE BLACKFRIARS WYND\n\n\n'_'Twill be a black day for auld Scotland when she ceases to believe in\nthe muckle Deil_,' commented 'the Meenister' of the Tron Kirk, when I\nhad explained to him my troubles and sought his 'ghostly counsel and\nadvice,' as the English service has it, 'to the quieting of my\nconscience, and avoiding of all scruple and doubtfulness.' My father had\nbeen English, but my mother was Scotch, and she had sent me to my uncle,\nDeacon Abercrombie, to be entered as apprentice to his craft of the\ngoldsmiths. He was a widower, lived alone, and was reputed to be\neccentric, but as far as worldly gear was concerned the Deacon was a\nhighly responsible citizen; as burgess, guild brother, and deacon of his\ncraft he could hold his head as high on the causeway as any other, be he\nwho he might, in the city.\n\nNot even the 'stairhead critics,' who, as Auld Reekie's poet writes,\n\n    '_wi' glowering eye\n    Their neighbours' sma'est faults descry_,'\n\ncould point at any speck in his general repute.\n\nThe Reverend Andrew Geddes was somewhat stricken in years; his beard was\nwhite as snow, his thrapple loose below his chin, and the flesh had\nebbed from his bones, but his mind was as alert as ever, and his\ngoodness stood manifest in his face.\n\nWe were sitting in his lodging, situate in a high 'timberland' in the\nCanongate, just without the Nether Bow, on the same side as the Tron\nKirk, and from his little _tourelle_ we could survey as from an eyrie\nthe coming and going of the citizens upon the street.\n\n'Ay,' said he again, 'it will be a gey evil day for Scotland when she\nceases to believe i' the muckle black Deil. Whatten temptations he can\noffer is oft forgot. Ye'll hae heard tell o' Major Weir--the whilom\n\"Bowhead Saint,\" as they callit him--ye'll hae heard tell o' him,\nladdie? I mind my father talkin' o' his ain greetin' sair for bein' ower\nyoung to gang to his hangin'.'\n\nHad I no? Ay, and of his staff that went before him like a link boy, and\nof the coach with six black horses that carried him and his sister\nbackwards and forwards from hell!\n\n'Eh, laddie, what a sermon I could preach to ye on this tremendous\nproblem!' he said regretfully, bethinking him of my youthful years.\n\n'Aweel,' he added discreetly, 'I dinna ken your uncle--the responsible\nDeacon--save by sight and repute, as ane that disna spend, an' isna\nverra sociable; yet he attends the Great Kirk, \"comes forrit,\" does he\nnot, to the Holy Table?' I nodded assent.\n\n'Is as reputable a citizen as any that treads on the High Street, and\nyet for a' that he may hae a canker o' the soul. Aiblins Davie Hume has\nsappit his belief, and the muckle Deil, kennin' that, is thrawin' a flee\nower him as for a saumon the noo.'\n\nAs I sat there shivering all down my spine, my companion looked upon me\nvery kindly from his thoughtful, gentle eyes of blue that faded to grey\nat the marge, and said, 'Stop up your ears, laddie, like the adder, to\nany temptin' o' your uncle. Keep watch and ward, and, if need arise, run\nfor me instantly, for, though I'm auld the noo, I'm aye ready for a\nwarsil wi' auld Hornie.'\n\nHeartened by the minister's sympathy and courage I returned to my\nuncle's lodging in Blackfriars Wynd, and continued to devote myself to\nhis craft in the back of his booth in the High Street, which appealed to\nme greatly for ingenuity and skill.\n\nIn accord with my mother's advice I had endeavoured to cherish an\naffection for my uncle, yet withal there was something about the man\nthat misliked me much, and, to speak straight to the point, that\nactually 'fley'd' me, for he would gloat o' night over his glass of\ntoddy on any scandal afloat concerning the 'unco guid,' and would speak\nwith tongue i' the cheek of virtue in general, as if indeed hypocrisy\nwere the true king of this world. I thought at first his purpose was to\ntease me and draw me out, but I soon came to believe it was all a part\nof the horrid nature of the man himself.\n\nFurther again than this, he seemed to exercise a dreadful and secret\npower over 'Brownie'--his pathetic little serving boy, orphan and mute.\n\nI had realised that 'Brownie' lived in terror of his employer, though I\nnever saw him the victim of any physical ill-treatment; one night indeed\nhe came shivering and terrified into my bedroom, and by signs gave me to\nunderstand that my uncle was hunting for him, and it was not till I had\nbolted my door that he grew somewhat calmer.\n\nHe would not leave me, but insisted on lying down at the foot of my bed\nthroughout the night.\n\nI thought possibly the poor lad might labour under some hallucination,\nbut I felt fear myself, for I distinctly heard some one attempt to open\nmy door very stealthily a short time after 'Brownie' had taken refuge in\nmy room.\n\nNo, it was not surprising, I reflected, that 'Brownie' should be\n'feared' of my uncle when I was myself in the like case, for there was\n'no milk of human kindness' in him. His eyes were shielded by a _chevaux\nde frise_ of bristles, and when one caught a glint from them 'twas as if\none had encountered the malevolent gleam of a ferret intent upon his own\nruthless schemes.\n\nHe was short of stature, possessed abnormally long arms, had a heavy\nmoustache, and very hairy, flexible fingers, with which he performed\nwondrous feats of craftsmanship, but to my fearful imagination he seemed\nto resemble at times a tarantula spider of alarming proportions.\n\nThere had been of late an epidemic of crime in the city, which had\nseriously perturbed the good burgesses; various shops had been broken\ninto, and cash and valuables had been 'lifted,' but as no arrests had\nbeen effected a general feeling of insecurity was rife in Auld Reekie;\nall which was a constant theme of merriment on my uncle's sardonic\nlips.\n\nWhat had led me to approach 'the Meenister' and confide my apprehension\nto him, as I have shown above, was the mute, appealing look in poor\n'Brownie's' eyes. But as 'Brownie' looked much brighter and happier\nduring the next few weeks I regained my own equanimity, and grew\nsomewhat shamed of my first nervous fears. This being so I thought it\nonly right that I should visit 'Meenister Geddes' once more and report\nto him my belief in the groundless nature of my vague imaginations. I\nhad found him at home, and stayed 'cracking' on with him till past ten\nof the clock.\n\nThen as I returned somewhat in haste and doubtful how to effect my entry\ninto my uncle's lodging undiscovered, or how, if discovered, to explain\nmy absence, I brushed against a wayfarer at the corner of the\nBlackfriars Wynd.\n\n''Tis a footpad,' I thought, for he was velvet-footed, and I heard no\ntread on the pavement. I glanced narrowly at the swift-passing stranger,\nand beneath the smouldering 'bowet' I had borrowed from the 'Meenister'\nI recognised with a start the slight, shrunken figure of 'Brownie' with\nhis white, pathetic face. It was the swiftest of visions, yet I had seen\nenough to give me a 'gliff,' _for the eyes were not those of 'Brownie,'\nbut of my uncle_.\n\nThis chance encounter reawoke all my previous apprehensions. The very\nfact that I had only an eerie suspicion on which to build increased my\nmental discomfort. There was something behind to which my watch and ward\nhad afforded me no clue.\n\nNothing more transpired for another few weeks when one night as I lay\nawake meditating I heard a footstep on the stair without. It was late,\nfor my uncle had been out, and I had sat up reading, and had forgotten\nhow time was passing. As I continued to listen I heard a strange moaning\nproceeding, I felt sure, from 'Brownie's' attic, which was situate a\nfoot or two above my chamber on the top turn of the newel stairway. I\nhad recognised, I thought, the tread on the stairs, for my uncle's\nfootstep was peculiar, since he had a slight limp; it was this that had\naroused my attention and reawakened my apprehension.\n\nThe moaning had been that of a dumb animal, and I had heard it once or\ntwice before when poor 'Brownie' had been in pain.\n\nStealing out of my room a-tiptoe I very gently laid my hand on the\n'sneck' of 'Brownie's' den and tried to lift it without noise.\n\nBut, though it lifted, the door was 'steekit' from within.\n\nThere was no sound to be heard therein; I stood there with pricked ear,\nbut could learn nothing by listening. Perhaps I might be able to discern\nsomewhat through the aperture above the pin of the 'sneck.' 'Brownie's'\nden had, as I knew, a window in its _tourelle_, and as the night was\nmoonlit though stormy, I might in a flitting moonbeam perhaps espy\nsomewhat.\n\nStooping, I placed my eye to the tiny slit, and waited impatiently for a\ngleam of white light that might penetrate from the westward airt which\nit faced.\n\nA quarter of an hour, perhaps, elapsed; I could see nothing, and my\npatience was almost exhausted, when on a sudden the beam of moonlight so\nearnestly expected filtered fitfully into the den, and there, though\nfaintly, was revealed to me the form of my uncle lying motionless upon\nthe truckle bed--apparently in deep slumber.\n\nWhere then was 'Brownie?' I searched the small den for him, but nowhere\ncould I discover him. The window was open. Just as I made this discovery\nthe moonlight faded away and left me in darkness, filled with a horrid\nsuspicion. I waited on in hope of the moonlight returning, but rain set\nin, and I returned to my own chamber much perplexed as to what to do.\nLeaving the door ajar I determined to sit up and listen for any further\nsound, or the creak of a footstep on the stair, but though I listened\ntill grey dawn came I heard no sound at all.\n\nThen once again I stole a-tiptoe to 'Brownie's' door, and peeped through\nthe aperture. Once again I was astounded, for I could now discern that\n'Brownie's' figure lay upon the truckle bed instead of that of my uncle,\nwhich I had seen before.\n\nCould I have been mistaken previously? No, I was certain my eyesight had\nnot deceived me. How could it have? What I had descried had quite belied\nmy expectation, and had been totally unforeseen.\n\nI returned to my bed determined to investigate the open window at the\nfirst opportunity.\n\nI slept ill, and when I rose I found the door of 'Brownie's' den open.\nEntering in, I saw that 'Brownie' had got up and the window was closed.\nInvestigating further, I opened it cautiously and looked forth to see if\nthere were any exit either to the ground or on to the roof.\n\nEvidently there could be none to the ground, for the room was situate at\nthe height of the tall 'land.' Nor was there any opening on to the roof,\nso far as I could discover, for the little _tourelle_ overhung the wall,\nand no foothold was possible.\n\nYet there was one way out. The 'land' stood in the narrowest part of\nthe wynd; right opposite, and not more than five feet away rose the\nopposite wall, finishing off into a gable end with corbie-steps\naffording easy access to the further roof.\n\nCould 'Brownie' have leaped across? It was not impossible, as the space\nwas so narrow, and though the window was small there was room to pass\nthrough. Then as I thus measured the spaces I caught sight of a plank\nbelow the window resting on the floor. 'Twas perhaps a foot and a half\nbroad, in length about six feet--sufficient to act as a bridge across\nthe wynd. I had discovered enough to excite my most vivid apprehensions\nas to its use, but nothing else in the little den gave any clue to the\nmystery.\n\nDescending the stairs I found my uncle already engaged upon breakfast.\nHe seemed in high good-humour, and roasted me heartily upon my\nunpunctuality. 'Brownie' came in at that moment carrying some scones,\nand I noted out of the tail of my eye that he looked extremely haggard\nand miserable.\n\nAssuming a woebegone air I told my uncle that 'Auld Reekie' suited me\npoorly, and that the climate was too 'snell' for my southern\nconstitution.\n\n'Hae ye heard the sad bruit?' he asked suddenly, 'the causeway's fair\nringin' wi't. Puir Tom Macalister, the rich shipper o' Leith, has been\nfound wi' his throat cut lyin' ahint the dyke by the Leith walk. There's\nan unco scandal afoot anent it--some says a merry-begot o' his ain has\ndone it oot o' revenge for bein' kep' short o' siller by his father.' He\npaused a moment, then added significantly, 'Ay, ay, Macalister was aye\nverra generous to the Foundlings' Hospital. Wha kens?' He heaved a sigh,\nbut his eye twinkled satirically, 'The hairt o' man is deceitfu' an'\ndaisperitly wicked,' and he lifted the whites of his eyes heavenward\nlike a hound mourning.\n\n'Was the poor man robbed?' I inquired shortly.\n\n'Ay, was he,' returned my uncle; 'he was seemingly stuffed wi'\nbank-notes for payin' his men the day. He was gangin' hame after\nsupper--gey fou, maist like. Eh, laddie!' he continued, 'sic an end to\nane wha was regairded as belongin' to the Saints! Wae's me for the\ngodly,' and again he lifted his eyes upward as a hound crying u-lu-lu\nfor his lost master. Then he gave me a sharp look, somewhat askance, as\nhe asked me swiftly, 'Whatten a discourse, think ye, will ye get frae\nyour meenister o' the Tron Kirk the morn?'\n\nI blenched, I felt, at this sudden thrust. Had his familiar informed him\nof my interview?\n\n'It will be a sair blow to him,' I said, with apparent unconcern, 'but\nit cannot affect him directly.'\n\n'No affect him?' returned my uncle, seemingly shocked at my\nindifference, 'not when he was aye hand an' glove wi' him?'\n\n'He was no his bairn,' I retorted, hastily finishing off my \"parritch\"\nwith a gulp. 'I'm late, as ye said,' I added, rising, 'I must be off to\nmy work at the booth.'\n\n'Ay, ay,' returned my uncle, 'wark's aye best in an evil day.'\n\nAs soon as my work was finished for the day I hastened to call upon 'the\nMeenister,' and, finding him at home, at once informed him of my\ndiscovery of the night, and of my uncle's satirical mention of poor Mr.\nMacalister's fate.\n\n'Laddie,' he exclaimed earnestly as I concluded 'ye hae dune well to\ncome to me. Puir Tom Macalister was just as decent, straight-leevin' a\nChristian man as could be found i' braid Scotland. There's somethin' gey\nwrang wi' your uncle, I'm fearin' sadly. I'll no let any one blacken the\nmemory o' Thomas Macalister. Noo, laddie, keep ye a quiet watch--sayin'\nnaethin'; but aye wait on wi' eye an' ear for onything further\nsuspeecious at hame, an' if ye hear puir \"Brownie\" skreighin' come your\nways straucht here for me--an' we'll see if we canna tackle the\nevil--an' with the help o' Heaven, scotch it.' His eye lit, his mouth\ntightened; he clenched his fist, ready for immediate 'warsil wi' auld\nHornie.'\n\nI promised faithfully, and withdrew with a heart somewhat relieved,\nthough not relishing the thought of being alone with my uncle in the\nlonely house wherein either suspected the other.\n\nMy uncle that evening scarcely alluded to the murder again save to ask\nif I had had any news, and to mention that the funeral was to be the\nnext day. Then he laughed uncannily, leering upon me over his\nspectacles.\n\n'I'm tell't that he's left a muckle legacy to the Foundlings. What think\nye o' that, laddie?'\n\n'He might have done worse,' I replied, almost angrily, though inwardly I\nshivered. 'He might have left it to the cadies of the toon for drink.'\n\nA fortnight perhaps passed without event; the City Guards were said to\nhave found a clue, and the Town Council had offered a large reward for\nany information that might lead to the apprehension of the murderer, but\nnothing definite had been discovered.\n\nGossip was rife, and in the taverns 'twas bruited that my uncle's\nconjecture had come nighest to the bull's-eye. For my own part I had\nquietly made what arrangements I thought feasible in case of any further\nsuspicious act of my uncle. I kept watch and ward with eye and ear, as\nMinister Geddes had directed, but not till another fortnight had elapsed\ndid I hear his footstep on the stair, by 'Brownie's' den. Then one night\nas I lay half-dozing I was certain I did hear the lame footfall.\nInstantly I was broad awake, and waited in alarmed expectancy. Ha! there\nit was again--the low skreigh o' pain I had heard before. I was\n'gliffed' indeed, horribly afeared, yet I must act, so a-tiptoe I stole\nout, and like a cat stealthily approached 'Brownie's' door. The hour was\nsomewhat after eleven, for I had heard the Tron Kirk chap recently; the\nmoon in her last quarter had risen, and I could dimly descry the\ninterior of the den.\n\nI shrank back after peering through the small aperture, for there was my\nuncle stretched out on 'Brownie's' truckle bed. The window was opened,\nand I could see that the board or plank I had previously measured lay on\nthe sill.\n\nOf 'Brownie' I could not see a sign.\n\nI turned away on the instant. Now was the time to go fetch 'the\nMeenister.'\n\nNoiselessly I descended the stairs, let myself out by a low side window\nin the cellar, and made straight for the lodging of 'the Meenister.' I\ndared not rouse the porter of the Nether Bow Port, but climbed the wall\nbeyond even as Bothwell had done after the explosion at Kirk o' Field,\nand made my way down the Canongate. Minister Geddes was within, and\nfortunately had not yet gone to bed. He was ready in a moment to come\nwith me. With a Bible under his oxter, and a 'bowet' new lit in his\nright hand, he accompanied me swiftly up the street. His courage was\nwonderful; he seemed like 'Greatheart'--valiant to meet Apollyon in\nbattle. I caught hold of the end of his plaid, and followed him _non\npassibus aequis_ like the _parvus Iulus_, for he hastened onward with his\nloins girded up. I do not know that more than twenty minutes had elapsed\nwhen we arrived at the cellar window and I had helped him through.\nTogether we noiselessly mounted the stairs; then when we arrived at\n'Brownie's' den he reached me the 'bowet' to hold while he peered\nthrough the aperture.\n\nThen he turned to me and said in a whisper:\n\n'Laddie, we mun just break doon the door. If it is as I'm thinkin' he\nwinna hear us. His evil spirit is awa i' puir 'Brownie's' body, bent on\nDeevil's wark. Here's for it!' and as he spake he thrust swiftly with\nhis foot and broke down the wooden bolt that fastened the door.\n\nIn we went--I holding the little 'bowet' on high to give us light. 'Ay,'\nwhispered my companion in my ear, 'I'm richt. He's in a swoond; he disna\nsee or hear us.' I gazed in horror on my uncle's face. His eyes were not\nclosed, but were as unseeing as a blind man's. There was, I thought, a\nhateful look as of triumphant evil on his lips, but his breath came\nregularly as of one in deep sleep.\n\n'Noo, laddie,' said the good minister, 'we mun act. \"Brownie\" will be\nreturnin' before daybreak, an' we hae to keep the twa o' them apairt.\n_His_ evil spirit is awa wi' the puir laddie, and we mun prevent body\nan' spirit comin' thegither again. It is like to be a fearfu' warsil,\nbut wi' the help o' the Bible an' our God we'll triumph.' I could see\nhis eye glow and his brow light with inspiration, and I drew in courage\nas I looked upon him in his intrepidity.\n\n'Gang ye oot ower by the bit plankin', laddie,' he commanded me,\npointing to the window. 'Gang, an' wait for \"Brownie,\" then when he\ncomes back grup him fast and pray tae Heaven. I'll shut tae the windie\nand grup the figure here on the bed.'\n\nI could not disobey, but I trembled horribly as I crawled slowly forth\nupon the plank. The minister had sat himself down by the bedside, and\nwas reading aloud by the light of the 'bowet' from out of Genesis of\nJacob's wrestling all night long with the angel of God. I could hear his\nvoice as I slithered slowly across my plank of dread.\n\n     '_And Jacob was left alone; and there wrestled a man with him until\n     the breaking of the day. And when he saw that he prevailed not\n     against him, he touched the hollow of his thigh ... _'\n\nThe faith of the old man alone in the den with the fearsome figure on\nthe bed heartened me greatly. I reached the end of the plank, grasped\nfirmly the coping of the corbie-step, pulled myself up and felt for firm\nfooting in the lead gutter of the roof below.\n\nThere for a few minutes I lay still, my heart palpitating, and reflected\non what was next to be attempted.\n\nAll was still about me. Save for a belated roysterer singing on his way\nhomeward, and one or two nightbirds on the street below whose footfalls\nsounded fitfully, no whisper broke on the eerie night.\n\nI looked around and about in the moonlight, and noted a passage behind\nme between the roofs of the 'lands.' Here surely would be the way by\nwhich 'Brownie' would return from his nocturnal excursion. I sat\ncrouched beside the gable end and waited fearfully for any sound of his\nreturning. The Minister's 'bowet' had now gone out; the window was\nclosed. I felt tremors assail me in my loneliness. Then I caught sight\nof Orion above the further roofs--advancing with glittering sword--as a\nchampion to challenge of combat--and at once a great composure stole\nwithin my heart, for I too was engaged in a great combat against evil.\n\nThe good Minister had assuredly probed the problem to the quick; even as\nElijah had breathed life into the body of the son of the Shulamite widow\nso had my uncle like a fiend from the pit breathed an evil spirit into\npoor 'Brownie's' body, and through him executed horrid deeds.\n\nOur great task was to prevent body and spirit from coming together\nagain. 'Twas certain that the Minister trusted to be able to prevent\nthis re-union by prayer and exorcism, and I was his assistant therein.\n\nI trembled at the struggle so imminent upon me, and prayed God for\nassistance in my hour of need.\n\nCrouching quietly there, I noticed that the wind had now arisen from\nthe west and was driving heavy spume of cloud across the moon so that\nshe was overwhelmed and sank from sight. Soon again, however, she\nemerged from her labours, and, clothed in white, paced serene as a\nMadonna faring to her churching.\n\nJust then I heard a furtive sound behind me, and gazing swiftly backward\nI caught sight of a slight form in grey creeping prone upon the gutter.\n\nThe moment of trial had come. Drawing in my breath I crouched lower\nstill and moved not till the grey form rose up as if to lay hold of the\ncoping-stone. Then swiftly I turned and seized him by the waist, pulling\nhim down backward.\n\nLike a ferret--sudden as a flash--he bit my hand, and we were down in\nthe gutter together.\n\n'Brownie' was of frail build, but he now seemed to be possessed of a\ndemoniac's strength, and my arms failed to hold him. I felt his hands\nupon my neck and grew dizzy.\n\nI prayed then as I had never prayed before, and on the sudden a thought\nlit in my brain. I remembered one of 'Brownie's' infirmities--his\nbreathing through his mouth. I had strength to pluck at my bonnet,\nthrust it into his mouth, and leaned my chin upon the cloth with all my\nforce.\n\nI was still uppermost, and though he twined and twisted like a serpent,\nI held on while my head seemed almost bursting. The thought of Jacob\nwrestling through the night sustained me, and now at last 'Brownie's'\nclutch upon my throat relaxed.\n\nI shook my head free. I breathed again in the cold air--I felt all the\nenergy ebb from the body beneath me. I had conquered at last. 'Brownie'\nlay quietly in the gutter, breathing gently as a babe.\n\nI rose to my feet and peered across the chasm. There in the chamber\nopposite was the Minister wrestling on his knees with the figure on the\nbed. Just at that moment a cock crew from far below in the purple depth\nof the city. The silence seemed to shiver about me.\n\nThank God! Daybreak at last after the horror of darkness.\n\nAs I watched I saw the struggling figure fall suddenly backward on the\nbed. The Minister rose from his knees and came towards the window.\n\nHe opened it, and I saw his face shining in the moonlight--like a\nsaint's--haggard yet triumphant.\n\n'Gie thanks to God, laddie,' he cried to me, as he bent his head\nreverently, 'we hae striven like Jacob an' hae prevailed. _There's a\ndeid man lies upon the bedstraw._'\n\n\n\n\n              BY PEDEN'S CLEUCH\n\n\n                INSCRIBED TO\n\n                WILSON PEASE\n\n    TO WHOSE SUGGESTION THE TALE IS OWING\n\n\n\n\nBY PEDEN'S CLEUCH\n\n\nThe Border hounds had gone right away up Redewater after an old dog fox\nthey had picked up on the rocks beside the Doure; twice had he circled\nthe Doure, then setting his mask westwards had crossed the Rede, and,\nturning right-handed, made straight for Carter Fell.\n\nMy mare had gone splendidly for the first hour, but by the time we\npassed the cairn on the Carter she had lost a shoe, and in addition had\nsustained a bad 'over-reach,' so I was fain to pull up and dismount,\nwhile I watched the Master and whip, and one other intrepid horseman,\nstruggling gamely on towards Carlin's Tooth on the Scottish side of the\nBorder after the tail of the vanished hounds.\n\nI determined to descend to the grass-grown Hawick road which leads into\nthe Jedburgh-Newcastle road half a mile from the ancient Border boundary\nline. The early morning that particular April day had been lovely;\ncurlews newly returned had luted their love-song overhead; golden\nplovers had piped upon the bents; there was a scent of heather-burning\nin the snell air, but suddenly the weather had changed, and with an idle\nmotion snowflakes now drifted down the wind. Cheviot was fast\ndisappearing behind a white shroud; the triple Eildons showed like\nbreaking billows; Ruberslaw alone was black against the sky.\n\nI stayed a minute or two more to give my mare a mouthful of water at the\nsprings of Jed, but whereas I had intended an inch she insisted upon an\nell.\n\nAs I tried to drag her head out of the little pool of water, a\nstranger--evidently an old shepherd--accompanied by a frail old collie\nbitch came up beside me.\n\n'Hae ye had guid huntin'?' he inquired, 'Hae ye killed the fox? They're\nmischievous beasts at the best, but worst o' a' at this season--aye\nseekin' for the puir lambs.'\n\nI said I thought the fox had got right away, and would probably save his\nbrush by taking refuge in some stronghold by Carlin's Tooth.\n\n'Ay,' he replied absently, then added, 'D' ye ken the name o' this\ncleuch?'\n\n'No,' I replied; 'I come from the wrong side of the Border,' finally\nsucceeding, as I spoke, in drawing my mare's head out of the water.\n\n''Tis Peden's Cleuch,'[1] he said with animation; ''tis the place where\nblessed Master Peden was preachin' when the bloody \"Clavers\" was huntin'\nhim like a fox on the fells; ay, and would hae worrited him wi' his\nhounds had na the Lord sent down His mist and wrapped him awa frae the\nhunters.'\n\nHe paused a moment, then continued slowly:\n\n'They still hunt for him--\"Clavers\" and Grierson o' Lag; 'tis the weird\nthey hae to dree till the Day o' Doom for their wickedness i' pursuin'\nthe Saints o' God.'\n\n'Have you ever seen them?' I asked lightly.\n\n'Ay, I hae,' came the unexpected response, 'whiles i' the \"oncome\" or\n\"haar,\" or by the moonlicht.\n\n'D' ye no ken the bit ballant?\n\n    \"_Soondless they ride--for aye i' search o' their boon--_\n      _They ha' died, but God's feud is for aye unstaunched,_\n    _And aye they mun ride by the licht o' the moon._\"'\n\n'No,' I replied, astonished, 'but how--supposing you have seen\nthem--could you know them to be \"Clavers\" and Grierson o' Lag?'\n\n'Not only hae I seen them, but I aince heard them talking,' my companion\nreplied quietly as before.\n\n'When was that?' I asked, still more astonished, as I looked more keenly\nat the speaker.\n\nHe was a man of middle stature, dressed in rough shepherd's costume,\nwith a plaid about his shoulders; he had a gentle aspect, with tremulous\nmouth, and a far-away look in his eyes of speedwell blue.\n\n'I'll tell ye,' he replied simply. 'Blessed Master Peden had been here\ni' the \"killing times,\" ye ken, preachin' till the puir hill folk, an'\nbaptizin' their bairns--he baptized a forebear o' my ain--and it would\nlikely be the annivairsary o' the day when he escaped frae the hans o'\nthe hunters through the \"haar,\" when I chanced to come by here an' saw a\nbit tent pit up, an' heard folk carousin' within.\n\n'I creepit up, an' I keeked within the openin' o't, an' there I saw twa\nhunters sittin' at board--eatin', and whiles drinkin' the blood-red\nwine--ane o' them was the bonniest man e'er I saw i' my life, but he had\nthe sorrowfullest eyes e'er set i' a man's face. There was ne'er a bit\ncolour to his cheeks save where a trickle o' claret had stained the\ncorner o' his lip.\n\n'His comrade was juist the opposite till him; foul he was, an'\ndiscoloured wi' lust an' liquor--mair like a haggis nor a human face\nava.\n\n'There was a wumman beside him--dootless his whure, that had ridden oot\nfrae Jedburgh to be wi' him--nestlin' in at his side like a ewe till her\nram i' the autumn; not that he was takin' muckle thocht o' her,\nthough--an' then he cries oot loud:\n\n'\"'Tis a moonlicht nicht, my Lord Claverhouse,\" he cries; \"we'll hunt\noor quarry ower muir an' fell, an' aiblins hae mair luck than we had i'\nthe day; we'll run the auld brock to ground before dawn, I'll hand ye a\nhandfu' o' Jacobuses.\"\n\n'\"I'll hand ye,\" replied Claverhouse, wi' a smile on his bonny, sad\nface,\n\n    \"_Ye'll tak the high road an' I'll tak the low road,_\n    _An' I'll be in North Tyne afore ye._\n\n\"So up an' tak wing, my grey-lag goose,\" he says, \"an' wing your way\nstraight to the North Tyne water.\"\n\n'\"Then here's a last toast,\" cries Lag, holdin' up his bicker fu' o'\nwine.\n\n'Noo, what think ye was his toast?' my companion broke off to inquire of\nme with eye agleam.\n\nI shook my head, and laid hold of my saddle to remount, for the eerie\ncommunication, the loneliness of the spot, and the isolation of the\ndrifting snowflakes had all combined to give me a 'scunner.'\n\n'It was their ain damnation,' my companion whispered in my ear; 'he was\nproposin' the murder o' the Saints o' God--juist the \"sin against the\nHoly Ghaist\"--that was his fearsome health.'\n\nI had climbed into my saddle, and at that moment an unseen plover wailed\nthrough the mist.\n\n'Hark!' cried my companion, lifting a finger.\n\n'Hark to his soul i' torment!'\n\nMy mare took fright, and made a great spring forward; I let her go, for\nI was 'gliffed' myself, and right glad was I to reach the road made by\nhuman hands that led homeward, for I feared if I stayed on that I too\nmight meet the wraiths of Claverhouse and Lag hunting the moorlands for\nblessed Master Peden.\n\n[Footnote 1: Peden, the Covenanter, was undoubtedly on the Border in the\n'killing times,' and is said to have escaped from the hunters when\npreaching on Peden Pike by intervention of a mist, but as in old maps\nthis rounded hill west of Otterburn is spelt Paden, the derivation seems\ndoubtful. Peden's Cleuch on the north side of Carter seems undoubtedly\nto have been his refuge.]\n\n\n\n\n'ILL-STEEKIT' EPHRAIM\n\n    'About the middle of the night\n      The cocks began to craw:\n    And at the dead hour o' the night\n      The corpse began to thraw.'\n\n_Ballad of Young Benjie._\n\n\nWe--that is, the four members of our Oxford reading party--were bathing\nin a deep pool in many-terraced Tees, and I was seated on a rock's edge,\ndrying in the September sunshine, and quoting from Clough's 'Bothie of\nTober-na-Vuolich':\n\n    'How to the element offering their bodies, down shooting the fall,\n    They mingled themselves with the flood and the force of imperious\n       water,'\n\nwhen from the central black cauldron immediately below me appeared the\nface of Sandie--our best diver--with a most curiously perturbed\nexpression on his countenance. I had been watching a little circlet of\nfoam that eddied round on the outskirts of the current, and seemed to\nwink at me with a hint of hidden and evasive mystery.\n\nThen it vanished, for Sandie's head had shattered it.\n\n'Hello, Sandie!' I cried to him, 'what's up? It's not cramp, is it?'\n\nHe climbed out and up to where I sat on the rock above, and shook the\nwater from his hair.\n\n'Ugh!' he said in disgust. 'I've just been to the bottom, and there I\nswear I came across a drowned body; I felt a corpse and touched long\nhair. I believe it was a woman's.' He looked at his hands in disgust,\nand perceptibly shivered.\n\n'Nonsense!' said I. 'It must have been a drowned cow or sheep, or\npossibly a pony.'\n\n'Go down and look, or rather feel for yourself,' he retorted.\n\n'How deep down was it?' I inquired.\n\n'Twenty feet, perhaps,' he said, 'for it's a deep pool, and I believe\nthe poor thing's tethered--sunk with a stone tied to her feet.'\n\n'Surely not,' I exclaimed, 'for if it was a case of murder it would be\nknown.'\n\n'Go down and see for yourself,' cried Sandie testily. 'I've had enough\nof it.' Calling our other two companions I told them of Sandie's\ndiscovery, and we came to the conclusion that it was our duty to try to\nverify or disprove Sandie's assertion.\n\nThese two dived, but did not get down far enough in the water; it seemed\nto me as I watched their attempts that the stream carried them too\nswiftly forward, so when my turn came I dived in somewhat higher up, and\ngot as far down as I could in my dive, and kept on striking downwards\ntill I calculated I was close to the spot Sandie had indicated. Treading\nthe water I felt about in the amber swirl for Sandie's gruesome find,\nbut the circling eddy swept me onward.\n\nKnowing my breath was all but exhausted I made a final effort, sank a\nlittle deeper, striving against the current, and spread my hands abroad.\nI touched something--surely it was hair! Kicking against the stream I\nfelt again.\n\nYes, it was hair floating in the current--the hair of a woman. I touched\nwith a shrinking hand a human head, then almost suffocated, I rose to\nthe surface and slowly regained the shore.\n\n'Well?' interrogated Sandie, watching my face closely.\n\n'I believe you're right,' I said faintly, still short of breath. 'Yes, I\nbelieve it's some poor woman, for I could just touch the skull, and the\nhair was long and floating in the current.'\n\n'Good Lord!' exclaimed the two others. 'Can she have got wedged in\nbetween two rocks?'\n\n'I think she's been thrown in,' said Sandie gloomily. 'I felt her body\nswaying to the stream. Some ruffian's knocked her on the head, tied a\nstone to her feet, and flung her in.'\n\n'No more bathing for me,' I said, shivering. 'We'll just have to dress\nand go back and report to \"the Dean.\"'\n\nWhen we had returned to the inn where we were lodging we reported our\ndiscovery to our tutor, 'the Dean,' and asked his advice. 'Granted that\nyou have \"viewed the corpse,\" as coroners insist, I suppose you should\nreport it to the Inspector of Police,' said he thoughtfully, 'but\nperhaps I might find out first from our landlord if there has been any\nstory about of a woman being missed. Possibly a \"village tragedy\" may\ncome to light. When we've had tea I will have a pipe and a \"crack,\" as\nthey call it here, with our landlord. Perhaps at supper I may have\nsomething to report.'\n\nWe were well content to leave it in 'the Dean's' hands, for he was most\nastute in management of men, and loved to fathom a mystery.\n\nAt supper, which was an informal meal, whereat we waited on ourselves,\nhe told us that he had found out nothing in course of his 'crack' with\nthe landlord, for the simple reason that he had only been a month in\npossession, and nothing eventful had occurred in that time.\n\n'I think,' suggested 'the Dean,' 'that you two divers should run down on\nyour bikes to-morrow to the Inspector of Police at Middleton, and tell\nhim privately of your discovery.'\n\nThis Sandie and I willingly agreed to, and started off after breakfast\ndown the valley. We found on arrival that the Inspector was away at the\ncounty town attending the Assizes, and was not expected back till the\nend of the week.\n\nWe got back just in time to escape a drenching, for a 'thunder plump'\nbroke in the heaven above the moors as we ascended the last rise to the\ninn, which effectually prevented all thought of further investigation of\nthe Black Lynn pool.\n\nThe next morning was brilliant after the storm, and naturally suggested\nan expedition.\n\n'Let's go for a walk right across the moors,' said Sandie to me; 'the\nother two want to work, but I've turned restless.'\n\nI agreed at once, for I was restless also in disappointment of our\nerrand. We ordered sandwiches, obtained leave from 'the Dean,' and\nprepared to start off at once.\n\n'Don't fret if we don't get back to-night,' cried Sandie, the\n'second-sighted,' to our tutor as we departed; 'we may get lost, Ted may\nbreak down under his weight of learning, or one of Saint Cuthbert's\nCross Fell fiends may \"lift\" him.'\n\nWe wanted to get as far as Brough under Stanemoor, and back by the great\n'Nick,' and then athwart Cross Fell's desolate moor, but we had not\ntaken the weather into our consideration, nor thought of possible\nsopping peat-hags on our return journey.\n\nThus when we had toiled up 'the Nick' by a narrow path from Brough to\nthe wild moorland we found our track across the waste very difficult to\nfollow. By six o'clock the clouds had gathered black above us, and\nanother thunderstorm grew imminent.\n\nSuddenly the lightning flared through the serrated gloom, and thunder\nreverberated over the heather.\n\nThe rain descended javelin-like upon us as we struggled through the\nheavy peat-hags; we lost our bearings and determined to make for any\nlight that we might descry in lonely farm or shepherd's sheil on this\nforsaken waste. We had almost given up hope when we saw a faint glimmer\nthrough the increasing gloom three-quarters of a mile away, perhaps, on\nour left hand.\n\nWe made for our beacon as straightly as we could; then in a dip we lost\nsight of it, but eventually succeeded in discovering it again, and\njudged the light to proceed from the window of a small farm, as indeed\nproved to be the case when we had traversed another mile of broken\nmoorland.\n\nAfter knocking on the door repeatedly, we heard some one moving within.\nWe went up to the window, and asked for shelter from the storm, as we\nwere strangers who had lost our way.\n\nThe door slowly opened, and a man bearing a tallow dip in a battered\nsconce showed himself in the entry.\n\n'We've little accommodation here the night,' he said, as he looked at us\nsomewhat suspiciously; 'the goodman has died and lies steekit in his\ncoffin, but ye can come in for shelter if ye have a mind.'\n\nThis did not sound very inviting, but any shelter was preferable to a\nnight in a peat-hag; so we accepted his offer, and followed the man\nwithin.\n\nIt was a strange scene that met our eyes in the little kitchen. On\ntrestles in the middle of the room stood the coffin; in a box-bed to\none side of the hearth an old woman in a white mutch or cap sat up\nagainst pillows; on the farther side of the hearth sat an untidy,\nfoolish-faced girl who peeled potatoes with an uncanny disconcern.\n\nThe old woman, on the contrary, had exceedingly bright eyes, and seemed\nto note everything with extraordinary interest. 'Wha's there?' she\nasked, as we bowed in a hesitating manner to our hostess.\n\nSandie explained who we were and how we had chanced to intrude upon her\nin such an untimely hour.\n\n'Ay,' she replied, 'the goodman's dead, and is to be lifted the morn,\nbut ye can bide the night; and if ye dinna mind such company,' she\npointed contemptuously at the man who had let us in, 'ye can sleep wi'\nhim i' the room above.'\n\n'Whisht, mother, whisht wi' yer talk afore strange gentlemen,' said he,\nand he seemed to be very uneasy beneath her scorn.\n\n'Why should I whisht?' she said angrily. 'Why hae na ye brocht my\ndaughter Jean to her father's burying?'\n\nThe man turned to us eagerly, evidently anxious to divert our\nattention.\n\n'Be seated, gentlemen,' he said, drawing up two chairs to the fire;\n'ye'll be ready for something to eat belike. Mary can give ye some bacon\nand eggs and potatoes for supper whilst ye dry your coats.'\n\n'Ay,' interrupted the old lady, 'ye shall have meat and drink. Nane\nshall come to a burying at my hoose and no have meat and drink before\nthey gang awa. Set oot the bannocks and honey and milk, Mary, for the\nlads, then mak ready the bacon and eggs.'\n\nMary with a strange disordered giggle that brought a chill to my bones,\nlooked up at this and half spoke, half sang, aloud to herself by way of\nreply. 'Meat and drink for Dad's burying. But wherefore not for Jean's?\nPuir lassie, she was aye kind to me, was Jeannie.'\n\n'Don't heed her, gentlemen,' said the man in a husky voice, 'she's a\nbit daft, poor girl,' and as he spoke he trod noisily on the stone\nfloor, evidently trying to drown her voice, and forthwith dragged a\ntable that stood in the window somewhat nearer the hearth.\n\nMary had now finished with her potatoes, and was cutting rashers of\nbacon which were soon sizzling delightfully in the pan. Meantime Sandie\nwas talking to our bedridden hostess, whom he had discovered to be of\nScottish extraction, and I was conversing with the son-in-law about the\ndanger of being lost on Cross Fell.\n\nThere was a lull in the storm at this time, but one could hear the long\nlances of rain striking on the stone tiles above; it was good to be\nwithin doors, and to dry one's coat by the peat embers. We insisted on\nour hostess partaking of supper, which we served up to her in bed; then\nSandie and I, the girl and the man, set ourselves down by the table and\nstretched forth our hands, in the Homeric phrase, 'to the good things\nset before us.'\n\nSandie and I had our backs to the coffin, and had forgotten all about it\nand the 'goodman,' its occupant; Mary and her brother-in-law sat at the\ncorners of the table, and their features were lit up by the flickering\npeats. The man had shifty, furtive eyes, set rather deep beneath an\noverhanging forehead, lined cheeks, and a clean-shaven heavy jaw; Mary,\nwith sallow face, light eyes, and disordered hair sat opposite him,\nevidently apprehensive.\n\nA strange party amid strange surroundings, thought I, for a moment, as I\nframed an etching of the black coffin, the bright-eyed old woman in the\nnight mutch abed, the daft girl and dour man and two Oxford\nundergraduates eating heartily amid the flickering light of the dip and\nthe peat flames.\n\nBut what a splendid moorland supper it was! Bacon and eggs and fried\npotatoes, bannocks with butter, heather honey and milk.\n\n'What luck!' I murmured in Sandie's ear, 'to be hopelessly lost, and to\nfind this!' and I stretched forth my legs at glorious ease. 'Shifty\neyes' now produced a 'cutty' and suggested a smoke, which Sandie and I\nwere thinking was the one thing left to complete our satisfaction.\nSuddenly and without warning I heard a creak behind my chair, but I took\nno heed. Then a further creaking and a grinding noise--and I looked\nround. _I saw the coffin-lid lift upward and a white shroud show below._\nSlowly the shrouded corpse rose with creaking bones before my staring\neyes--rose to a sitting posture, and sat still. The coffin-lid clanged\nto the ground; then all was still, an awful silence filled the room. A\nmoment more, and a cry of terror rose to the roof, for the man beside me\nwas down on his knees before the corpse in an ecstasy of terror. 'Never\naccuse me, Ephraim! Dinnot terrify us that gate, feyther!' he cried in\nanguish. 'Poor Jean just happened an accident--fell and was drowned in\nthe river.' The man's face held me rigid. Never had I seen mortal fear\nlike this. Suddenly I heard a louder voice beside me, for Sandie--moved\nby an uncontrollable impulse--shot forth an accusing arm, and cried\naccusingly, '_She lies in the Black Linn pool--her head knocked in--a\nstone fast to her feet._' The man's face turned to ashes. Awfully he\ntwisted his head about to the voice. He could not remove his eyes from\nSandie's accusing countenance, spittle dropped from his bloodless lips,\nhis eyes were like to pillars. Then he began to shuffle off--still upon\nhis knees--away from Sandie and towards the door--with his face twisted\nover his shoulder as if it were made of stone.\n\nHe shuffled a little faster--still upon his knees--his head still\ntwisted over his shoulder 'thrawn' in terror of Sandie and the accusing\ncorpse. He reached the door, groped for the handle, opened it, then\nshambled to his feet, passed through the outer door, and so into the\nblack night.\n\nI saw the lightning swoop down upon the moorland. I caught a glimpse of\na man running as one blinded--his hands above his head to protect\nhimself--vaguely through the inky peat-hags. Then I turned to look on\nSandie who was also gazing into the darkness--his face like the\narchangel Michael's. I had not yet found my voice, and could not speak\nfor tension, when I heard a foolish titter from the girl beside me who\nwas suddenly overcome with laughter.\n\n'_Tee hee_,' she went, '_tee hee! What a funny face Tom had on him. Tee\nhee!_'\n\nThen I heard a voice from the bed speaking composedly. 'Ay, I aye kenned\nhe'd murdered puir Jeannie. Whaur wast ye fund my puir lassie?' she\nasked Sandie.\n\nAs Sandie replied to her I looked at the fearful figure of the shrouded\ncorpse that sat upright facing the doorway, whence his son-in-law had\nfled, and wondered if there could be any spark of life left within. As I\nlooked the composed voice spoke again, 'Dinna be fieyed! Puir Ephraim's\nbeen _ill-steekit_. It's twa-three days since the doctor certifiedst\nhim; noo his muscles hae stiffened and raxed him up. Ye mun lay him doon\nagain, Maisters, for I'll no can sleep wi' him glowering that gate.'\n\nThe speaker in the night mutch was the only one of us who seemed\nunaffected by the extraordinary events we had just witnessed. Her eyes\ngleamed a trifle more brightly than before. That was the only\ndifference.\n\nI looked at Sandie in dismay at the task assigned to us, but he had\nrisen, and now beckoned me to the coffin side. Handling the poor corpse\nas reverently as we could we found it very difficult to re-confine it to\nits resting-place, for the muscles had turned so stiff and rigid that we\nhad to exert force, and seek heavy stones from outside to keep the lid\nshut down securely.\n\nThis done, and the door fastened against the return of the fugitive, at\nthe old woman's command, though I felt sure in my own mind that the man\nwould never come back again of his own accord, Sandie and I took the\nbattered sconce and dying wick and went up to the bedroom above.\n\nWe sat upon the bed, smoked another pipe and conversed about the\nsoul-stirring incidents we had just been witnesses of.\n\n'Do you remember,' asked Sandie, 'the mediaeval legend of the dead man's\nwounds bleeding afresh in the presence of his murderer? I believe that\nthe spirit of the dead man down below us must have been moved by the\npresence of his daughter's murderer.'\n\n'To think of our having come across in such a mysterious and fortuitous\nway the poor daughter--Jean!' I said, occupied by another aspect of\nthese extraordinary occurrences.\n\nAs we smoked and talked thus our dip went out, which was an intimation\nthat we had better try to sleep.\n\nWe slept but fitfully, and rose early to help prepare our breakfast.\nScarcely had we finished our repast when a neighbour arrived with a cart\nand horse wherewith he had promised to 'lift' the corpse and convey it\nover the rough track down the valley to the spot where the hearse from\nMiddleton was to meet it.\n\nWe found a rope and bound the coffin-lid lightly down, and having given\nour promise to our hostess to recover, if we could, the body of her\ndaughter Jean and give it proper burial, we bade her good-bye for the\npresent and set off to the inn where the 'Dean' would be anxiously\nexpecting us.\n\nWe related our experiences to the 'Dean,' we got the Inspector to come\nup, but failed entirely to discover the body in the Linn. For my part I\nthought the thunderstorm might be accountable for the disappearance, but\nSandie had his own opinion on this matter. As to the criminal, some say\nhe escaped the country, but I firmly believe he perished in a peat-hag,\nand to this day haunts the bleak spaces of Cross Fell.\n\n\n\n\nTHE COCK-CROW\n\n\nA cloud hung over the bishopric--the ancient patrimony of Saint\nCuthbert.\n\nBishop van Mildert had died and, _sede vacante_, great changes were\nimpending, for Parliament was about to shear off a large portion of the\nprivileges of the ancient franchise, to reduce the endowments, and to\nhand over the mines to the Ecclesiastical Commission.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Reverend Arthur Egglestone--the youngest of the 'Golden Canons' and\nLord of the Manor of Midhope, high up in Weardale--sat in his spacious,\noak-panelled dining-room above the Wear, discussing the situation with\nhis two companions over a very _recherche_ supper prepared by the French\nchef of the Dean and Chapter.\n\nThe time was Lent, the eve of Good Friday, but the 'Golden Canon' had\nforgotten the season in his perturbation and his desire to show\nhospitality to a distant cousin newly arrived from America, who was full\nof curiosity and admiration of the city and cathedral of Saint\nCuthbert.\n\nHis other guest was a Minor Canon who had just been appointed to\ninstruct and train the choir-boys of the cathedral.\n\nThe 'Golden Canon' was of an imposing figure, a fine type of the English\ncountry gentleman of the old school--admirably fitted for the post of\nChairman of Quarter Sessions.\n\nIt was not that he had mistaken his vocation so much as that his\nvocation had mistaken the canon, for owing to the death of his two elder\nbrothers--one by an accident out hunting, one by drowning at sea when\nadmiral--he had unexpectedly succeeded to the family seat and rich\npossessions.\n\nOn this very day he had driven himself into his prebend's house in the\nclose in his four-in-hand to welcome his young American cousin.\n\nThe 'Golden Canon' was of a sturdy build, fair of complexion, a lover of\nfield sports, and an excellent judge of a horse and good claret.\n\nAn admirable host, he sat in his arm-chair looking after the comfort of\nhis two companions, passing the _Chateau-Laffite_, and discoursing\nlearnedly of the ancient glory of the bishopric.\n\nHis American cousin was an undergraduate of Harvard, eager as a hawk,\nkeen-faced, avid of every form of life: he drank down his _Laffite_\nwith evident enjoyment, listening to the music of the water on the weir\nbelow, and eagerly following the wisdom of the 'Golden Canon.'\n\nThe Minor Canon, on the other hand, was not entirely at his ease, for he\nwas divided between his reverence to his host and his consciousness that\nit was Lent, for hitherto he had always prided himself upon mortifying\nthe flesh during the Lenten fast.\n\nHe was of a delicate and distinguished appearance; not much more than a\nlad yet,--sensitive and impressionable--one whom the Jesuits of the\nsixteenth century would have trained to be a 'staff' in their hands to\nbe turned this way and that in the interests of the Church.\n\nGradually, however, he forgot his scruples in the charm of his\nsurroundings, the good cheer, and his superior's conversation; he helped\nhimself joyfully as the claret went swiftly about, and joined with\ndelight in converse about the great past of the cathedral.\n\n''Tis a thousand pities,' said the 'Golden Canon,' 'to diminish in any\nway the dignity of the bishop and the dean and chapter, since reverence\nfor the established order of the State is fast dying out.\n\n'Now just as it is thought well to maintain the dignity of the judges\non assize by the attendance of the High Sheriff with his javelin men and\ntrumpeters, so it is needful to keep up the estates of the bishops and\nthe deans and chapters.\n\n'In the old days of the great prince bishops,' continued the 'Golden\nCanon,' 'the successor of St. Cuthbert was in reality a greater power\nthan the successor of St. Augustine. For myself I had rather have\nreigned and ruled between Tees and Tyne than have lived in Lambeth\nPalace. I should have had regal powers in regard to jurisdiction,\ncoinage, Chancery, Admiralty dues, and so forth, and when I journeyed to\nLondon, on my way to my palace in the Strand, would have lain at my\nvarious palaces on my way up.\n\n'Then again as lord of many manors throughout the Palatinate I should\nhave had all the old feudal dues coming in to my treasury--waifs and\nstrays, treasure trove, deodands----'\n\n'And merchet of women?' queried his cousin mischievously.\n\n'Ay,' replied the 'Golden Canon' with a responsive twinkle in his eye,\n'\"merchet of women\" also, but as an antiquary I must tell ye that it's\nnot what you two young men would wish it to be----'\n\nHe glanced at the blushing face of the Minor Canon, and the eager\nvisage of the undergraduate, and bade them fill their glasses yet again,\nwhile they had the chance, for the Chapter's binn of _Laffite_ was now\nrunning very low in its deep cellar.\n\n'No,' he went on regretfully, ''twas not the _Droit de Seigneur_ which\nwe have all read of, and perhaps envied, but a fine upon marriage--a\nfeudal due exercised over women, as over all property on the feudal\nlord's manor. Not but that I take it occasionally the Prince Bishop may\nhave indulged himself in what Richelieu styled \"the honest man's\nrecreation,\" yet the _jus primae noctis_, of which also you will have\nheard, was not the privilege of the seigneurial bishops, but the fine or\ncompensation paid to the Church by the impatient bridegroom, who in\nearly days of clerical discipline was enjoined to mortification of the\nflesh for the first three nights of marriage.\n\n'A lawsuit 'twixt the mayor and corporation of Amiens and the bishop\nbefore the Parliament of Paris in the fifteenth century is still on\nrecord, and proves this clearly.'\n\n'St. Cuthbert, sir,' interposed the blushing but now emboldened Minor\nCanon, 'would have severely reprehended Cardinal Richelieu in that\nevent, for 'tis said that the saint had a perfect horror of women; we\nknow of the line drawn beside the cathedral beyond which no woman was\nallowed to pass.'\n\n'Ay,' responded his host, 'St. Cuthbert was a great saint doubtless, but\nan extremely ungallant man. He would allow no cow upon Holy Island, for\nwhere there was a cow there was a woman, and where there was a woman\nthere was the Devil.'\n\n'Luther and the Reformation changed all that,' said the young American,\nwith a laugh.\n\n    '\"Who loves not woman, wine and song,\n    He is a fool his whole life long.\"\n\n'Which of the two is in the right?'\n\n'Luther!' replied the Minor Canon, somewhat unexpectedly, flushed with\n_vol-au-vent_ and generous claret, who was now beginning to look upon\nhimself as a gay Lothario. 'Asceticism for its own sake is mere vanity.'\n\n'Here's then to Luther!' cried the 'Golden Canon,' with enthusiasm.\n'Fill and drink a bumper to his memory!'\n\n'Not but what I regret the Reformation myself, since had it not been for\nAnne Boleyn, the bishopric might still be a Palatinate and the estates\nof the canons inviolate.'\n\nCuriously enough the Minor Canon had not on this especial occasion\nfilled up his glass; on the contrary he was now staring in dismay\ntowards the window recess opposite, which was suffused with a pale\nlight. On the right hand there hung a crucifix, and the moonbeams gently\nilluminated the cross with its burden.\n\nThe two cousins continued their gay converse, but the Minor Canon was\ncompletely absorbed in his contemplation of a vision which was being\nunfolded before his affrighted eyes in the recess opposite. A figure\ntook shape in the misty light--the form of an old man rugged of aspect,\nwith grizzled locks like a fisherman's, appeared before his eyes; he\nheld forth his hand and pointed menacingly to the crucifix with fiercely\ngleaming eyes.\n\nAt that very moment there rose up from far away to the ears of the\nstricken gazer the sound of a cock-crow. The gazer wilted back in his\nseat; turning white, he held his hands to his eyes, his whole frame\ntrembling. His two companions, who had now been aroused by his movement,\nlooked upon him with astonishment.\n\n'What's the matter, my dear fellow?' inquired the 'Golden Canon.' 'You\nlook as if you had seen a ghost.'\n\n'I thought,' stammered the gazer--'I thought I saw St. Cuthbert--I mean\nsome apparition--in the recess there.'\n\n'It's only the moon,' the 'Golden Canon' replied, after a cursory glance\nin that direction. 'If you don't like it just draw the curtains.'\n\nBut the Minor Canon had already risen from his seat, and, with unsteady\nfootsteps, passed to the door murmuring brokenly to himself, '_Peccavi,\npeccavi_' as he withdrew from the dining-room.\n\n'A nice fellow,' commented the 'Golden Canon,' 'but he has, I fear, a\nrotten digestion.\n\n'Help yourself to that white port, cousin; then we'll finish our talk\nover a pipe of tobacco.'\n\n\n\n\nBY THE SHRINE OF SAINT CUTHBERT\n\n\nThe bells were ringing to evensong in the great cathedral dedicated to\nSaint Cuthbert, that stands like a fortress on its rock above the\nmurmuring Wear--\n\n    _'Half house of God, half castle 'gainst the Scot'--_\n\nin the windy dusk of a November evening.\n\nThe people of the saint, however--the 'Haliwer folc,' the 'folk of the\nHoly Man'--were few in attendance that afternoon, and the great nave\nseemed very empty as I sat down in a seat in front of the 'Galilee'\nbeside the north door of entry.\n\nI looked about me and admired the mighty Norman pillars diapered and\nfluted with exceeding skill by the great master builders of old, who\nbuilt to, even as their great duke swore by, the 'Splendour of God.' My\neye wandered upward and rested upon the great chevrons resembling\nsword-cuts that seemed deep-hacked within the rounded arches of the\nTriforium. Thence onward my gaze fluttered like a butterfly, and rested\nupon a leering corbel, which seemed to scoff at priest and priest-craft\nwith protruding tongue. The mighty stone roof soaring aloft--a ship's\nkeel upturned--drew my eye eastward to the choir; there on the great\neast window, rose-shaped and many-coloured, the invading dusk gathered\nlike water-drops upon the panes, and wove its dun mantle over them. The\nanthem now pealed along the roof, lapping capitals, corbels, and pillars\nin a tide of sound that swept unresisted through the wide spaces of the\ncathedral.\n\nAs the echoing song grew fainter, and ebbed away into the twilight\nshadows, my gaze returned to my immediate surroundings, and rested\nunconcernedly upon a man sitting a seat or two in front of me, beside\none of the massive piers. He seemed to be in a most distressed and\nnervous condition, for he peered about him with an evident alarm, which\nwas pitiful to witness. As he turned his face about I saw it was haggard\nwith fear and sorrow, or remorse; his hair was matted, and beads of\nsweat were thick upon his brow.\n\nIt was as if he were terrified of impending danger. Yet what could he be\nafraid of in the great calm of the solemn cathedral? The benediction had\nbeen given, and the sparse congregation had now risen and was slowly\ndeparting, yet he rose not, but seemed to be hiding from view as he\ncrouched behind the form in front of him, and edged his way slowly\nwithin the shadow of the heavy pier to his left hand.\n\nI sat on listening to the voluntary, and it held me by its strangeness.\nI knew that the Dean and Chapter's organist was away on holiday, and I\nwondered who the strange player might be who was setting forth his own\nsoul in the notes of the pealing organ. He sang of fellowship, of\ncomradeship in ancient days through stress of adventure and deadly\ncombat; then with organ sobs that shook the heart, of death and the\ninfinite loneliness of death, and of the inappeasable sorrow of the\nsurvivor lamenting his Jonathan. A pause of black silence. Then brokenly\na little sough of life began to re-arise--a growth of hope--the fierce\ndetermination of revenge--quickening with flame--breaking into triumph.\n\nAnd now as the lights were being turned out, and gloom came rushing in\nupon the empty spaces of the cathedral I saw the unhappy figure shift\nindecisively as he rose from his seat in front of me, glance hurriedly\nabout as if for a way of escape, then moving unsteadily round the pier,\nto my surprise he shuffled off in the direction of the organ. The music\nseemed to fascinate him, to paralyse his will, even as the sphex\nparalyses its victim with its sting.\n\nThe organist was now engaged upon the coda of his fugue; the former\nmotifs were rehearsed--love, sorrow, and revenge. Triumph resounded from\nthe loft when I heard above the quickening notes a sudden patter of\nheels across the nave; then a pitiful drumming of fists upon the barred\ndoor that led into the east corner of the cloisters. Knowing that escape\nthat way was now impossible for the distracted man, and feeling pity for\nhim, I crossed the nave and followed after him in the gloom. As I drew\nnear I heard him flee again--down the south aisle to the other door of\nthe cloisters. Here once more he shook unavailingly upon the latch, and\ndrummed pitifully with his fists. There was a scrabbling with nails on\nthe oaken door--then a cry of anguish smote on my ear. An awful terror\nevidently had him in grip.\n\nHe rushed wildly on again--on--on to the only remaining door of escape\ninto the northern close. Suddenly the music stopped on a throb of joy.\nThe shock caused me to halt. As I started again to walk towards the door\nI heard no longer the miserable patter of feet in front of me. I was\njust about to reach out a hand to feel for the latch in the darkness\nwhen I stumbled over an obstacle on the pavement. I knelt down and felt\nabout with my hands: I found a man's body lying inert at my feet.\n\nGod in Heaven! The darkness seemed to buffet me upon the ears. I heard a\nvague cry escape my lips, for the fugitive's hand had dropped from mine\nwith a thud upon the stone. _The man was dead._\n\n\n\n\n'MEENISTER' MACHIAVELLI\n\n\nThe soul of the Minister of Bleakhope was disquieted within him, for he\nhad just been 'up the water' and seen the new stained-glass windows\nwhich had recently been put in and dedicated to Saint Cuthbert in the\nEnglish church 'beside the Knowe.'\n\nThe Reverend Alexander Macgregor was tall and spare, oval-faced, eyed\nlike a hawk, yet with a humorous twinkle behind his keen glances that\nwere equally alert whether for the rising of a 'troot' or a sinner.\n\nA bequest from a wealthy parishioner, who had died, as the result of a\nmotor-car accident, had enabled his 'brother'--the Episcopalian\n'priest'--to decorate his church with three single lights, illustrative\nof Saint Cuthbert's life, and the Minister grieved as he thought of his\nown little grey kirk on the bare hill which badly wanted a 'bit colour'\nin its wee apsidal east window.\n\nHe regarded his frayed sleeves and his wrinkled black trousers\nunhopefully.\n\nIf he were to save every penny till the end of his days he could never\nachieve his desire. He had no wealthy parishioner whom he might persuade\ninto buying a motor-car after seeing that 'the Kirk' had been duly\nremembered in his will.\n\nHis flock consisted chiefly of small farmers and herd laddies, and\nunless one of them emigrated and made a fortune in Canada he saw no\nprospect of achievement in the parish itself.\n\nAs he walked up the road towards the manse on this particular October\nevening after his return from the Knowe he came nigh to breaking the\ntenth Commandment into pieces, for the three light windows seemed to\nflaunt themselves before his eyes in the gathering mist, and to ask\ntauntingly, 'What wull ye gie for us? What wull ye gie for us?'\n\nAs he plodded onward he was suddenly hailed by a voice from behind.\nTurning about, he recognised one of his flock--a small fellside\nfarmer--who, coming up with him, informed him that an old acquaintance\nwas staying at the little inn close by who had been inquiring about him.\n\n'Wha is 't?' inquired the Minister.\n\n'Ye'll mind Tam Elliot,' replied the elder, 'him that was nevvy to auld\nSandy o' the Ratten Raa farm that died and left him part money. Aff he\nwent when he got the siller, and a bit later an auld great-aunt left\nhim a bit mair, sae he took a muckle big farm doon sooth, and noo he's\nat the inn cracking crouse aboot his pedigree beasts and sheep, and\nswankin' awa as to what he's done syne he left these parts, just as if\nwe didna ken the sort o' man he was, and aye will be. Howsoever, he's\naskin' after ye, and maybe ye'd like a crack wi' him.'\n\nThe Minister was on his way home, but he liked his 'crack' as well as\nanother, so he turned eastwards to the little wayside hostelry some\nquarter of a mile back to forgather with Elliot, who used to attend the\nkirk 'whiles' in company with his deceased uncle. The 'Sign of the Wool\nPack' was a very quiet country inn; in the little 'snug' there would not\nbe above half a dozen customers--the landlord, probably, presiding over\nthem--so the Minister thought no harm in joining them for a glass, a\npipe, and a 'crack.'\n\n'Hoo's aal wi' ye?' he inquired, as he entered the door of the 'snug,'\nand, having nodded to the company, held out his hand to Tam Elliot. 'We\nhae heard that ye are increasing your flocks like Abraham, doon sooth i'\nthe land o' Canaan!'\n\n'You are welcome, Minister,' cried Tam in reply, as he rose up and took\nhim by the hand; '\"wag a paw,\" as we used to say, and take something for\na sore throat. Yes,' he continued, as he sat himself down again and\ntook a pull at his own long glass, 'I'm building up a pedigree stock at\nmy new place--gave L500 for a bull t' other day, and that's a fact.'\n\n'Dod, man!' said the Minister, bethinking him of the stained-glass\nwindow, 'why, that's a small fortune.'\n\n''Tis that,' replied Tam complacently, stretching a leg to the hearth,\n'but pedigree blood's worth the money.' He caressed a little imperial he\nhad grown since he left the north, stretched out his other leg to the\nfire, and with a smile of satisfaction that seemed to ooze from his\nvintage cheeks, continued to talk of his own pedigree.\n\n'Yes, blood's the thing,' he said, 'for beasts and humans alike. Why,\ntake my family--every one knows the clan of Elliot's been on the Border\nfor centuries, and one of my forebears was married on a Stuart lass, so\nlikely enough I may have a bit royal blood i' my veins, even though it\ncomes from the wrong side o' the blanket.'\n\nHere an ancient, bearded shepherd--an elder of the kirk--with a tongue\nof caustic, Ringan by name, who was sitting behind the Minister, winked\nderisively at the company and muttered _sotto voce_, 'He's forgot aal\nthe little yins. I mind fine his granddam--the merry-begot of a\npitman's lass doon the water.' The Minister himself could not resist a\nsmile at this, and the visitor added somewhat hastily, 'Yet I say wi'\nRobbie Burns--\"_a man's a man for a' that_.\" Have another touch o' this\nmountain dew,' he cried magnanimously to the scornful herd.\n\n'Na, na, I'm awa,' replied the ancient herd, rising as he spoke; 'it's\ngettin' late, an' I dinna want to run the risk o' meetin' wi' \"Parcy\" on\nmy way hame.'[1]\n\n'Parcy!' exclaimed the visitor, raising himself in surprise from his\narm-chair. 'Parcy, the ghost o' the murdered mosstrooper, d' ye mean,\nthat the old wives talked of? D' ye mean to tell me ye still believe in\nghosts up here?'\n\n'Why not?' said the Minister. ''Tis good Christian doctrine to believe\nin departed spirits.'\n\n'We don't believe in 'em in the towns,' retorted Elliot scornfully, 'so\nwhy should we in the country?'\n\n'Will ye put your faith, or lack o't, tae the proof?' here inquired the\ncaustic ancient herd. 'I'se haud ye a wager ye winna walk doon the burn\nthe morrow nicht at the deid hour, past the stane where \"Parcy\" was\nslain, and up on beyond the kirkyaird, and on tae the manse. Maybe it's\na mile, an' to-morrow's the nicht o' Hallow E'en when the deid walk.\nHere's my shilling against whatever ye like to lay doon,' and as the\nancient spoke he drew a long, thin leathern purse from his trouser\npocket, plucked forth a shilling, and set it down with a bang on the\ntable.\n\n'And there's my sovereign alongside it,' cried the visitor\nvaingloriously.\n\n'Aweel,' the ancient continued, 'the Meenister can be the stake-holder,\nan' the landlord can set ye awa as the clock strikes twalve the morrow\nnicht. If ye win through to the manse your lane ye'll hae won my\nshillin'; if no', the Meenister will hae a sovereign i' the ladle next\nSawbath.'\n\nThe landlord assented, the others all approved the suggestion, the\nMinister placed the stakes carefully into his waistcoat pocket, and the\naged shepherd departed, chuckling to himself over his wager.\n\nThe Minister continued to converse about ghosts for a minute or more,\nthen he too rose, saying that 'the wife' would be getting nervous if she\n'wanted' him much longer.\n\nAs soon as he was out upon the road he sped on after the retreating\nfootsteps of the shepherd, and he hailed him through the gloom. As he\ncame up with him he said quietly, 'Come awa to the manse and we'll hae a\nbit crack.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHallow E'en drew on stormy and dark, and Elliot at the inn began to\nregret that he had ever accepted the wager, though for very shame he\ncould not now withdraw from his forbidding task. At a quarter to twelve\nthen precisely, having fortified himself with a final dram and lighted a\ncigar, he set forth upon his mission. He knew the path quite well, and\ncould make no pretence at missing his way, but when he had crossed the\nburn by the shaking little wire suspension bridge sudden fear assailed\nhim. There was a gusty wind sweeping drumly clouds athwart the\nsky--faintly illuminated by the dying moon; now a few stars appeared\nmomentarily, then a swathe of darkness enveloped all. The old kirkyard,\nwith its tottering headstones grouped around the black kirk, had an\neldritch look in the murky night, and Elliot's heart sank into his boots\nas he drew nigh.\n\nThe clouds had lifted as he walked swiftly but unsteadily onward. What\nwas that? He heard something move, and looked about him fearfully.\nSuddenly from beside the little kirkyard gate a monstrous form rose\nup--soot-black, horned, and threatening. It advanced upon him, tossing\nits horrid horns, but without speaking. _Could it be 'Auld Clootie'\nhimself?_\n\nElliot's knees became as water; he staggered on, but at that very moment\na terrible bray resounded from the hollow on his left, and Elliot,\novercome with terror, fell to the earth. 'Minister Macgregor,' he\nyelled; 'O Minister, come help me! All the devils i' Hell are loosed\nabout me.' The horned figure drew closer, brandishing his horns, and\nElliot believing his last hour was come wailed forth his confession of\nsin.\n\n'I hae done wrang,' he moaned aloud; 'I promised Jeannie to mak her an\nhonest woman, but I haena done it. But I will, I swear it, by Heaven\nabove. Minister Macgregor,' he yelled again, 'come, help me, or I'll\ngang clean daft.' Shaking like an aspen leaf he lay upon the ground and\ncovered his eyes with his hands, whilst he endeavoured to say a prayer.\n\nThen he felt something touch him on the shoulder, and he broke into an\nagonised yell.\n\n'Whisht, then, whisht!' said a kindly voice in his ear. A friendly hand\ngripped him below the oxter, and, peering up, he discerned the Minister.\n\n'Eh, Minister,' cried Elliot in a paroxysm of joy, 'ye hae saved\nme--saved me,' then he burst into tears.\n\n'Come awa, come awa,' said the Reverend Alexander Macgregor gently,\n'come awa up wi' me to the manse.'\n\nClinging to his benefactor, Elliot rose to his feet and stumbled forward\nas swiftly as his shaking limbs permitted.\n\n'Whaur is he?' he inquired tremulously, keeking about fearfully.\n\n'Wha d' ye mean?' replied the Minister. 'Is 't \"Parcy\" ye hae seen?'\n\n'Waur nor that; waur nor that,' replied the other. 'I believe 'twas\n_him_.'\n\n'Anither fifty yards an' we'll be hame,' said the Minister. 'See,\nthere's the licht i' the windie showing fine.'\n\nAs soon as they were within doors the Minister placed his trembling\ncompanion in the old leathern chair in his little sanctum, made up the\nfire, and poured him out a glass of whisky with hot water from the\nkettle that was opportunely ready on the hob.\n\n'And now, Minister,' said the rescued one, after imbibing the goodly\ncontents of his glass, 'what can I do for ye by way o' recompense for\nsaving me the night?'\n\n'Did I hear ye confessin' that ye had wranged a lass--by name Jeannie?'\nasked the minister, seriously, by way of answer.\n\n'Ay, ye did that,' replied the penitent fervently, 'and I swore to right\nher. I'll mak her my wife at aince; I swear it again--before ye.'\n\n'I'll haud ye to it, mind,' said the Minister gravely; then he inquired\nthoughtfully, 'What wull ye do by way o' further recompense for being\nsaved the nicht?' He paused. 'Weel,' he continued, 'there's some that\nhad sinned like ye i' the auld times that desired to prove their\nrepentance and their gratitude to Heaven for timeous rescue by some\noutward an' visible symbol, sic, for example, as building a kirk or\nfoundin' an orphanage.'\n\n'Eh, but, Minister,' ejaculated the penitent, turning white again,\n'yon's a work for kings and suchlike, no' for a poor farmer like me.'\n\n'A puir farmer,' commented his mentor, 'is no' ane that gives L500 for a\npedigree bull.' There was silence for a while. The penitent groaned\nwithin himself as he regarded the implacable face in front of him. Then\nhe said suddenly, 'No a _kirk_, Minister,' and further ventured\nwheedlingly, ''tis impossible, but somethin' _for_ the kirk--a new\npulpit, for instance, or a bit organ, or some heating for the winter.'\nThe Minister shook his head.\n\n'The kirk disna care aboot organs, and the folk hereawa are hardy and\nwinna want ony heatin',' he replied slowly; then with the twinkle in his\neye he explained further, 'No, that is for _pleesure purposes_.' He\nreflected a moment or two profoundly, then with a happy inspiration\nsuggested an alternative. 'A stained-glass windie micht be a guid an'\nrighteous gift, I'm thinkin'.'\n\n'That's mair like it,' responded the penitent, almost with joy,\nfinishing off his glass and holding it out suggestively for\nreplenishment.\n\n'Hoo muckle would it come to, think ye--L100 belike?'\n\nThe Minister replenished his guest's glass hospitably before replying.\n\n'We'd best mak it guineas,' he said thoughtfully.\n\n'Right!' cried the other, his spirits visibly rising. 'I've got a\ncheque-book on me, an' I'll write it out for ye this instant moment.'\n\nThe Minister took the cheque silently, dried it carefully on his\nblotting-pad, then tucked it safely away in his Bible.\n\n'An' noo,' he said to his penitent, 'noo I'll set ye awa for the inn.'\n\n'Ye'll never be for turning me out into the darkness again?' wailed\nElliot, his face paling perceptibly.\n\n'I'll gang wi' ye,' replied the Minister, 'I'll guide ye; and wi'\nthis,' he took up his heavy 'crook,' 'I'll fettle \"Auld Hornie.\"'\n\n'I don't care about the wager,' continued the other, desirous of putting\noff the evil moment; 'here's the sovereign--for yourself or the old\nshepherd.'\n\nSerious as before, the Minister took the sovereign and laid it on the\nBible as he said:\n\n'If ye dinna gang back to the inn the landlord an' his lassies will be\nup a' nicht seekin' ye, an' ye'll be the talk o' the hail countryside.'\n\nHis visitor sighed heavily and looked wistfully at the whisky bottle,\nbut the Minister was adamant. 'No' anither sup till the windie's in,' he\nthought to himself.\n\n'Well, Minister,' said his guest with resignation, as he rose slowly up\nfrom his chair, 'I'll go back, but keep a close tongue, ye ken.'\n\n'I'm used to daein' that,' replied the other, as he ushered his guest\nout into the darkness, and led him back to the 'Wool Pack' without\nmishap.\n\nOn his return the Minister paused by the kirk yett, and thus\nsoliloquised:\n\n'I never cared muckle for that camsterie goat o' Ringan's, but he wis\ngey useful the nicht there's no denyin', whilst as for auld cuddy, dod!\nbut he was in fell voice, an' cam in punctual as the precentor.' The\nReverend Alexander Macgregor thrust out an arm on high, turned about on\nheel and toe, as though to secret piping. Then he resumed his way to the\nmanse, pondering now what should be the subject of the stained-glass\nwindow. Suddenly he stood stock still. He had it! 'It wull represent\nPalm Sunday--the entry of our Lord intil the Holy Ceety--_ridin' in on\nan ass_.'\n\n[Footnote: 1 'Parcy Reed,' the hero of the well-known ballad, was foully\nslain in Bakinghope above Catcleugh Lough, but his wraith is said to\nhaunt the Rede and to be visible about Rochester.]\n\n\n\n\nELDER 'MACHIAVELLI-ER'\n\nI\n\n\nOn the evening after the stained-glass 'windie' had been set up in the\nnew kirk and dedicated to the memory of Saint Cuthbert, the Reverend\nAlexander Macgregor and his elder, Ringan Telfer, the ancient 'herd,'\nsat together in the manse's little 'sanctum' or library, enjoying a\n'crack,' a glass of whisky, and a pipe of tobacco.\n\n'It's a gey an' useful thing a ghaist,' said Ringan meditatively. 'It\nfleys folk fine an' stirs up their conscience graund. I aince thocht I\ncaught a keek o' \"Parcy\" mysel', but I wasna muckle gliffed, for though\nI ken fine I'm a sinner, I've naethin' particular on my conscience.\n\n'Mind ye, I dinna ken whether 'twas a wraith I saw or no--for I'd been\nfirst footin', ye ken, an' maybe I had a wee drappie i' my e'e.'\n\n'Gey an' likely,' assented the Minister, nodding his head\nsympathetically, and drawing deep upon his pipe.\n\n'Onnyway, naethin' came o't,' continued Ringan, imbibing thoughtfully\nfrom his glass, 'but what I'm thinkin' the noo is that aiblins anither\nghaist-gliff micht do a body I ken o' a guid turn.'\n\n'There's many a body that micht be the better of a bit \"gliff,\" but it\ndisna always last, and it's a daungerous game to play at. But wha is the\nbody?' inquired the Minister.\n\n'It's a lang story,' replied the other, as he extracted a document from\nhis pocket, 'but gey easy to understand. Weel, this document is a bit\ncodicil to the will of a far-off cousin o' mine, but it wasna signed, as\nye'll note, and i' the eye o' the law, as they call it, o' nae value.\nNoo the testator, Mistress Wallace, was a widow wi' a bit heritable\nproperty the whilk she'd but a life interest in, but she had a bit\nsiller i' the bank, an' 'twas this she was leavin' awa different frae\nher will by this bit codicil.\n\n'The siller was twa hundred pounds, an' it was lyin' at the bank, and\nthe bank manager got it for various advice--ceevility an' attention paid\nto Mistress Wallace.\n\n'Weel, there was anither puir widdie--a far-off cousin o' hers, that had\na bairn born till her after her man died, and the puir widdie juist\naskit Mistress Wallace to be its godmither.\n\n'Noo Mistress Wallace had nae bairns o' her ain, ye ken, an' it\npleasured her fine to be a godmither to the fatherless bairn, but bein'\nverra frail i' body, she didna get the codicil signed an' witnessed\nbefore her \"stroke.\"\n\n'Weel, the doctor, he kenned aal about the hail matter, an' he gied the\npuir widdie the bit paper, since he was managin' her bit affairs. He\nthocht aiblins if the bank manager saw it he micht \"pairt\"--but deevil\na bodle wull he hand ower, though the doctor saw him himsel'.'\n\nThe Minister nodded his apprehension, then taking the pipe out of his\nmouth, inquired, 'Wha was the puir widdie woman?'\n\n'Ye'll ken my sister?' replied Ringan, gazing fixedly at the fire,\n'Effie that was marrit on puir Jock Ord--a fine laddie he was--verra\nknowledgeable wi' sheep, wha perished in a snowstorm, mindin' his\nhirsel.\n\n'She was left gey ill aff, an' noo wi' a bairn to provide for, hard pit\ntill 't. Twa hundred punds wull provide for his upbringin', an' aiblins\nturn him into a meenister at the finish.'\n\n'Ay,' replied the Minister,' I mind Effie well, puir decent body, for\ndidna I marry them? An' I heard tell o' her man's death, but I hadna\nseen nither since they went herdin' ower the Carter Bar. But whaur does\nthe \"ghaist\" come intil the story?' inquired the speaker in conclusion.\n\nRingan continued to contemplate the fire with fixed attention, then\nslowly delivered himself as follows:\n\n'I'm hearin' that the Burnside Field Club wull be comin' up the water to\nhold their meetin' here shortly, an' to view the Roman Camp. I mind they\nwere here ten years before, an' this year the president is the bank\nmanager doon at the auld toon, wha has gruppit the siller I've tell't ye\naboot. Weel, ye'll ken him, an' aiblins,' here the speaker took up the\nbellows and thoughtfully assisted the fire's respiration, 'aiblins it\nwud be a ceevil matter to offer to gie him a night's lodgin', for it's a\ngey lang way up frae the auld toon, an' the manager's gettin' gey white\naboot the pow.'\n\nHere the speaker laid down the bellows, then took up his glass\nthoughtfully, drained it off slowly, and resumed his contemplation of\nthe fire.\n\nThe Minister also refreshed himself, then, keenly watching his companion\nfrom the tail of his eye, admitted an acquaintanceship with the bank\nmanager.\n\n'Ay, I ken him. He's a verra decent body--a bit near maybe, an' terribly\nsuperfeecial i' antiquarian knowledge. I mind I had a bit differ wi' him\nthe time he was last up at the Camp.\n\n'But supposin' I was inclined to be ceevil till him--what then?'\n\n'Then aiblins,' replied the elder, stooping and knocking the ashes from\nhis pipe against the fender, 'there micht be a bit gliff, an' this bit\npaper micht come in gey useful by way o' stirrin' up his conscience the\nwhilk, I'm thinkin', has been growin' stiff i' his auld age. If it disna\nthere's nae harm dune.'\n\nThe Minister thrust out his legs, and gazed up at the ceiling.\n\n'Was it Dr. Thomson that tended Effie, an' that saw the manager?'\n\n'Ay, 'twas him,' replied his companion.\n\nThere was a pause of silence after this response, the elder gazing\nabstractedly into the fire, the Minister surveying his ceiling, yet all\nthe while out of the tail of his eye keeping watch on his elder.\n\nUltra sardonic he was, reflected the watcher affectionately, intolerant,\n_plus Calviniste que Calvin meme_--sceptical of the world, with\nup-twisted eyebrows that seemed to signify a perpetual interrogation,\nyet faithful unto death to his duty and his own ideals. He minded well\nassisting to dig Ringan out of a snowdrift wherein he was seated, calmly\ntending a ewe and her two tiny lambs.\n\n'Aweel,' said the Minister, breaking the silence, 'I micht--be offerin'\nhospitality to Macmanus, the banker; 'twould be the ceevil thing to do,\nbut if he comes he's my guest, ye ken--I maunna hae ony \"frightfulness\";\nan' the cuddy wull be locked up.'\n\n'Ay,' responded the other, 'an' sae wull the goat be.'\n\n'I ken naethin' aboot that,' retorted the other, bringing his gaze down\nfrom the ceiling to rest upon the swag-bellied green bottle on the table\nbeside him.\n\n'It's gettin' on intil the \"wee sma' hours ayont the twal,\"' he added;\n'ye mun hae a \"deoch-an-doruis\" afore startin' \"aff.\"'\n\n'Deed, an' I wull,' replied Ringan, as he rose up and held out his\nglass, whilst wrapping his plaid about his shoulders.\n\n\nII\n\n\nFergus Macmanus, bank manager, amateur antiquary, and President of the\nBurnside Field Club, accepted the invitation from the Reverend Alexander\nMacgregor, and returned with him from the Roman Camp to the manse for\nthe night after a successful meeting, whereat he had given an address on\nCastrametation and the Roman Wall, which had abundantly satisfied\nhimself, if not his host.\n\nMacmanus was a short, thick-set, well-preserved man of some seventy\nyears of age, with a complexion reminiscent of Harvest Festival. His\nPauline motto of 'All things to all men' was a little impeded by an\nassurance of infallibility which he founded upon his 'common-sense view\nof things.' Hence after supper he proceeded to demonstrate to his host\nthat all the theorists were wrong; that he had walked along the line of\nthe wall and satisfied himself that wall and vallum were not\ncontemporaneous, and that if Hadrian had made any use of the vallum--an\nearly dyke or _limes_--it was merely for the screening of his troops\nwhilst the wall was building.\n\n'Common sense,' retorted the Minister, 'willna tak ye verra far. Common\nsense assures me the world is flat, an' stands stock still in the centre\no' things.'\n\n'Common sense,' echoed his companion; 'man alive! why it includes the\nuse of all the rational faculties. What I mean is that folk get wedded\nto a theory and disregard the practical side o' things. Noo the Romans\nwere first and foremost a practical people, as a'body kens. They made\nsure o' their conquest, an' then built their wall, sae that the popular\ntheory that the vallum was a protection against the south is a' stuff\nan' nonsense.'\n\n'Isna the result,' queried the Minister, 'that ye haud ane theory, ither\nfolks anither?'\n\n'If a thorough excavation were carried out many secrets micht be\ndiscovered, but noo folks prefer to travel an' dig i' the remotest\npairts o' the earth, an' no' at home.'\n\n'Aweel,' the Minister continued, with a sudden deft twist to the\nconversation, 'it's no excavation o' the earth that's interestin' me the\nnoo--it's _the excavation o' the mind_. I have been readin' o' what a\nclever doctor chield has accomplished i' Edinbro' by the pooer o' mind\nupon mind----'\n\n'Ye mean Christian Science--Faith-Healing?' queried his companion\nscornfully.\n\n'Na, na,' returned the Minister, 'he ca's it Psycho-therapeutics--an'\nhas worked miracles by it. For an instance, he actually operated wi' the\nknife on a puir body withoot any chloroform, ether, or anaesthetic\nwhatever--an' the patient ne'er had a wink o' pain under it. His\nconsciousness was under control, ye ken, directed clean awa from thocht\no' pain----'\n\n'I'd like to see the man that could mak me believe he'd gien me security\nfor his overdraft when he hadna,' interrupted his companion\nsatirically.\n\n'I think I hae heard o' the thing haein' been accomplished, natheless,'\nreturned the Minister with a twinkle in his eye.\n\n'Man!' acknowledged the banker with a smile, 'but ye're gleg.'\n\nThe two men surveyed each other silently, like fencers awaiting feint or\nlunge, when suddenly a peal of thunder echoed on the air and shook the\nwindows of the sanctum.\n\n'A thunderstorm,' said the banker, 'i' the distance. Well, there's ane\nthing I'd be glad to hear o' frae your new doctor, an' that is no' to be\ngliffed by thunner an' lightin'. I was verra nigh struck by a flash when\nI was a bairn oot fishin' for troots--an' I canna get the better o't.'\n\n''Tis a lang way off,' replied the Minister, rising and looking out o'\nwindow; 'weel, it's bedtime, I'm thinkin'. Ye mun juist have a night-cap\nbefore retiring.'\n\nNothing loath, his guest fortified himself handsomely, and was escorted\nto his bedroom by his host.\n\nEntering his own room, which was opposite the other, the Minister\nproceeded to undress, leaving the door ajar advisedly, in the event of\nany strategy of Ringan's contriving.\n\nHe lay awake some while in watchful expectation, but as the\nthunderstorm had passed over and no other sound was audible, he shortly\nfell sound asleep.\n\nSuddenly he was roused by the most extraordinary noise. The manse seemed\nto be shaken to its foundation.\n\nHe started up in bed. Could a flash of lightning have hit the chimney?\n\nThen he saw a light without on the landing, heard footsteps, and a voice\ncalling him by name.\n\n'Minister Macgregor,' it called. 'The house has been struck wi'\nlightnin', I'm certain.'\n\nThe Minister hurried out on to the landing, and seeing his guest, by the\nlight of the candle which he held in his shaking hand, to be much\nperturbed, endeavoured to comfort him.\n\n'It was a fearfu' noise yon; it wakened me up oot o' the sleep o' the\njust,' he said. 'I thocht the chimney mun have been stricken, but if\nsae, stanes wud hae come through the roof. Maist likely the auld\nash-tree by the door has been stricken. Hark!' he added, 'I think the\nstorm's past, for it's rainin' hard enoo.'\n\nSomewhat reassured, his guest was induced to return to bed, and after\nthe Minister left him he heard the door bolted behind him.\n\nThe Minister went back to his own bed, but this time he refused to lie\ndown, for he felt assured that Ringan was up to some fresh cantrip or\nother, and he wished to forestall him.\n\nThe rain shortly ceased, and a faint moonlight showed itself through the\nwindow. Almost at the same time the Minister was aware of stealthy soft\nfootings on the stairs without. Noiselessly he approached his open door,\nand there he saw by the dim skylight a tall figure moving on stockinged\nfeet at the stair-head. Was it a burglar? he thought fearfully. 'No, it\nwas Ringan. But what on earth was he carrying?\n\nBefore he could interfere the tall figure set a dark object rolling down\nthe stairs with infernal reverberation, then sat himself down on what\nseemed a tea-tray, and shot clattering into the gloomy deep.\n\nThe Minister turned and leaped into his bed, annoyed, yet shaken with\nlaughter.\n\nAnother moment and he heard the door opposite unbolted, and a perturbed\nbut angry voice rose outside his door:\n\n'What the devil are ye up to? Are ye playing a trick on me, Minister?\nWhat was that fearfu' noise?'\n\n'I'm playin' nae tricks on ye,' replied the Minister, as he opened the\ndoor and stood face to face with his guest, whose face was plainly\nagitated by fear and anger. 'It's either the storm, or aiblins a ghaist,\nor else some one's playin' tricks on baith o' us.'\n\n'Did ye no place this bit paper i' my room?' inquired his guest\nwrathfully, holding up a document with his hand accusingly.\n\n'What bit paper is 't?' inquired the Minister. 'I hae pit nae bit paper\ni' your room.'\n\n'Did Dr. Thomson o' the auld toon no' send ye this bit\nwaste-paper--codicil he called it, or come to see ye aboot it?'\n\n'No, he didna,' replied the Minister, 'neither he nor any ither doctor\nhas been i' my manse yet, an' I hope never wull.'\n\n'On your hon----' began the other. Then catching his host's gleaming\neye, said brokenly, 'It's the ---- Well--it's the most extraordinary\nthing that ever happened to me i' my life. The ghastly noise--then to\nfind this bit paper lyin' i' my room.'\n\n'What is the paper?' inquired the Minister. 'Can ye no hae brocht it wi'\nye yoursel'?'\n\nMacmanus looked about him stricken and unnerved, the anger had died down\nin his face, and he seemed to be seeking consolation.\n\n'I'll tell ye the hail matter,' he decided impulsively, 'and what's\nmair, I'll abide by your advice.'\n\nThereon very briefly he set forth the tale of the codicil, justified\nhimself on all legal grounds, and awaited the Minister's decision.\n\n'Aweel, Macmanus,' replied the Minister slowly but decisively, 'as ye\nask my opeenion, aal I can say is that if I was i' your shoes I'd juist\nforego my legal rights an' let the puir woman hae the twa hundred\npunds.'\n\n'I believe you're richt,' replied the other; 'but if that ghastly noise\nhappens again I'll come and spend the rest o' the night i' your\nbedchamber.'\n\n'Come your ways in noo,' responded his host, 'and I'll get ye a drop\nwhisky.'\n\n'Aweel,' murmured the listener with pricked ears, who sat beside gong\nand tea-tray at the stair-foot, '_I'm thinkin if the Meenister's\nMacchiavelli, the elder's Machiavelli-er._'\n\n\n\n\nREPENTANCE TOWER\n\n\nSCENE I. TEMPTATION\n\nLate one spring evening not long after the disaster of Solway Moss, Sir\nRobert Maxwell was walking to and fro within the Tower of Lochmaben--a\nheavy frown upon his brow--cogitating his reply to a letter from my Lord\nArran--now governor of Scotland under the regency of the widowed Queen,\nMary of Lorraine.\n\nAmongst other matters touched upon Arran made mention of his purpose to\nfind the right suitor for the hand of Agnes Herries--daughter and\nheiress of the Lord Herries of Hoddam Castle. A hint was delicately\nconveyed that possibly Maxwell himself might be eligible--if he gave up\nhis 'assurance with England.'\n\nNow Sir Robert's late father--the Lord Maxwell--had been made prisoner\nat Solway Moss, but had been set free on 'taking assurance' with England\nand giving twelve hostages of his own name to the opposite warden--Lord\nWharton at Carlisle.\n\nIn addition there was a suggestive allusion to the Scots Wardenry of\nthe Western march, which was vacant at the moment.\n\nThe offer was most tempting, but--_there were the twelve Maxwell\nhostages, his cousins, in Wharton's hands_.\n\nSir Robert grew wroth as he read and re-read the letter. '_Is thy\nservant a dog that he should do this thing?_' he questioned angrily, as\nhe sat down to indite a peremptory refusal.\n\nHe found his task very difficult, for he had little skill in writing.\nShortly, he determined to send over to Dumfries first thing in the\nmorning for the notary public to come and write the letter for him, and\nbe a witness to his signature.\n\nThis he did, but the messenger brought word back that the notary was ill\nwith the spotted fever and could not come.\n\nSir Robert's anger increased, for the temptation beckoned insistently.\nHe had already had thoughts of the fair and well-dowered Agnes, but he\nknew 'twas hopeless unless he was reconciled to Arran.\n\nHe determined to ride out and rid himself of black care by a gallop.\nMounting, he let the horse choose his ain gait, and shortly found\nhimself in the airt of Hoddam, whence he rode up to the grassy fells\nabove Solway. Then he let his horse out on a gallop, and away he sped\nlike a curlew--sweeping over the short grass, and drinking in the breeze\nlike wine.\n\nMaxwell rode till his horse was white with sweat, and the rubies in his\nnostrils red as fire.\n\nThen he turned and came back at a slow trot to the point of starting.\nPausing here, Maxwell gazed down on the one hand to the rich fields and\nwell-timbered lands of Hoddam; on the other hand across Solway to where\nbelow the deep-piled, purple masses of Helvellyn and Skiddaw lay 'merry\nCarlisle'--the abode of my Lord Wharton.\n\nMaxwell shook his fist across Solway, as though in defiance. Then he\nturned about and rode slowly home.\n\n\nSCENE II. THE RAID\n\n\nAs soon as he was back again at Lochmaben he dispatched a special\nmessenger to Arran in Edinburgh with the brief assurance that he himself\nwould follow on the morrow and explain in person the difficulty of\naccepting the Governor's proposals.\n\nOn the evening of the day that Sir Robert Maxwell arrived in Edinburgh a\nball was held in Holyrood--the first ball since Solway Moss had\noverwhelmed Scotland with gloom. The Queen-Dowager was to be present,\nand Arran insisted on Maxwell's attendance, though against his will. A\ngay and brilliant assembly filled the great galleries of Holyrood that\nnight.\n\nAfter a minuet had been paced to the gentle music of the lute and\nclavichord, a schottische succeeded to the martial skirl of the pipes.\n\nFor this dance Arran had craftily arranged that Maxwell should have as\npartner the fair Agnes Herries, and as he watched them his brow relaxed\nits tension. His policy was to strengthen and consolidate Scotland, and\nto this end he would break Maxwell's assurance with England. 'The lust\nof the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life,' he muttered\nto himself as he watched the couple dancing with animation, 'are gey\nguid baits.' As the company departed in the early dawn Arran took the\nopportunity of walking back with Maxwell to his lodging. 'Ye partnered\nilk ither fine,' said the Governor; 'time and step suited ye bonny.\nWeel,' he added slowly, 'ye hae to decide. Wull ye tak her?' Maxwell\nhesitated a moment, then impulsively, 'I will. Here's my hand on 't.'\n\n'Dune!' cried the Governor triumphantly. Then he added by way of an\nevasion from any difficulty with Wharton. 'I'm thinking ye micht\nemulate Douglas in his raid on the eastern march:\n\n    \"_And he has burn'd the dales of Tyne,\n    And part of Bambroughshire;\n    And three good towers on Reidswire fells,\n    He left them all on fire_.\"\n\nThat is, if ye hae any fash wi' Wharton,' said Arran in conclusion.\n'Juist pit the fear o' auld Scotland intil him, for I'll uphaud ye.'\n\nNo sooner had Maxwell returned home than he found a menacing letter from\nWharton, who had evidently heard of the reconciliation. Maxwell's dark\nface glowed hotly as he made a vow to terrify Wharton into inaction. He\nwould instantly give him a 'handsel' of harrying to stay his proud\nstomach. So he caused warn the waters far and wide. Nith he summoned,\nand Annan, and then with his whole 'name' rode through the debatable\nland, and crossing the Eden by the ford above Rockliff proceeded to\nharry and burn through the English march. He drave his foray throughout\nthe day; horses and nowt, sheep, goats, and swine he collected, and made\nthe 'red cock crow' on many a peel and bastlehouse.\n\nThen as evening drew on and his messengers announced the approach of\nWharton's men-at-arms he withdrew with his spoil, repulsed with\nslaughter his opponent's forces, and safely guarded his spoil, till all\nthe 'gear' was across the Eden water.\n\nThen Maxwell himself and his bailiff--Sandie Irvine--rode down to Solway\nwhere his lugger was awaiting by his orders the chance of their return\nby water.\n\nMaxwell himself was 'forefaughten,' his horse was foundered; he sank\ngratefully into the stern of the boat, and Sandie took the tiller.\n\n\nSCENE III. THE STORM ON SOLWAY\n\n\nThe lugger shot ahead for Scotland, the swift wind upon her beam.\nSuddenly its strength increased, and a storm swept down upon Solway.\nClouds gathered above, and on the incoming 'bore' Maxwell saw with\ndismay the 'white horses of Solway' shaking their manes.\n\nDarkness lowered about them; then a jagged flash of lightning rent the\nmurky air, and Sandie as he wrestled with the tiller saw a face white as\nfoam and 'unco ghash' beside him.\n\n'Hae ye onything on your conscience, Laird?' cried Sandie in his ear,\n'ony bit adultery or murder? If ye hae, mak a vow instantly to St.\nNicholas, or we're lost.'\n\nMaxwell made no reply, but groaned as he looked wildly through the\nstorm.\n\nTwelve forms--well kent to him--did he not see them pointing their\naccusing fingers against him? There was Ian--there Alastair, next\nHamilton--he could look no further. _God in Heaven! Wharton had hung his\npledges._\n\nMaxwell sank backwards, his hands to his eyes.\n\n'Mak the vow, Laird,' yelled Sandie again in his ear, desperately.\n\n'I'll mak a vow to Saint Nicholas,' murmured the other brokenly, 'to\nbuild a tower to his honour, and put a light into it nightly for all\npoor sailors on Solway.'\n\nHeartened by this, Sandie thrust all his strength upon the tiller and\nkept the lugger straight 'twixt Scylla and Charybdis.\n\nBut 'the white horses' were now upon them, their streaming manes\nenveloping the gunwale, and Maxwell gave himself up for lost. The lugger\nshivered, then grated violently. 'What's yon?' he cried in terror.\n\n'Yon's the first stone o' Repentance Tower,'[1] cried Sandie\ntriumphantly, as he drave the lugger high upon the beach.\n\n[Footnote 1: Tradition commonly holds that the builder of the tower had\nthrown his captives overboard to lighten the boat, when returning from a\nraid into England; but if the writer remembers aright, Dr. Nielson in\none of his erudite articles, seemed able to prove that Sir Robert\nMaxwell--who married the Herries heiress and became Lord Herries--was\nthe builder. In this case the above tale gives the truer version of the\ntower's origin.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE LORD WARDEN'S TOMB\n\n\nMy companion had surprised me by a sudden change of demeanour, for which\nI could not account, and I was watching him out of the tail of my eye\nfrom behind a pillar in the nave of the church which we were exploring.\nWe had just been viewing the recumbent figure of a famous Lord Warden of\nthe western English march, that lay on a raised tomb in the north\ntransept, and after I had blazoned the coat of arms and admired the\ndignity of the carving, I passed on into the nave, but my companion had\nnot followed me.\n\nI noted that he was extraordinarily interested in this figure of Lord\nWharton, and I watched him, as I have said, with attention.\n\nThen, driven seemingly by sudden impulse, he lifted his right hand and\ndealt the stone figure a swift buffet with his fist. At once he glanced\nround hurriedly--ashamed, evidently, of his action--and rejoined me in\nthe nave without comment, trusting, doubtless, that I had not observed\nhim.\n\nI was infinitely astonished, for Maxwell, my companion on our bicycling\nand walking tour, was a quiet, somewhat dour but devout Scot, a history\nscholar of Balliol College, and usually most reticent of emotion. I\ntalked of Border ballads and Lord Wardens of the marches, and\nendeavoured to draw him on the subject, but he made no response.\n\nThen I sang softly--\n\n    '_As I went down the water side\n    None but my foe to be my guide._'\n\nHereat his eyes flashed, and he responded with extended fist:\n\n    '_I lighted down, my sword did draw--\n    I hackit him in pieces sma'._'\n\nThen turning swiftly upon me he said sternly:\n\n'_You mustn't quote the Border Ballads to me; I have them in my blood._'\n\nHe looked so strange that at once I changed the conversation and\nsuggested that we should ascend Wild Boar's Fell that afternoon, and\nreturn for supper at the inn where we proposed stopping the night.\n\nHe assented, and we had a fine climb and a glorious view over the West\nBorderland; we could see Skiddaw and Helvellyn to the north-west, and\neven thought we saw Criffel looming in the haze beyond Solway; to the\neast the great hills beside Crossfell lifted their great rampire and\ngave a sense of security to the green vale below.\n\nReinvigorated by our walk we returned in good heart to the inn.\n\nAfter supper I thought a pipe and Stevenson's essay on 'A Walking Tour'\nwere appropriate to my mood, but Maxwell said he was for a stroll in the\nmoonlight, and went out.\n\nAs he had not returned by eleven I grew a little anxious, also a trifle\nannoyed at the thought that perhaps I ought to put on my boots again and\ngo in search of him.\n\nAt 11.15 I determined to sally forth, but when I was on the street and\ncould see nobody about I was perplexed as to where to look for him.\n\nI turned to the church, and without definite aim went through the gate\nand walked around the church through the numerous headstones.\n\nBy the side of the north transept, wherein was the Wharton recumbent\nfigure, I noticed a new-made grave, and casually looking over it saw a\ndark figure lying therein. The grave was half in the shadow of the\nchurch, half lit by the moon, so that I could not see very distinctly,\nbut as I bent over it I thought I recognised--with a sudden start of\nhorror--the knickerbockers of my friend Maxwell.\n\nI looked about in hope of seeing some one, but all was silent; not a\nsound stirred in the village.\n\nI must make certain, I felt, for I could not leave the man there,\nwhoever it might be, so gingerly enough I let myself down into the\nfurther end of the grave, and, taking a step forward, bent over the\nbody.\n\nYes, it was Maxwell; he was lying in a huddled lump with his head bent\nforward on his breast. I felt for his pulse, and found it beating\nregularly. Thank heaven, he was not dead! He must have fallen in by\nmisadventure in the darkness before the moon rose, I conjectured.\n\nI determined to run back to the inn for the 'boots,' since with another\nman's help I could lift my friend out and carry him back, and get the\ndoctor to attend him.\n\n'Boots' was just going to bed, and while he was searching for a rope and\na lantern I ran for the doctor, and thence back to the graveyard.\n\n'Boots' was there awaiting me, and between us we raised Maxwell's limp\nbody and then carried him slowly to the inn.\n\nAs far as we could see he had sustained a severe concussion, but I\nnoticed he had a big bruise on his forehead as well as a swelling on\nthe back of his head. We had laid him on the sofa in the parlour, and\nhad just completed our investigation when the doctor arrived. I shook\nhands and explained how I had found my friend in the open grave by the\nnorth transept so unexpectedly.\n\n'He hadn't had--well, let us say, too much supper?' asked the physician,\nafter he had felt the pulse and examined the limbs to see if anything\nwas broken.\n\n'No,' I replied. 'We had supper together; he had a lemon squash and a\ncup of coffee only to drink.'\n\n'He's been in for a fight then,' said the doctor. 'Got one on the brow,\nthen falling into the grave has bruised the back of the head. He's\nsuffering from concussion, but nothing more, so far as I can see. Was he\na quarrelsome fellow?' he inquired. 'Strange place in any event to come\nto blows in--and with whom? for we're a peaceable folk here save perhaps\nat the annual horse fair when gipsies and others congregate in numbers,\nand whisky bottles are everywhere.'\n\nI assured him that Maxwell was a quiet Oxford scholar, and incapable of\nbrawling.\n\nThe doctor drew a bottle of strong smelling salts from his pocket and\napplied them to Maxwell's nostrils.\n\n'He's coming round,' he said; 'we'll just give him some sal volatile,\nand then to bed and a long rest. In a day or two he should be all right\nagain.'\n\nMaxwell now opened his eyes, looked about him dizzily, then said\nfaintly, 'Where am I?' Then still faintly, so low that only I caught the\nwords, '_I could swear it was Wharton himself_.'\n\nThereon we took him upstairs, undressed him and put him to bed, and\nafter he had had his dose of sal volatile the doctor departed, assuring\nme that my friend was 'all right,' but that he would look in again about\nmidday.\n\nI saw him off at the front door, then I turned to the 'Boots,' and said\nin his ear, 'Look here, I'm going out to see if I can't find out who the\nfellow was who tackled my friend. If I want to be let in before daybreak\nI'll come and tap on your window in the yard.'\n\nI slid a _pourboire_ into his hand and went off softly across the street\nto the church once more, for I felt almost certain that the\nfellow--whoever he was--would come back some time or another to see how\nhis victim had fared, since conceivably the blow might have proved\nmortal. Once in the churchyard I made my way on tiptoe to the\ngraveside. There I waited in the re-entering angle of the transept,\nwhere the shadow of the church was darkest, in the hope of Maxwell's\nassailant soon returning to the scene of the encounter. I did not\nventure to light my pipe, fearing the smell of tobacco might discover\nme.\n\nI waited with infinite patience till the moon lost her radiance and a\npale light glimmered through the eastern trees. Nothing had stirred, no\nsound had I caught save that of an owl in the distance.\n\nI returned to the inn, knocked up 'Boots,' went silently to bed, and\nslept late.\n\nAs soon as I was up I went to see how Maxwell fared, and found him\nsitting up and drinking a cup of tea.\n\nHe looked a little pale, but otherwise was not much worse for his\nmisadventure.\n\n'Now,' I said, after, congratulating him on his recovery, 'if it doesn't\nexcite you too much tell me exactly what occurred in the churchyard last\nnight, for 'tis an absolute mystery to me, besides having given me an\nawful \"gliff,\" old fellow, for I have been wondering what might have\nhappened if I hadn't by the merest chance discovered you in your\npremature grave.'\n\n'I should probably have got an infernal chill, old chap, had it not\nbeen for your kindly foresight,' he replied with a smile; then with a\nchange of tone he went on, 'But it was the most extraordinary adventure\nconceivable--so extraordinary that you'll scarcely credit me in relating\nit.\n\n'I felt curiously attracted by the old church and the tomb within, so I\nwent across after leaving you and wandered about the churchyard. Close\nbeside the corner of the north transept was the empty grave, as you\nknow, and beside it a quaint old headstone with an interesting\ncoat-of-arms upon it. I knelt down and tried to decipher the blazon in\nthe moonlight.\n\n'Suddenly I felt as if some one were near me--some one with an ill\nintent, and, turning, saw stepping out of the shadow a figure with its\nface outlined against the moon, the exact image of the Lord Warden on\nthe tomb in the transept. I felt the same access of rage I had\nexperienced in the church sweep over me. I clenched my fists\nunconsciously. \"You're one of the false Maxwells?\" he said\nthreateningly. \"And you're a damned murderer,\" I retorted, and let out\nat him with my fists. At that moment I felt a sharp, stinging blow on my\ntemple, and, reeling backward, tripped and fell--in a night of stars as\nit were--all of a huddle into the empty grave.'\n\nMaxwell stopped, looked me directly in the face. 'That's all I\nremember--and that's an exact description of my strange adventure.'\n\nWhilst I was recovering from my astonishment at his weird story, the\ndoctor was announced, and came forward to shake hands with his patient.\n\n'Tell the doctor,' said Maxwell to me, 'exactly what I have told you,\nand let us hear what he has to say.'\n\nI obeyed, and when I had concluded I inquired if he felt able to put any\nfaith in the relation.\n\n'Doctors are often a sceptical folk,' he replied with a smile, 'but if\nthey are wise they try to account for things. Once out of curiosity I\nstayed a night in a \"haunted house,\" as it was called, and I confess I\ndid not like the experience. I had that curious feeling as of a hostile\npresence which your friend evidently had both in the church and in the\nchurchyard. I saw nothing, but I had strange impressions borne in on me,\nand I heard noises I could not account for.'\n\n'Have you ever heard of any one having encountered the form or wraith of\nthis Lord Warden of old?' I inquired.\n\n'I don't think any one in the village would wander in the churchyard\nafter dark,' he replied, smiling. Then he rose up to go, saying he had\nanother appointment, but promised to call again in the afternoon with a\nsleeping draught, and hoped his patient would be quite well in the\nmorning.\n\nI accompanied him to the inn door, and went down the street with him.\n\n'Tell me,' I said, 'exactly what you do think, for if I mistake not you\nwere purposely reticent with my friend just now.'\n\n'I was,' he said, after a pause, 'because I had reasons. Promise not to\nmention to your friend either now or at any time later----' I gave the\nrequired promise, and waited eagerly for his response.\n\n'Well,' he said slowly, 'I once got a \"gliff\" myself in exactly the same\nplace as I made a short cut through the churchyard one autumn evening. I\nwas not thinking of the dead Warden or the tomb in the transept, and yet\n'twas none other that I saw.'\n\nThen he added gravely, 'These things are not good for the nerves.\nWherefore I would advise you to take your friend off as soon as\npossible, and don't let him visit the churchyard again.'\n\n\n\n\nCASTLE ICHABOD\n\n\n'When you saw the dog, my dear,' said my uncle, the Rector, to his wife,\n'almost exactly, if I remember right, a year ago this month of November,\nwhat sort of size and colour was it, again? I remember it growled\nterribly on the top of the wall by the mausoleum, and I thought it must\nhave been a retriever, from your description of it, but it ought really\nas a wraith to have been a collie,' and here my uncle slightly\ncontracted his left eye in my direction.\n\n'I think it must have been a retriever, John,' replied my aunt gravely,\nyet I thought a waft from her eye stole towards me as she spoke, 'for\n\"Geordie\" swears it was a tarrible great savage durg; but it may be, of\ncourse, that he had forgotten himself and your exhortations, at the\nKing's Head last night, and mistaken a collie for a retriever.' I found\nit difficult not to smile, for, if my uncle had been 'pulling my aunt's\nleg' she was certainly twitching his cassock. This was a 'parlour game'\nat the Rectory, as I discovered later, and one in which my aunt always\ncame off the winner.\n\nMy uncle now addressed himself to me. 'You must know, Charles,' said he,\n'that the northern part of the Castle Park, between the burn and the\nring wall, is supposed to be haunted by the wraiths of a shepherd and\nhis collie dog. He was taking a short cut home from our village to the\nbig moor farm beyond the common, and was probably suffering from the old\ndisease of the north; he tried to cross the swollen burn by the\nstepping-stones, it seems, fell in, and was drowned. The faithful collie\nhad tried to save him, for he was found with him, his teeth fast in his\nmaster's plaid.'\n\n'I love that collie,' said my aunt; 'he ought to have had a headstone\nwith \"Faithful unto Death\" engraved on it.'\n\n'So he should have had, my dear,' my uncle assented, 'had we been here\nat the time. Well, Charles, the point is that several people have\nthought----' Here my aunt moved a little impatiently in her chair. 'Have\nbeen quite sure,' corrected my uncle, 'that they have seen the dog or\nits wraith, but no one has yet seen the shepherd, I believe. Your aunt\nlast autumn saw the dog on the top of the wall that surrounds the\nmausoleum, jumping up and down and growling dreadfully, and last night\nour stableman--\"Geordie\"--a disabled pitman, was chivvied by him across\nthe park from close beside the mausoleum. What can you make of that?'\nquestioned my uncle, the humorous look again in his eye.\n\n'Did Geordie run away?' I inquired magisterially.\n\n'He ran,' replied my uncle, smiling, 'as he expressed it himself, \"like\na whippet or a hunted hare.\"'\n\n'Did you run, Aunt Mary?' I inquired next.\n\n'I daren't, Charlie, to tell you the truth. If I had begun to run I\nshould have screamed, so I just walked on as fast as ever I could.'\n\n'Then it didn't follow you?' I inquired.\n\n'No,' said my aunt, shaking her head; 'it seemed to me like one of those\nsavage, tied-up mongrels that guard the carts of carriers in the town on\nmarket days.'\n\n'The curious thing,' interrupted my uncle, who was a keen antiquary, 'is\nthat the dog should haunt the mausoleum, since it contains not his\nmaster, but \"Hell-fire Dick,\" the last of the Norman Fitzalans--and so\nnamed not only because he belonged to the famous club, but also, as I\ngather from tradition, because of his language and complexion.\n\n'Had he been alive no shepherd had dared trespass in his park, and no\ndog would have come out alive. So it is curious they should forgather\nafter death.'\n\nMy aunt here interposed.\n\n'Are you not afraid for your uncle's orthodoxy?' she asked of me, 'when\nhe shows himself so sceptical?'\n\nMy uncle, discovering that he had put himself at a disadvantage, now\nsuggested that I should--as a lawyer--investigate the matter and give my\nopinion upon it.\n\n'Willingly,' I replied, laughing. 'The chief witness, I take it, will be\nyour henchman, the redoubtable \"Geordie,\" aunt being prosecutor, the\nwraith the defendant, and you, uncle, the sceptical public.'\n\nThis being arranged, the subject was dropped, and my uncle gave me\nfurther information about the Fitzalans.\n\n'Undoubtedly they were Normans,' said he, 'but descent has been so\nfrequently in the female line that when my Lord Richard--\"Hell-fire\nDick\"--died, he had perhaps no more Norman blood in him than you have.\nThere was this one virtue about him, that he loved the old abode and\npossessions of his ancestors passionately, and when he died he left\ndirections that he should be buried in the mausoleum on the knoll in\nthe park whence the sea stands out clearly behind the castle.\n\nHe had daughters--wild and high-spirited like their father--who divided\nup the property between them, and the present owner of the Castle--the\nrepresentative of the eldest daughter--cares only for his rents and\nroyalties, would sell if he could, and comes here about twice a year for\nwhat partridge and pheasant shooting there may be. The coal pits are\nextending their shafts and workings northward, his park will soon be\nundermined, and the \"amenities\"--to use the auctioneers' phrase--will\nsoon no longer exist. I think we may truthfully call the great pile of\nbuilding _Castle Ichabod, for its glory has certainly departed_.'\n\nMy uncle thus concluded his tale, then knocked out the ashes of his\npipe, and conducted me to my bedroom.\n\nThe next morning after breakfast I went in search of 'Geordie,' my chief\nwitness, concerning whom my uncle had already given me a little\ninformation.\n\nHe had when working as a hewer down the pit been disabled by a fall of\nstone; then as he had been a 'handy man' and used to both horses and\nflowers the Rector had taken him into his service as groom-gardener.\n'Crammed with northern self-sufficiency and a sort of scornful\nincivility, he has a keen sense of humour and a heart of gold,' said my\nuncle, as he forewarned me as to the character of my witness.\n\nThus fortified, I went in search of 'Geordie,' and found him busy tying\nup chrysanthemums.\n\nPretending a deep interest in them and a profound admiration of his\nskill, I soon found I had established friendly relations. Then I offered\nhim a cigarette, and plunged boldly into my examination.\n\n'Tell me,' I said, 'about your adventure with the dog or its ghost in\nthe park two nights ago. My aunt has told me something of her own\nexperience a year ago, and advised me to compare her account with yours,\nfor I am much interested in these occurrences.'\n\n'Why,' replied he, nothing loth to talk about himself, 'it happened this\nfashion. Aa wes comin' back through the park cannily enough when close\nbeside the mussulyum oot spangs at us a great ugly brute of a durg\nwivoot a sound to his pads. Aa'd heard nowt, but there he was glarin' at\nus, an' showin' his great ugly fangs. \"By gox, Geordie,\" I says to\nmaaself, \"it's a mad durg ye have to fettle.\" Sae I lets oot wiv a kick\nthat would have shifted a bullock, but aal that happened was that he\nseemed to catch haud o' my trousers, for I felt them rip. Gox! I\nthinks, 'tis an evil sperrit, sae I set awa like a hare--game leg an'\naal--tearin' towards the park wall like a whippit, followed by the evil\nsperrit that made no sound wiv his pads, but was growlin' terrible aal\nthe time.'\n\n'Then it wasn't a _real_ dog?' I interrupted here.\n\n'_Wasn't a real durg?_' replied Geordie indignantly, his eyebrows\npuckering and his jowl coming forward aggressively.\n\n'It made no noise with its feet, and you called it a spirit,' I\nexplained hastily.\n\n'Aa's feared o' nowt,' said Geordie, 'that's livin', but when it comes\nto evil sperrits 'tis the Priest should tackle them. Aa winnot.'\n\n'So it was an evil spirit in the form of a dog,' I suggested; 'but what\nwas the precise form--mastiff, retriever, or collie perhaps, for the\nRector says there is a tale of a ghost of a drowned collie that haunts\nthe Park?'\n\n'Collie be damned!' cried he decisively. 'An' as for what specie o' durg\nit was hoo can Aa tell hoo many species there may be in Hell?'\n\n'You had me there,' I acknowledged, smiling. 'Well, tell me how you\nescaped from the brute.'\n\n'He chivvied us aboot halfway te the wall, an' then I think he gied it\nup; leastways when Aa gied a keek ower my shoulder as Aa drew near it he\nwasn't there.'\n\n'You didn't hear the dog dashing on you or galloping after you, and yet\nyou heard it growling, and felt it take a piece out of your trousers. It\nseems half real, half Hell-hound!' I commented.\n\n'It's easy talkin',' replied Geordie contemptuously, 'but if he had had\na hand o' yor breeks ye'd have knawn he was _damned_ real, Aa's warrant\nye,' and he spat on the ground with emphasis.\n\n'My aunt saw the hound a year ago,' I continued, 'but it didn't chase\nher; it only growled and frightened her.'\n\n'Mevvies it kenned she was the Priest's wife,' suggested my companion.\nThen with a grin, 'Noo, as thoo's his nephew thoo gan and see if it will\nchivvy thoo, and, if it does, Aa'l bet thoo thoo'll run from it faster\nthan thoo's ever run i' your life afore.'\n\nI turned away with a laugh, saying I was going to look about for the\ndog's tracks.\n\n'The beggar had ne tracks, Aa warrant thoo,' shouted my informant after\nme, but he was wrong, for I soon found tracks in the park here and there\nin the soft grass, and an impress of paws which evidently must have\nbeen bandaged--that is, there was a round slot only, no separate pads\nwere showing. _The Hell-hound was evidently club-footed._ As I looked at\nthe imprint a little closer I grew certain that the hound's paws had\nbeen bound round with some soft material--linen, calico, or washleather,\nfor one of the coverings had come unloosed and I saw a distinct mark of\nclaws.\n\nI investigated the mausoleum next, and found that there was a wall some\nfour feet six inches high round about it for the evident purpose of\nprotection against cattle. Between this and the circular tomb-containing\ntower were some yew trees which had thriven well, and now extended their\nlong fingers above and beyond the encircling wall.\n\nThe yew branches were so thick and the dews had been so heavy that\ncertainty was out of the question, but I thought I had discovered this\nat least, that the hound had been lying beneath the bushes, and had\ngiven 'Geordie' his hunt from the mausoleum exactly as he had asserted.\n\nI returned to the Rectory, my mind made up. I would borrow a revolver\nfrom my uncle, and watch beside the mausoleum all that night.\n\nFortified by tea, encouraged by my aunt, and chaffed by my uncle, I set\noff for my sentry post carrying an electric torch, some sticks of\nchocolate, and a revolver. I approached the mausoleum very warily; a\nsoft west wind was blowing, the night was quiet with alternate swathes\nof darkness and light as billowy clouds took the moon by storm and\npassed beyond her. I stayed in the shadow of the trees, beside the\nknoll, and spied out the landscape, and listened for any tell-tale\nsound. Beyond the jet-black bastions of Castle Ichabod I could see the\nwhite turmoil of the waking sea half a mile to the eastward; I could\nhear her ancient threnody, but saw no sign of life within the park.\n\nWaiting for the next spell of darkness I walked swiftly up to the\nprotecting wall of the mausoleum, climbed over, and with the torch's aid\nfound a yew branch on which I could sit and observe--whenever it was\nmoonlight--the little dell that ran down to the burn wherein the\nshepherd and dog had been drowned.\n\nSilence reigned supreme. I could just hear the gentle brushings of the\nyew branches as they rose and fell upon the wind--the ghostly sighing of\na ghostly spirit that had once belonged, perhaps, to the former owner of\nthe Castle.\n\nI was fairly comfortable with my back against the trunk of the yew, and\nate chocolate instead of smoking; hours passed, and I had fits of\ndrowsiness, and began to think I was wasting my time.\n\nThen on a sudden I woke with a start; some nerve in my subconsciousness\nhad warned me in time; I was certain some one or something was near that\nwas uncanny.\n\nThe moonlight flooded the little dell, I saw a black shadow advancing\nswiftly on all fours, not unlike a big baboon. What in Heaven's name was\nit?\n\nA touch of ice slid down my spine--the unknown with its terrors besieged\nmy brain--the apparition was too big for a dog. I gazed, rooted to my\nperch, unable to move a hand or foot.\n\nThe creature drew swiftly closer, then on the sudden rose up; I saw the\nglint of the moonlight touch on a gun barrel, and discovered that the\nbearer was a man.\n\nI breathed more freely, but--what was he doing with the gun? Then I\ncaught sight of a dog padding swiftly after the newcomer, who was now\nclose beside the mausoleum, and stood erect beside the wall two yards\naway from me. I did not stir, but watched him in a fascinated attention.\nJust as the press of cloud again obscured the moon I saw him take a bag\nfrom his back out of which pheasants' tails were distinctly protruding.\nI almost laughed aloud, for I recognised that it was only a poacher I\nhad to deal with. In one hand I held my torch, in the other my revolver.\n\n'Have you had good sport?' I asked, as I covered him with both my\nweapons simultaneously. He jumped back in alarm, then, 'Who the devil\nare you?' he inquired hoarsely, and in another second recovering\nhimself, cried to the dog, '_Sick him, Tyke_.'\n\n'Call off your damned dog,' I retorted, pulling up my feet, 'or I\nshoot.'\n\nHe hesitated a moment, pulling his gun round.\n\n'Quick,' I shouted.\n\n'Down, Tyke,' he said sulkily to his dog, that was already growling and\njumping at my trousers. 'What d' ye want, damn ye?' he inquired surlily.\n\n'I wanted to find out about the dog that frightened my aunt up at the\nRectory last year and the gardener two nights ago,' I replied, feeling I\nhad the upper hand in the encounter. 'There was a tale of a ghost in the\npark, and I thought I would investigate it.' The moon had emerged again,\nand I could see that my poacher was a strong, burly fellow, with a\nrough, resolute face, who was surveying me as thoroughly as I surveyed\nhim.\n\n'Would you like a brace of pheasants?' he inquired abruptly.\n\n'No, thanks,' I said; 'I'm only here for a day or two.'\n\n'Well,' he continued with a touch of defiance, 'if every yen had their\nright I'd mevvies be shuttin' pheasants all day long like aad \"Hell-Fire\nDick\" i' the monument here, for he was a tarrible favouryte wi' the\nwomen, ye must ken. Why, my grandfether was the very spit image o' the\naad Lord, for I've seen his picture up at the Castle. Ay, an' my name's\nAllan as well.'\n\nThe man interested me considerably, for he was a splendid\nfigure--compact, alert, with hair cropped like a _poilu_, vivid with\nlife as a sporting terrier--so I inquired what he did for a living when\nhe wasn't covert shooting.\n\n'I work doon the pit,' he replied, 'an' earns a good wage, but whiles I\ntires ov it an' longs for a walk up the hedgerows, to hear the partridge\ncall and the pheasant shoutin' as he gans up to roost, an' to say to\nmyself, \"Aha, my fine fellow, but thoo'll be i' my bag to-morrow night,\nan' in my kite the night after that.\"' He paused a moment, then asked\nsuspiciously, 'Thoo'll not blab--thoo'll not tell the police?'\n\n'No,' I replied readily, 'that's no concern of mine, but I shall have to\ntell my aunt at the Rectory, for you gave her with your dog a great\nfright that night she crossed the park a year ago.\n\n'If it had been aad \"Oleomargarine,\" commented my companion, 'it wud ha'\ndone him good, for he's sairly wantin' a bit exercise.'\n\nSmothering a smile at his irreverent description of my uncle, I asked my\npoacher a final question.\n\n'Have you ever seen the ghost of the man or the collie dog they talk\nabout here in the park?'\n\n'Not I,' said he, fondling the ears of his savage mongrel retriever, 'I\nreckon they're gliffed o' my aad Tyke.'\n\n     NOTE.--The individuals described above, and the episode are\n     imaginary, but a ghost is said to haunt the hall, in the form of a\n     lady with a child in her arms, who watches from one of the high\n     windows in 'lofty Seaton Delaval,' for the return of a Delaval\n     lover.\n\n     It has been suggested that the apparition is due to an optical\n     illusion of light upon the window panes.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MUNIMENT ROOM\n\n\nMy uncle had succeeded late in life to the family estate in the north of\nEngland, which was situated on the wild moorland of north-west\nYorkshire.\n\nWith him the entail would end, and though it was known that the estate\nhad been much impoverished and was heavily mortgaged, still the\nsuccession was not a thing 'to be sneezed at.' So my mother, his sister,\nherself a practical Yorkshire woman, phrased it, and consequently I was\nbid to accept with gratitude an invitation to visit my uncle in the home\nof his fathers.\n\nThither, therefore, I went, yet reluctantly, for my uncle was reputed\nsomewhat eccentric, and a great antiquary, and as he had been early\nreconciled to Rome and ordained a priest, whereas I came of a sound\nProtestant stock, I feared we might not find each other's company\nentirely sympathetic. 'I shall only find in him,' I thought, 'a \"snuffy\npriest,\" and he in me only an Oxford cub.'\n\nA long drive over the moorland in a pelting storm of sleet and rain was\nnot encouraging, nor was the companionship of the old, deaf Scots\ngroom, who drove me, exhilarating, for he persisted, as the ancient deaf\nnot uncommonly do, in regarding a stranger as a personal grievance\ngratuitously thrust upon him.\n\nThus if I blamed the weather he transferred the fault upon myself for\nhaving chosen to come upon such a stormy day; and when I inquired after\nmy uncle's health he replied that he was 'well enough so long as folk\ndidn't come hindering him from his studies.'\n\nTo this I replied humbly that I had heard he was writing a book upon his\nfamily, which was one of the most ancient in the county, and that it was\na pity he should be the last of so old and formerly so famous a stock.\n\n'Ay,' retorted my driver, with a glance of scorn out of the tail of his\neye, as he flicked upon his white steed, 'ay, there'll maybe be a sair\ndown-come when he's depairted.'\n\nAfter this shaft I sank into silence, and was relieved when I saw the\ngrey, buttressed gables of Startington Hall appear below us grouped amid\nits trees.\n\n'It certainly looks like a haunted house,' I remarked aloud, though I\nwas merely speaking to myself, 'even though the tradition has no\nfoundation of fact.'\n\n'How do ye ken it's haunted?' retorted my companion, whose hearing\nseemed to vary with his mood. 'And even if 'tis, there's naething can\nsteer the maister, for tak awa Papistry, he has a hairt o' gold--the\nbairns aboot here juist love him.'\n\n'So you're not a Papist?' I inquired, smiling.\n\n'No' me,' responded he grimly. 'I come o' the reet auld Presbyterian\nstock, and I keep off the maister some o' thae hairpies that are aye\nafter him and his gear.'\n\nHe pulled up as he spoke at the porch of the Hall, and as I descended I\nnoted a stooping figure clad in a black soutane coming round the corner\nof the house evidently to greet me.\n\nAs I shook hands with him I could see in a glance that though he might\nbe a recluse and an antiquary he had a lively and gentle heart; for if\nhis face was yellow and his pupils sere there was a wonderfully shy and\nsympathetic mobility about his lips and face.\n\n'You have had a long, wet drive, I fear,' he said, 'and these wild\nYorkshire moorlands are often inhospitable to strangers, yet in time one\ngets to love them for this, their very bold and uncompromising\ncharacter. Also, they make one rejoice the more in a warm fireside.'\n\nSo speaking he led the way through a rounded hall, very poorly\nfurnished, but hung with family portraits interspersed with heads of\ndeer, and many masks of foxes, badgers, and hares.\n\nTurning to the left he opened a door into a small library, which was\nlined with books from skirting-board to cornice; a ripe fire glowed upon\nthe hearth, and two easy full-bottomed leathern chairs stood on either\nside.\n\n'The rougher the weather without,' said my uncle genially, 'the warmer\nthe welcome within, and here one may warm both body and soul,' he\npointed to the fire and the well-filled bookshelves.\n\n'Most of them are my own treasures,' he added, 'for the Startington\nfamily was given to keep up cellar and stable, rather than the library,\nas probably you know. Most of my time now, however,' he said in\nconclusion, 'is spent in the muniment room upstairs, so that you may\ncount this room as your own, and may smoke as much as you please. Since\nyou are an Oxford man, and all Oxford men smoke, you are bound,\nsyllogistically, to be a smoker. For myself,' he added, his hand upon\nthe door-handle, 'I--like most priests--do not smoke, yet tobacco is not\nin the index, and we usually take a little snuff occasionally,' and he\ntapped upon a small box hidden within his waistband.\n\nTherewith he was gone, and left me to my own devices till dinner-time,\nor supper rather, for he did not dress.\n\nThe next few days passed very enjoyably for me, since the weather was\nfine, and after studying in my Aristotle all morning, I took long walks\nover the breezy moorland, and then in the evening after supper made\nmyself very much at home amid my uncle's books and the burnt sacrifice\nof tobacco. I was not, however, very long in the house before I found\nthat my uncle was uncommonly preoccupied; something seemed to be\nweighing upon his mind, for though he unbent at supper-time, and talked\nby starts excellently over the port wine at dessert, he frequently fell\ninto an abstraction from which only with a mighty effort could he pluck\nhimself and resume his speech.\n\nAs I knew him to be engaged upon his family history I thought that his\ngentle mind must be exercised upon some uncomfortable episode in the\nlife story of an ancestor, and I hit upon the notion that a certain Sir\nHumphrey Startington--a notable merchant adventurer, who was said to\nhave largely increased the family estate by his traffic in slaves in the\nseventeenth century--was the family skeleton that was haunting him. I\nthought perhaps that my uncle's conscience was whispering in his ear\nthat he should make restitution, and as I knew that he was most eager to\nfind funds to rebuild and redecorate the chapel--now much dilapidated--I\nassumed that a battle was being waged within his soul between these two\nopposing claims.\n\nHaving arrived at this solution I led up to the subject of family\nhistories in general one evening over the supper-table when he was more\nthan usually inclined to talk and linger over our dessert.\n\n'Families, I suppose, like nations, wax and wane,' I said, 'they become\natrophied, if not extinct.' The port was magnificent--of the year\n'64--and I felt oracular. 'Hence the use of bastards. Robert the Devil\nfrom the top of his tower falls in love with the laundrywoman bleaching\nlinen on the green, and in natural course William the Conqueror sees the\nlight of day.'\n\nMy uncle interrupted my eloquence.\n\n'Far more often than people think the fall of a family, ay, or even of a\nnation, is due to some crime or other which--unrepented and\nunpurged--has festered in the body and brought corruption with it.\n\n'I have deeply studied this profound problem, and I might tell you tales\nof how son has never succeeded father, how gradually a house has sunk\ninto physical decay, and ended in abortion and an idiot.'\n\nFalling into dejection he paused a moment, then with great emotion he\nrepeated the magnificent lines of Hector prophesying the fall of Priam,\nand his house, and his great town of Troy. His voice trembled and shook\nsadly as he concluded, 'My house too has fallen and nears its end, and I\nalone am left to tell the tale--the tale of a most foul--as I am\nconvinced--and unnatural murder.'\n\nWith this he clasped his hands together and looked darkly into the\nfuture; then as he rose to bid me farewell and turned towards the door,\nI heard him murmur to himself: '_Illa culpa, illa culpa, illa maxima\nculpa_.'\n\nThe door closed; I was left to my pipe and my reverie. 'It must have\nbeen the Buccaneer who \"wrought this deed of shame,\"' I reflected, but\nthen I understood that he had been 'reconciled' to Rome before he died,\nhad given gifts to the Church, built the chapel here, and so 'made a\ngood end.' On the other hand I remembered that he had died childless.\n\nThe past was dead and gone, however, and did not much interest me, but\nmy uncle's emotion and distress touched me to the quick, and I\ndetermined to avoid the subject henceforth in our conversation.\n\nI went to bed early that night, for I had been a longer walk than usual\nthat afternoon, but whether it was that I was overtired, or could not\nrid my mind of my uncle's suffering I know not. The one thing certain\nwas that after a slight doze I became extraordinarily wide-awake.\n\nI was convinced that I heard footsteps somewhere or other in the house,\nand as I listened with the greatest intentness I distinctly caught the\nsound of some one treading upon the staircase that led into the hall.\n\nIt must be either my uncle--walking perhaps in his sleep--or else the\nghost. I sat up in bed to listen the better, and without a doubt caught\nthe sound of a footfall treading on the stone floor, apparently down in\nthe hall below. Curiosity prevailed over alarm; I got up, put on a\ndressing-gown and socks, and proceeded cautiously without along the\ncorridor.\n\nThe footsteps had come to a halt seemingly, for now I heard nothing; and\nthen on a sudden by the light of the waning moon that showed in a faint\nmilk-white aureole through the high window emblazoned with the bugles\nand caltrops of the Startingtons, that lit the hall below, I saw a dim\nfigure coming up the stairway towards me upon soundless feet; I drew\nback in utmost astonishment, and shrank away beside a massive oak\ncupboard on the landing.\n\nThe figure mounted the steps slowly, and as though in pain, passed\ngently by me with just such a movement of the air as a moth might make\nin its flight, and with a tiny sound as of a sigh turned to the left and\nretreated along the passage.\n\n''Tis a lady!' I murmured to myself, overcome with astonishment.\n\nAlmost at once I heard a firm tread of feet upon the stairs below, and\nthere mounting quickly another figure now showed at the head of the\nstairs, and I recognised in the half light that it was my uncle.\n\nHe did not pause, but turned at once to the left, and incontinently\nfollowed after the fragile figure of the lady, who had disappeared from\nview into the misty depth of the corridor.\n\nI stood dumbfounded. Here was a double mystery which I felt bound,\nthough a little shaken in my nerves, to unravel.\n\nA-tiptoe I followed after my uncle along the dark passage, feeling my\nway lest I should knock against the pictures or the various bronze casts\nthat stood on pedestals beside the wall.\n\nThe passage turned shortly again to the left and led, as I knew, past my\nuncle's bedroom to the muniment room situate at the end of the wing.\n\nWhen I turned the corner there was just sufficient moonlight from the\nsouth window to show me the dim figure of my uncle standing within the\nmuniment room, apparently feeling with his hands upon the wall.\n\nAs I stood irresolute, but keenly watchful, I saw the sudden purple\nflame of a match leap up in the darkling room. My uncle had lit a match,\nand with trembling, excited fingers was applying the flame to a candle\nthat stood on the table.\n\nHe held the candle up towards the wall, peering intently upon it, and as\nI drew nearer on tiptoe I could hear him exclaiming in disjointed\nutterance.\n\n'She vanished here. Just here. At last, then, I have discovered her\ngrave. Yet the cruelty of it! for I know she was innocent.'\n\nHe drew something from his pocket and marked upon the wall therewith;\nthen tapped with his knuckles, and, finding it to resound hollow, cried\njoyfully, 'Ay, it is as I suspected, quite resonant. Yes! she shall have\na Christian burial.' He drew his hand across his forehead, signed with\nthe Cross, louted low before an ikon of the Madonna, and I heard him say\nfervently:\n\n'Ago tibi gratias, Immaculata.'\n\nSeemingly satisfied, he turned again and narrowly scrutinised the wall\nonce more, then slowly, and as though very tired, withdrew from the room\nand came back along the passage, and passed within his own chamber.\n\nAs he came on I stepped velvet-footed backwards, waited a few minutes at\nthe corner to see if he would come out once more, but as he almost\nimmediately extinguished the light I concluded that his quest was\ncompleted for the night, and made my way back to my bedroom.\n\nIn the morning I was surprised to find my uncle already in the parlour\nwhere usually I breakfasted by myself, for he was used to take his _cafe\nau lait_ in his own room.\n\nBidding him good morning I had scarcely taken my seat when he produced a\nminiature from his pocket, and earnestly gazing upon me inquired what I\nthought of the character of the individual depicted in it.\n\nI looked upon the medallion with great intentness, for I felt convinced\nthe mystery of the night was connected inseparably with it.\n\nWhat I saw was a portrait--artistically executed in pastel--of a\ndelicate lady in eighteenth-century costume, with a strangely pathetic\nexpression in her dark brown eyes as of one perpetually striving to\nunderstand and to be understood by others. Her mouth also showed the\nsame fragile tenderness of feeling, and altogether she seemed intended\nto be--if not herself a musician or a poetess--at least the wife of a\nmusician or poet or sculptor.\n\n'Not a strong character,' I replied musingly, 'but a most sweet and\ndelicate lady--one who should pass her time in playing upon the\nclavichord or the viol d'amore. In sympathy of temperament I think she\nwould be more Italian than English.'\n\n'You are right,' said my companion eagerly, 'she was Italian on her\nmother's side. But what of her moral character?--that is what I want to\nknow from you--what think you of her constancy?'\n\nI looked again into the deep brown eyes and pondered before I replied.\n'I think,' I said slowly, 'I think that where she had once loved she\nwould love ever.'\n\nMy uncle's intensity became instantly relaxed, and a joyous look\noverspread his face.\n\n'I am sure of it,' he said with conviction, 'but I rejoice, nephew, that\nyour sound judgment bears out my intuition; but though you make me\nhappy the thought of the outrageous cruelty of her death makes me\nmiserable, for there is but one poor thing we now can do for her, that\nis, to find her bones, and lay them to rest in the graveyard.\n\n'As for the jealous and inhuman pride of the husband that could thus\nimmure in the walls of his house the tender, loving, fragile bride I can\nfind no adequate words.\n\n'I cannot rest till I know this for a certainty, or till I have given\nthe poor bones their proper service and burial. I have sent for the\nvillage mason--a discreet man enough--and should you care to assist me\nin my task, nephew, I shall be greatly indebted to you.'\n\nI very readily volunteered my services, for I had been profoundly\ninterested in the cause of my uncle's abstraction from the first, and\nthe mysterious apparition had enhanced my curiosity.\n\nSo the three of us set to work with hammers and chisels, and in the\ncourse of a few hours' work we had proved to my uncle's satisfaction\nthat his intuition had been correct in that we found the remains of a\nhuman body interred within the hollow of the walls; _yet 'twas not the\ncorpse of a woman, as he had surmised, but that of a young man_.\n\n\n\n\nIN THE CLIFF LAND OF THE DANE\n\nA LETTER TO THE REVEREND LAURENCE STERNE AT COXWOLD FROM JOHN HALL\nSTEVENSON AT SKELTON CASTLE, AS SET DOWN BY HIS NEPHEW FREDDY HALL.\n\n\nThe truth is, reverend sir, that being eventually designed for the Bar,\nI had taken up this quest with an additional vigour, for here was a\nmystery wherein my Lord Chief-Justice himself would have had a\ndifficulty in seeing the proper clue on 't.\n\nFor some months previous to my sojourn at Skelton Castle there had been\nmysterious midnight thefts of sheep, heifers, and suchlike cattle on the\nhills about here, Redcar, and Danby-way, and even on occasion a murder\nadded, as in the case of poor Jack Moscrop, the shepherd, who was found\nin the early morning with his head cut in twain, as though by some\nmighty cleaver, stark dead and cold on the low-lying ground beyond\nKirkleatham.\n\nMuch disquietude had been caused thereby amongst the farmer folk, and\nthe whole countryside was agape with excitement and conjecture, but\nnothing had been discovered as to the malefactor, though many tales were\ntold, more especially by the womenfolk, who put down all mishaps to the\nsame unknown agent.\n\nSome said 'twas a black man who had escaped off a foreign ship that had\nbeen stranded by Teesmouth, but in that case one would imagine that such\nan one would have eaten his victim raw, whereas the sheep and heifers\nthat were killed had always been 'gralloched,' as the Scotch term it,\nthat is, had been cut open with a knife and disembowelled, and the\ncarcases removed.\n\nSome again avowed 'twas an agent of the Prince of Darkness, for there\nwere hoofmarks of an unshod horse discovered on one or two occasions\nleading up and away from the scene of the slaughter, and blood drops\nalongside, as though the booty had been slung from the horse's quarters,\nand there dripped down as he sped along.\n\nNow as you may imagine, I too had battered my brain with various\nconjectures, but without practical result till one night after hunting\nall day, and having lamed my mare badly with an overreach, I was\nreturning slowly homeward by a short cut across Eston Nab, so as to\nstrike the Guisboro' Road, and thence straight to Skelton.\n\n'Twas a stormy November night, time about nine o'clock, for I had stayed\nsupper with a friendly yeoman, one Petch, of a noted family hereabout,\nand was trudging a-foot, so as to ease the mare, along the desolate\nhill-top, where in a kind of basin there lies a lonely pool of water,\nset round in the farther side by a few draggled, wind-torn firs.\n\nThere was a swamped moon overhead, shining now and again as wreckage\nshows amongst billows, the gleam but momentary, so that when I caught\nsight of a kneeling figure across t' other side of the mere I could\nscarce distinguish anything at all, whether 'twere a boggart, as they\nsay here, or some solitary shepherd seeking his sheep.\n\nHowever, at that moment there was a break overhead, and the moon,\nrheumy-eyed, shook her head clear of cloud, whereby I saw plain enough\n'twas a tall, burly man kneeling beside some object or other, and a\nmighty big horse standing a bit to the rearward of him.\n\nI drew nigher without being perceived, and the light still holding, saw\nthat 'twas a young stirk or heifer the man was disembowelling.\n\n'Ha, ha!' shouts I, without a further thought than that here was the\nmidnight miscreant and cattle-stealer, and that I had caught him\nred-handed.\n\nWith that he lifts his head and gazes across the pool at me fixedly for\nan instant of time, then with a whistle to his horse, leaps to his feet,\nvaults to the saddle, and swings away at a hard gallop round the mere's\nedge, the moonlight flashing back from some big axe he was carrying in\nhis right hand.\n\n'Tally ho!' shouted I, commencing to run after him, bethinking me he was\nfor escaping, but no sooner had he rounded the edge some hundred and\nfifty yards away than I saw 'twas he who was chasing me.\n\nAnother look at him tearing towards me was sufficient to change my\nresolution, and hot foot I tore round to t' other end, trusting to win\nto the wood's edge before he could catch me up.\n\nI heard the hard breathing of the horse close behind me, the crunch of\nhis hoofs coming quicker and quicker; one fleeting glimpse I threw\nbackward, and saw a bright axe gleam above me, then my foot catching in\na tussock, I sank headlong, the horse's hoofs striking me as I fell.\n\nI must suppose--for at that moment the moon was swallowed again by a\nswirl of cloud--that in the changing light he had missed his blow, and\nfinding myself unhurt, I was able to gain my feet, make a double and\ngain the wall's edge by the plantation before he had caught me up once\nmore. Just as I vaulted over a crash of stones sounded, some loose ones\nat top grazing my foot as I touched the ground on the far side.\n\nThe wood, however, was pitch black, thick with unpruned trees; I bent\ndouble and dived deeper into its gloomy belly.\n\n'Safe now,' thinks I, as utterly outdone I sank on a noiseless bed of\npine-needles; and by the Lord Harry 'twas none too soon, for if it\nhadn't been for the kindly moon dipping I'd have been in two pieces by\nnow. 'To Jupiter Optimus Maximus I owe an altar,' says I, in my first\nrecovered breath, and, 'curse that infernal reiver,' says I in my\nsecond, 'but I'll be up ends with him yet.'\n\nNo sound came from without; all was still, save for the soughing in the\npines overhead.\n\nA quarter of an hour passed perhaps, and I determined to creep to the\nwall and see if my assailant were anywhere visible.\n\nThe wind had freshened; the clouds were unravelling to its touch, and I\ncould see clearly enough now across the desolate hill-top. Nothing\nliving showed save my mare, who was cropping the coarse grass tufts just\nwhere I had left her.\n\nSurmounting the wall, I approached the spot where I had seen the reiver\nfirst. There lay red remnants that clearly told a tale. The carcase,\nhowever, had been 'lifted,' and I could trace the direction in which my\nraider had gone by the drops of blood that lay here and there by the\nside of the horse's track.\n\nAs the ground in places was soft with peat or bog, by a careful\nexamination of the hoof marks of his horse, I was able to ascertain the\ndirection in which he had gone, which seemed to be nearly due\nnorth-east, or at least east by north. The marks proved another thing,\nmoreover, and that is, that here was the same miscreant who had killed\nthe shepherd and carried off the cattle elsewhere, for 'twas an unshod\nhorse that had galloped over Eston Nab top that night.\n\n'Twas sore-footed that I gained home at last, but all the way I\ndiscussed a many plans for the discovery and punishment of my\nmoss-trooper.\n\n'Tis an unpleasant remembrance to have fled; next time we met I swore to\nbe in a better preparation for the encounter.\n\nNext morning I started to explore, for I knew something of the\ndirection. I knew also that my man was a tall, well-built, burly fellow\nwith a big ruddy beard, and the horse a fine seventeen hands roan that\nwould be known far and wide in the district.\n\nDetermining to stay out till I had discovered somewhat, I rode down to\nthe low-lying ground between Boulby and Redcar, as being the likeliest\nregion to get news of horse or man and, sure enough, at the second time\nof inquiry, I was informed at a farmhouse that some six months ago\nFarmer Allison, away over by Stokesly, had lost a fine, big, upstanding\nroan stallion, of which he had been inordinately proud.\n\nOf the man, though, I could glean nothing, till finally, a good\nhousewife, overhearing her man and myself conversing, cried out, 'Eh!\nbut by my surely, there's that Red Tom o' the \"Fisherman's Rest,\" nigh\nto Saltburn, that's new come there, who features him you speak of; but\nhe's nowt but a \"fondy,\" oaf-rocked, they say he is; why, Moll who hawks\nt' fish about says his wife beats him an' maks him wash up t'\ndishes--the man being a soart o' cholterhead by all accounts.'\n\nHowever, 'fondy' or no, I was sworn to go and see for myself, though the\nthought that 'twas perhaps a disguise the reiver had worn gave me\ndiscomfort, and made my quest seem foolish enough.\n\nAs I drew close to the little tavern above the cliff, I could hear a\ndispute going on inside; then a crash as of some crockery falling, and\nshortly a big, burly man with an auburn beard came tumbling forth in an\nawkward haste, pursued by the high tone of a woman's voice within.\n\nShaking his sleeve free of some water-drops, he sat down on a low rock\nnear hand, and fell knitting at a stocking he proceeded to draw from his\njacket.\n\n''Tis surely the man,' says I to myself, for in height, build, and\ncolour of hair, he seemed the fellow of the midnight raider, but yet it\nseemed impossible; there might be a brother, however.\n\nI rode up to him, and asked if I could bait my horse and seek\nrefreshment within.\n\n'Ay, sir, surely ye can; if ye'll dismount I'll tak your horse, sir, an'\ngive him a feed o' corn,' and shambling away he touched a greasy lock at\nme as he led my horse to the stable behind.\n\nI turned to the inn, and encountered mine hostess, fuming within the\nbar.\n\n'Please draw me a pot of ale, ma'am,' says I, 'while my horse gets a\nfeed. Your good man, I suppose 'tis, who took him away outside?'\n\n'Ay, he's mine, so says t' Church an' t' law, Aah b'lieve, but 'od\nrabbit him, Aah says, who knaws the clumsiness o' the creature. Just fit\nfor nowt else but cuttin' up t' bait for t' harrin' fishin'.'\n\n'Been here long?' says I further, carelessly.\n\n'Six months mair or less,' says she with a snap, eyeing me suspiciously.\n\n'Well, here's for luck and a smarter man at the next time of asking,'\nand with that I tossed down the ale, paid the reckoning, and strode out\nto the stable, for nothing further was to be got out of the vinegar lips\nof Mrs. Boniface.\n\nI looked narrowly round the low-roofed and ill-lit stable, but no sign\nof a big roan horse anywhere did I see, only a jack-spavined cob, such\nas a fishwife might hawk her fish about with.\n\n'Ever seen or heard tell of that big roan of Farmer Allison's, strayed,\nstolen, or lost, about six months since?' so I accosted Boniface anew,\non finding him rubbing down my horse's hocks with a bit of straw.\n\n'Noah, sir, not Aah; Aah nevver seen 'im, sir. What soart o' a mak o'\nhorse was 'e, sir?'\n\nI looked him full in the face as question and answer passed, and not a\nshred of intelligence could I detect in his opaque, fish-like eyes.\n\n'Oaf-rocked,' truly enough; he seemed as incapable of dissimulation as a\nstalled ox, and with a heavy feeling of disappointment I inquired what\nwas to pay, and rode away down the slope.\n\n'Curious,' I mused, 'how imagination plays one tricks at times! Once get\nthe idea of a red beard into your mind, and Barbarossa is as often met\nwith as the robin redbreast.'\n\nThen all in a moment my eye caught in the spongy bottom a thin mark cut\nclearly crescent-wise upon the turf. There was something strangely\nfamiliar about the horseshoe curve. Then I remembered the unshod roan of\nthe night before.\n\n'Twas the same impress, for in neither case was there any trace of the\niron rim. 'Where the horse is the rider will not be far away,' thinks I,\nand hope kindled afresh in my heart, as I rode slowly on, resolving\nvarious conjectures.\n\nI determined finally to go call upon the farmer at Kirkleatham, whose\nheifer it was, as I had learnt, that had been killed and carried off the\nnight before.\n\nHe was said to be tightfisted, so probably would be in a mood for\nrevenge, and ready enough to join in any scheme for discovery of the\nreiver.\n\nAs luck had it, Farmer Johnson was within doors, and in a fine taking\nabout the loss of his beast: he was ready to swear an oath that he\nwouldn't rest till he had caught the malefactor, and agreed upon the\ninstant to watch out every night in the week with me round about 'The\nFisherman's Rest' on chance of coming across the suspect either going or\nreturning.\n\n'Ay, Aah'll gan mahself, an' Aah'll tak feyther's owd gun wi' me there,\nfor Aah'll stan' none o' his reiver tricks, an' Tom and Jack, they'll\ncome along too, an' 'od burn him, but we'll nab him betwixt us, the\nimpudent scoundrel, if it's a leevin' man he is.'\n\nBy eight o'clock we four had ensconced ourselves in hiding-places on all\nsides of the little inn, having tethered our horses within a small but\nthick-grown covert above the rise that led to the inn door. Here I\nstationed myself and for better vision climbed a tree wherefrom I\ncommanded the whole situation. The others hid themselves as they found\nshelter convenient, one below the cliff's edge some two hundred yards to\nthe east, another amongst broken boulders to the southward, while Farmer\nJohnson crouched behind the wall that girt the road leading past the\nale-house from the north.\n\n'Twas weary work watching, more by token that that night nothing\nappeared save a thirsty fisherman or two, and a stray, shuffle-footed\nvagrant or the like.\n\nNext night the same, and I for one was growing somewhat cold, but Farmer\nJohnson, bull-like in his obstinacy, swore he wouldn't shave his chin\ntill he had 'caught summat,' so off we started on the third night to our\nrendezvous.\n\n'The third time brings luck,' thought I, as I squatted down in the fork\nof the same old twisted elm; 'and 'tis something stormy this evening,\nwhich might suit our reiver's tastes.'\n\nIt would then be about eight of the clock, as I may suppose, the wind\nfrom the seaward, the clouds lowering, fringed with a moonlight border\nlike broidery on a cloak, and that raw, cold touch in the air that\nchills worse than the hardest winter's frost.\n\nThe night grew stormier; vapour lifted upward, and assumed strange and\nthreatening shape. The cloud forms might be the giants rising up out of\nJotunheim, and advancing to attack Odin and the Aesir--the evil wolf\nFenrir in the van--his bristles silvered by the moon.\n\nAn hour passed, and I began to wish I had never undertaken the quest, or\nmentioned the matter to Farmer Johnson, when I heard, as if some way\noff, not exactly a neigh, but a sort of defiant snorting, such as a\nstallion breathes forth when he wishes to be free. Then a sound as of a\nheavy stone falling succeeded, mingled with a scraping and a trampling\nnoise.\n\nCraning my neck forward, I saw under a broadened fringe of moonlight the\nroan horse with the ruddy-bearded reiver beside him. They had evidently\ncrept through some secret passage that issued into the bottom below me.\n\nI was just upon the point of raising the hue and cry on him when an\naction of his took me by surprise.\n\nHolding up his battle-axe--for such was his weapon--he raised it aloft,\nthen thrust its handle deep into the soft moss of the hollow. Next, he\nthrew the horse's reins over the head of it, and sinking down upon his\nknees, appeared to be pouring forth a prayer to Heaven, expressed in old\nDanish, which I have set down in English as nearly as I can:\n\n    'Vafoder, the swiftness of Sleipnir\n    Breathe Thou into my roan.\n    Let him fly like Thy ravens\n    Black Munin and Hugi.\n    May my axe be as Thor's,\n    When he wieldeth Miolnir.\n    Winged Thor's mighty weapon.\n    The pride of Valhalla.\n    This grant me, O Odin,\n    Grim, Ygg and All Father.'\n\nHe then drew forth from his breast a small phial, and having set up a\nsquare stone beside him poured forth into the cup or hollow at the top,\nliquid of a dark colour, which I imagined must be either blood or wine.\nThis done, he seemed to fall to prayer afresh, but in so low a tone\nthat I could not catch the words of his utterance with any distinctness.\n\nThen he leapt to his feet, lifted the axe, tossed it into the air,\ncaught it as it fell, and had vaulted upon the stallion's back before I\nhad even recovered from my first astonishment.\n\n'Tally-ho!' shouts I, 'yonder he goes; forrard Mr. Johnson! forrard Tom\nand Jack!' and, scrambling down my tree, I made for my horse.\n\nThe next thing I heard was a 'pang,' evidently the discharge of Farmer\nJohnson's musket, and thereat a weird, smothered, savage note of pain\nand rage broke out upon the night.\n\nSeizing my horse I mounted, and out of the covert across a gap in the\nwall. Dimly I could see a centaur-like figure plunging and snorting upon\nthe short turf by the cliff's edge, then three figures running from the\nnorth, south, and east towards it.\n\nThe roan horse plunged and reared like one demented; the rider sitting\nthe while firm and supple as an Indian; then, seizing on a sudden the\nbit 'twixt his teeth, off set the stallion at a tearing gallop\nsouthward.\n\nAway I followed hotly, the others giving chase and halloaing in the\nbackground.\n\nDyke after dyke we flew headlong in the grey-white mist--the space still\neven betwixt us--then, at a sudden high dry-stone wall, which loomed up\nas a wave of darkness seaward, my horse jumped short, and down we fell\ntogether, on the turf beyond.\n\nAs I lay there for a moment or two, I was certain I heard a heavy\nrumbling of rock or stone by the cliff edge hard by, followed by a deep\nplunge far below into the sea.\n\nI rose to my feet and looked around me. There was no sign of horse or\nrider; both had disappeared.\n\nThe cliff here made a sudden bend inland, so that I could even catch the\ncome and go of the waves in the far void below, and I felt 'twas lucky\nfor me that I had been riding the nethermost line of the twain of us.\n\nCautiously approaching the edge, I noticed it had been just broken away\nunder the tramplings of a horse, and as I peeped over I caught sight of\nan indistinct figure lying on a broad slab of rock below that jutted out\nsome way from the cliff.\n\nFeeling carefully around for support of root or stone, I made my way\ndown, and discovered, as I had already conjectured, 'twas the reiver\nthat lay there.\n\nHe was lying motionless, spread on his back, and was murmuring to\nhimself as I drew close.\n\nI knelt beside him to lift him up, and could catch, as I tried to raise\nhim, what he was saying.\n\n'Whisht ye, then, whisht, Effie, Aah never meant to break t' dish, Aah\ntell thee. Leave us aloan, then, lass, doan't plague t' life oot of a\nman. Ay, Aah'll fetch t' coo in i' guid time, there's no call t' bang\nus that gait.'\n\nThen he babbled indistinctly; his lips grew whiter and ceased from\nmoving; and when the others had come up I think he was already dead.\n\nAs I rode off for the physician in Redcar, I minded me I had once read\nin a book, Reverend Sir, that this same Cleveland was once 'the\nCliff-land of the Danes,' and that the older name of Roseberry\nTopping--the famous hill of these parts--was Othenesberg, or Odin's\nHill, together with much else of an antiquarian interest and varied\nconjecture, which I must even leave to wiser heads than mine to\ndetermine the true issues of, as well as their bearing upon the events\njust narrated, but this I may say, that here is the same 'crazy tale' my\ncousin mentioned to you, set down in all true verisimilitude by,\nreverend sir, your very faithful and humble servant to command,\n\n    FREDDY HALL.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DOPPEL-GANGER\n\n\nSo this was the old home--the cradle of his race!\n\nPercy Osbaldistone of Osbaldistone Tower gazed curiously about him in\nwhat had formerly been the library, and espied a capacious Queen Anne\nchair by the fireside which looked inviting.\n\nHaving ensconced himself therein he put up his feet against the\nmantelpiece, lit a long cigar, and drew in the smoke slowly and\nmeditatively.\n\nThe old housekeeper and her pretty niece had given him a good supper,\nand he himself, foreseeing empty cellars, had brought with him an ample\nfreight, so now at the long last he had arrived in harbour.\n\nAfter all his vicissitudes and being for years the black sheep of the\nancient family, that he should come into possession of Osbaldistone\nTower and Manor touched his vein of humour.\n\nHe laughed grimly, rubbed one hand upon the other, and looked\ncontemptuously up at the portrait of an ancestor who seemed to be\nscowling at the last representative of his race. It was true that there\nwas not much of the old family estate left, and what was left was\nmortgaged, but still it was good for a few thousands, and the family\nlawyer had to find them or go. The heir of the Osbaldistones continued\nhis reflections. He didn't 'give a damn' for his ancestors, for what had\nthey done save bring him into the world--a doubtful blessing?\n\n'_Apres moi le Deluge_,' murmured he to himself with a cynical smile, as\nhe ensconced himself deeper in the recesses of his armchair and drank\ndeep from the glass by his side. His hand shook badly, and he spilled\nsome drops of whisky and soda upon his trousers.\n\n'Damn!' cried he in annoyance. Then to himself _sotto voce_, 'Now that\nI've got back to this old quiet place I'll soon have my rotten nerves\nright again.'\n\nLooking up after wiping his trousers he suddenly perceived to his great\nastonishment, for he had heard no sound of entrance, a fellow seated in\nthe chair opposite which nestled under the Spanish leather screen that\nkept off the draught from the door behind.\n\n'Who the devil are you?' inquired the Lord of the Manor angrily, 'and\nwhat d' ye want?'\n\n'I am an Osbaldistone like yourself,' replied the stranger suavely; 'we\nare the last of the ancient house that bears upon its chevron the spear\nand spurs (mullets), so when I heard of your good fortune I thought it\nbut polite to call and gratulate you on your succession.'\n\nPercy Osbaldistone looked across upon his unwelcome visitor with\nnarrowed eyes. The room was dark in its old oak panelling; there was but\nthe one lamp on the table behind him, and it was by the light of the\nfire that he had to scrutinise the newcomer. So far as he could see the\nfellow was not unlike himself: he seemed to have the high-ridged nose of\nthe family, which had become almost a birthmark in course of years. Yet\nthe sardonic hardness of chin and jaw was very different to his own\nflabbiness; and as he watched his opposite Osbaldistone felt hatred\nsurge up within his soul.\n\nHe had heard of men having their 'double.' Perhaps this was his own. He\nshivered at the thought.\n\nThen he recollected that a branch of the family had long years ago\nmigrated to Virginia. Possibly the fellow was one of their descendants.\n\n'Are you from America?' he inquired. Then he went on in haste, not\nwaiting for reply, 'For myself, I've only just arrived here. The only\nservants are an ancient housekeeper and her little niece, and I can't do\nwith visitors--you'll understand me. Take a whisky and soda and then\ngo,' and the speaker ended with a snarl and suggestive stretch of leg\nand boot.\n\n'You are not very hospitable,' replied his opposite, suavely as before,\n'but it matters little, nor do I require a whisky and soda. I simply\ncalled in for a \"crack,\" as you say up here, and to congratulate you on\nsucceeding.'\n\n'A crack!' echoed his host surlily. 'What about?'\n\n'Oh, about our family and yourself,' returned the other caressingly. 'I\nam something of a genealogist, love family histories and dote on\nskeletons in the cupboard. As a matter of fact, ours is a singularly\ndull chronicle: except that the head of the family was an unsuccessful\nrebel in the \"15,\" we never travelled beyond our Anglo-Saxon\nfatherdom--deep drinking, gambling, hard riding--and the _droit de\nSeigneur_'--here the speaker paused a moment--'this little niece, for\nexample?' he hinted delicately.\n\n'How the devil has the fellow guessed that?' thought Osbaldistone, white\nwith anger and touched by secret fear.\n\n'Get out!' he cried hoarsely, and felt if his revolver lay handy in his\npocket, ready for use if needful.\n\nHis guest, however, took no notice of the command. Indeed, he went on\nmore coolly than before. 'I mention it,' said he, 'because there was an\nugly story about in British East Africa when you were farming out in the\nwilds beyond Simba, of the rape of a native girl, who was eventually\nturned out of doors at night and never reached her home again. Hyaena or\nlion? Which d' ye think?'\n\nOsbaldistone's hand dropped feebly back from his revolver. His face was\nashen-coloured. Good God! Who was this visitor? The episode of this\nblack girl was the one thing he had never been able to forget. Shrinking\nback into his chair, he gazed as a rabbit may gaze upon the approaching\npython.\n\n'Damn the fellow!' He plucked forth his revolver with quivering fingers,\nlevelled it at his guest, and pulled upon the trigger. The bullet sang\nacross the room, passed through armchair and screen into the wainscot\nbeyond.\n\nThe smoke cleared; Osbaldistone could still see the unmoved and mocking\neye of his enemy that filled him with a nameless horror. He lifted his\npistol to take a better aim, then--on a strange misgiving--turned the\nbarrel round upon himself. 'You fool!' muttered the strange visitor\nsardonically, and as he spake he vanished as silently as he had come.\n\n\n\n\nIN MY LADY'S BEDCHAMBER\n\n\n'Well,' said Harry laughingly, as he showed me the family portraits, and\nmore especially the ladies, on the wall of the panelled dining-room,\n'which of them would you choose if you were, like Henry VIII., on the\nlook-out for a fresh wife?'\n\n'This one, I think,' I replied, as I gazed at a charming fragile beauty\nin a big bonnet, beneath which shy eyes looked bewitchingly; 'surely she\nwas a Frenchwoman and painted by Fragonard?'\n\n'Aha!' cried he, 'you are a bold man, for there are tales told of\nher--strange tales of feminine and deadly jealousy for all her soft\ndemureness. She was French, as you say, and a devoted wife, I believe,\nbut probably her _mari_ was not as faithful as he should have been. She\nis said to haunt the house, but I haven't come across her yet myself.\nYou are to sleep in her bedchamber,' he added with a smile, 'so perhaps\nyou may be favoured with the sight of your charmer.'\n\nI pressed naturally for further information, but he put me off by saying\nit was too long a story, and that he had many other things to show me\non this my first evening in the manor house.\n\nI had only just arrived by motor. We had dined, and my friend was\nshowing me round his possessions with all the pride of new and sudden\ninheritance. Harry had always been lucky; he had a talent for 'dropping\nin' for things unexpectedly. Thus at Eton, though really only thirteenth\nman, he had played against Harrow; and now owing to unexpected deaths he\nhad become the possessor of a charming seventeenth-century manor house\non the northern Border--a house that, lying in a deep crook of the Tweed\nand hidden by trees, had marvellously escaped the hand and torch of the\nraider.\n\nHe had succeeded to his great-uncle--an antiquary and recluse--a\ndisappointed bachelor, and latterly, 'twas said, somewhat of a miser,\nwhich was fortunate for my friend, who had very little of his own.\n\nHarry was soon to be married, and I was to be best man. He had come down\nto interview the agent and see what alterations and new furniture would\nbe required, and had insisted on my joining him for a few days' fishing\nin the Tweed, while he was being inducted by agent and bailiff into his\nestate and introduced to the tenantry. After surveying his ancestors'\nportraits we adjourned to the hall, which was furnished with\nbattle-axes, Jethart spears, basket-hilted swords, maces, salmon\nleisters, masks of otters and foumarts, foxes and badgers, and all the\nvarious trophies of Border sport and warfare of old time. This was the\noldest part of the house, and proved by its stone-vaulted roof that it\nhad belonged to the old peel tower on to which the manor had been\nengrafted; a fire of pine logs flamed in an open fireplace, gleaming and\nglancing on the copper drums that held relays of firewood on either\nhand.\n\nSkins of red deer and the tufted pelts of kyloe cattle lay on the stone\nfloor: there were massive black oak coffers and a great wardrobe like\nsome huge safe for coats behind us, but two broad ancient leathern\narmchairs stood by the hearth invitingly, suggestive of unperturbed\neighteenth-century ease, wherein we at once settled ourselves.\n\nIt was perhaps the absence of feminine taste and adornment that made the\nhouse seem older than it really was; apart from the charming portraits\nof the ladies in the dining-room the house resembled rather a Border\nstrength than a Jacobean manor house.\n\nHowever, the atmosphere was rendered all the more romantic thereby, and\nI lay back in my chair making believe to myself that I was staying with\na Lord Warden of the Marches in the days of the ancient feud between\nEngland and Scotland.\n\nWe smoked and talked, however, not of the far, but of the immediate,\npast, of Eton and Oxford, and of mutual friends till twelve o'clock\nstruck on the brazen rim of a Cromwellian clock, and we agreed that it\nwas bedtime.\n\nI had clean forgotten all about the reputed ghost till my host said\n'good-night' at the door of my bedroom and bade me call him if I got a\n'gliff' in the night from the apparition of 'Silkie'--so he informed me\nthe lady was called locally. 'You've got your retriever with you,' he\nsaid, 'so no doubt you will feel protected.'\n\n'Brenda,' I replied, 'is Scotch by birth, so possibly she may be\nsuperstitious. The event will determine. So long,' I said, as Harry went\noff to the room of his late bachelor great-uncle.\n\nThough very sleepy after a long motor ride I could not 'turn in' till I\nhad explored my bedroom, which was indeed a fascinating and enchanting\nchamber. It seemed to be a coign plucked out of an old French chateau,\nand inset here like a rare plant in an old stone wall. The panelling was\nof Italian intarsia work inlaid with a renaissance design portraying\nthe tale of Cupid and Psyche; on the final panel Jupiter was handing the\ncup of ambrosia to Psyche with the words, '_Sume, Psyche, et immortalis\nesto, nec unquam digridietur a tuo nexu Cupido, sed istae vobis erunt\nperpetuae nuptiae_'; the floor was formed of parquetry, and the rugs\nabove were of fine Persian workmanship. The curtains of the window were\nof purple silk, embroidered, I imagined, by the fair Frenchwoman\nherself, and the great four-poster bed was of fine walnut with deep\nmouldings, and adorned with the fleur-de-lys of France. The whole room\nseemed to be redolent of the grace of a charming _grande dame_ of old\nFrance. I made up the fire with fresh pine logs upon the tiled hearth,\nsettled Brenda upon a rug by the side of it, undressed and went to bed,\nenchanted by my surroundings, and very much inclined to envy my friend\nhis good fortune.\n\nI fell asleep at once, for the bed was luxuriously comfortable, and I\nwas extraordinarily sleepy.\n\nHow long I slept I did not know, but when I awoke I had an immediate and\nmost lively intimation that some one was in the room. I drew myself\nnoiselessly upward, and at once my eyes rested upon a dainty figure\nsitting in the chair by the dying fire, evidently engaged upon some\nabsorbing occupation. It was a woman clad in a sprigged silk gown, the\nimage of my lady of the dining-room portrait. What was she doing?\nSeemingly pounding some substance in a small mortar. As I gazed\nastounded a slight knock sounded on the door. My Lady seemed\nextraordinarily perturbed; she started violently, seemed to shake\nsomething white from the mortar as she gathered it hastily to her, moved\nswiftly with the slightest rustle as of a scurrying mouse and vanished\nthrough the door that led into the dressing-room.\n\nI waited a few minutes to see if she would return, or perhaps some one\nelse enter by the other door, but no sound greeted my ear, and my eyes\ncould discover nothing unusual about the room.\n\nI rose, and, moving on tiptoe, opened both doors, and with the light of\nan electric torch I always carried with me, investigated the corridor\nand dressing-room, but could make no discovery of any kind, nor perceive\nwhere my fair visitant had vanished.\n\nWhen I returned to my room I found Brenda had been disturbed by my\nperambulation, for she was up and moving about restlessly. Giving her a\npat I bade her lie down again, and went back to bed determined to stay\nawake for the chance of my Lady reappearing.\n\nA few minutes after this Brenda seemed to be taken with a fit, for she\ngot up suddenly, made a bolt, as it were, for the door, shook with some\nconvulsive movements of her jaw, gave a horrible sort of strangled sob,\nand fell with a heavy thud on the floor.\n\nI leapt out of bed, got some water in a basin and knelt down beside her,\nbut she was already stiff, her teeth were clenched, and she showed a\nhorribly distorted mask.\n\nA horrid suspicion awoke in my mind. I searched with my torch on the\nfloor where my Lady had dropped the powder, and I could plainly see the\nwet edge of Brenda's tongue and the smudge of the white powder which she\nhad licked up.\n\nI went back to where Brenda lay stiff and stark, and felt with a\ntrembling hand for her heart.\n\nIt beat no more; my Brenda was dead--poisoned by the beautiful Lady.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WARLOCK OF GLORORUM\n\n\n'But are you sure your father wouldn't object?' I asked of my\ncompanion--a most bright and amusing Eton boy--to whom I was playing\nbear leader. 'Not a bit,' replied he; 'my father is a naturalist and\nDarwinian; not a sceptic, but _Agnosticus suavis_ or _Verecundus, ordo\ncompositae_, you know. \"Hunt the ghost by all means,\" said he, when I\nsuggested a ghost \"worry,\" and then as he does sometimes over coffee and\na cigarette after dinner he talked with a real keen interest on the\nwhole subject. He talked so long that old Mac (the butler) got quite\nshirty, and finally--after putting his head round the door two or three\ntimes--came in like the Lord Mayor and bore off the whisky decanter to\nthe smoking-room. Now, the pater said that the love of the marvellous\nwas native to mankind, and Tertullian had acquired a false credit for\nhis motto, _Credo quia impossible_, since that was the natural failing\nof the untrained intellect, and, scientifically speaking, he ought to\nhave been shot sitting.\n\n'Then he went on to tell a jolly story which some great educationalist\nhad told him of the little girl playing in the garden, who saw Fifine,\nthe poodle, unexpectedly appear, and at once rushed in crying to her\nmother, \"Mummy, mummy, there's a bear in the garden!\" Her mother, being\na wholly unimaginative creature, promptly put Maggie into the corner,\nand told her to beg God's pardon for having told a lie. Presently Maggie\ncomes out of her corner radiant, \"It's all right, mummy,\" she cried,\n\"God tells me He has often mistaken Fifine for a bear Himself.\" No\ndoubt, as he said, Maggie had had a momentary fright, and for half a\nsecond had thought of a bear, but she knew, too, that if she stayed to\ninvestigate she would find out it was Fifine, so preferring the luxury\nof the marvellous, she fled crying in to her mother. Sometimes, of\ncourse, he added, the ghost is the resultant of some horrible cruelty or\nmurder, mankind, from various motives, refusing to let the memory of the\ncrime die out, but more usually the ghost is born of the early\nmythopoeic imagination of man that cherishes the marvellous. One never\nhears of a new ghost nowadays. Science, no doubt, is an iconoclast in\nthe matter.'\n\n'Well,' said I, 'how do you propose to proceed? I have gathered that\nthere was once a warlock or wizard here in the sixteenth century--one\nof your forebears--who bore a most unhallowed reputation. Is he your\nghost, or is the ghost the result of his \"goings on\"?'\n\n'Both,' replied Dick, smiling. 'At least there are a number of tales\nabout him and his misdeeds; one version has it that he built himself a\nsecret chamber wherein he conferred with the \"Auld Enemy\" in person, and\nno one has yet discovered his \"dug-out.\" Here's a quaint woodcut of the\nold warlock,' he continued, taking down as he spoke a foxed print from\nthe wall and holding it out for my inspection.\n\n'Ain't he a fearsome figure? Looks as if his liver were cayenne pepper.\nAstrologer, botanist, poisoner, he is said to have been, and I don't\nwonder.'\n\nThe ancient warlock possessed indeed a most mischancy visage: hard,\ncurious, inhuman eyes he had, thin, sunken cheeks, and a black\nstraggling moustache, the whole surmounted by a great bald dome of brow.\n'By Alchemist out of Misanthropos,' I suggested, after a lengthy\nscrutiny, 'and perhaps Misogynist as well.' My companion laughed\nappreciatively. 'That's about it,' he said; 'yet there _is_ a tale of a\nfisherman's daughter, the belle of the village below.\n\n'Well,' he continued with animation, 'our job is now to discover his\nsecret chamber. 'Tis as good as a treasure hunt with the supernatural\nthrown in. By the way,' he went on, 'it's the first time I've ever been\nin Glororum Castle, as it is called, for the old place has only just\ncome back to us, that is, to my father as representative of the senior\nbranch of the Macellars, by the death of a cousin who died S.P. What\nnerves they had, these old chieftains! Fancy, like the Maclean, setting\nout your wife--even if a trifle _passee_--on the Skerry to drown before\nyour dining-room window, or, like the Macleod, lowering her into the\ndungeon beneath the drawing-room that you might the better enjoy the\ncharms of Amaryllis--your gardener's daughter--above. Well, it's too\nlate this afternoon to begin our \"worry,\" but to-morrow morning we must\nstart by flagging all the windows with towels, as the inquisitive lady\nis said to have done at Glamis Castle.'\n\nI willingly agreed to his proposal, which jumped well enough with my own\nhumour, and then as Dick went off to unpack I determined to go without\nand view the castle from every side.\n\nDusk was now closing in on the dark and frowning tower that was perched\nlike an osprey upon the basalt cliffs that overlooked the sea. The\nbuilding was really rather a peel tower than a castle, for it was of no\ngreat extent, consisting merely of the tall, gaunt tower with a wing\nadded on to its western side. Situated on the edge of the bare sea, like\na lighthouse abandoned, scarred by the fierce nor'-easters, with the\nmutter of the waves about it below and the scream of sea-fowl above, one\ncould scarce imagine a more desolate or forbidding human abode than\nfitly-named 'Glower-o'er-'em' Tower.\n\nThe neck of land by which it was approached from the west had been\nprotected by a wall, within which a garden had sheltered, wherein the\nwarlock had grown his herbs and poisons, but all was now ruinous and\nweed-grown, and gave only an added touch to the general forlornness. The\nplace had been let as a shooting-box in recent years, but neither\nlandlord nor tenant had thought it worth while to spend any money on\nreparation or embellishment. 'Twas indeed a fitting retreat for a\nwarlock or wizard, I thought, as with a final regard I turned to go\nwithin doors.\n\nJust at that moment I caught a glimpse of a fisher lass with a pannier\nrounding the corner. She looked back, and I saw a roguish Romney eye\nlighting a charming profile. 'Too pretty,' I thought, remembering Dick,\nas she tripped onward into the shadow of the Tower.\n\nThe sea was moaning under a heavy cloud-wrack; away to the west above\nthe Lammermoors the sunset flared like a bale-fire, scattering sparks on\nthe windows of the Tower. 'Twas cheerier within than without, for the\nwalls were thick and kept the wind at bay, the wood fires were lively\nwith hissing logs, and scarce heeded a chance buffet from the down\ndraught lying in ambush within the open chimney-stack. We slept in the\nwing without any dread of the warlock, for it had been added on to the\ntower long after his time, and save for the sound of the sea far below,\nresembling the dim 'mutter of the Mass,' or the spell of a necromancer,\nI heard nothing throughout the night.\n\nNext morning after breakfast was over Dick produced a pile of towels,\nwhich we divided up between us for our voyage of discovery. 'After all,'\nI said, 'we shan't want many, for bows and arrows in the far past, and\nlater, the window tax, kept the number of openings down.'\n\nWe ascended by the ancient stone newel stair that circled up from the\nold iron 'yett' of the entry to the battlements above, and laid a towel\nbelow the sash of every window. In the topmost storey in some servants'\nrooms that had been long disused we discovered certain windows with\nbroken cords that entirely refused to open.\n\nDick's way here was of the 'Jethart' kind. He simply knocked a pane out\nwith the poker, and thrust the towel through.\n\nWhen we had finished we descended in haste and perambulated the tower\nwithout, counting up our tale of towels in some excitement.\n\n'As many windows, so many towels,' I said with disappointment, as I\nchecked them off carefully.\n\n'Damn!' said Dick meditatively. Then after a moment or two's thought,\n'The old boy's cell must have been on the roof; he was sure to have been\nan astrologer. Let's go up again and start afresh.' So saying he led the\nway up to the parapet of the battlements, and there we surveyed the\nroof. The main part of the roof consisted of a gable covered with heavy\nstone tiles, but the further part that lay between the north-east and\nnorth-west bartizans was flat and covered with lead, and at the verge of\nthis were iron steps that led down to the roof of the new wing below.\nThis latter we did not concern ourselves with, as we knew it dated since\nthe wizard's day, but carefully examined the stone tiles and the further\nleads without, however, any discovery resulting.\n\nWe were just about to give up our quest when Dick's quick eyes noticed a\nchink in the lead that formed the channel or gutter for the rain water\nleading either way to the gargoyles beneath the bartizans outside.\n\n'Look here!' he cried. 'See the dim light showing! I swear it's a\nglimmer of glass. Evidently this particular lead was meant to be drawn\naside and admit the light.' I hastened to the side and peered with him\ninto the dirt-laden crack.\n\nOpening my pen-knife I scraped away the dirt and soon verified his\nconjecture that there was glass below. 'You're right!' I cried in my\nexcitement. 'It is glass. Now let's search and see if we can find\nanything like a hinge, or at least some indication that the lead could\nbe withdrawn at will.' We sought all along by the containing wall and\nfound that the lead did not end in a flat sheet, as is usual, against\nthe wall, but was turned over, and evidently continued below.\n\n'It looks very much as if it was meant to roll up and be turned over\nlike a blind on a roller below,' I said to my companion.\n\n'I'm sure of it,' Dick replied with conviction. 'I'll tell you what we\nmust do. We'll pull up the lead, make sure of the extent of the glass,\nthen go below and search for the wizard's cell from the exact indication\nwe shall then have of its whereabouts.'\n\n'Right!' said I, 'that's the method.'\n\nWe set to work, and soon had doubled back a strip of lead a foot broad\nfrom the centre till the glass ended by the bartizan on either side. We\ncould not pull the lead right back because of the iron steps, which had\nevidently been inserted when the new wing was built, and now interfered\nwith our further action.\n\nThe glass was set in heavy leaded panes, which were so engrained with\nthe grime of centuries that we could discern nothing through them.\n\n'We must search for the wizard's cell from below,' I said. 'If we cannot\ndiscover it there we must return and break in from above.'\n\n'Yes,' agreed Dick, 'it would be a pity to smash the roof in if we can\nfind an entry below without causing damage.'\n\nThe orientation was now easy, and as we studied the position from the\nparapet we could select the towelled window below which fitted best with\nthe position of the glass roof.\n\nThe curious thing was that the window was not situated in the centre,\nbut at the side of the torn up lead.\n\n'We'll find out the reason below,' I said, as we descended in great\nexcitement, hastening on our quest.\n\nThe room we made for was one of the disused chambers on the top storey,\nwhich we had remarked for its narrowness when we broke the window and\nthrust a towel through.\n\n'There must be a secret passage,' cried Dick, as he flashed his torch\nupon the walls; 'we're not below the glass; we're to the right hand of\nit. Wherefore search the left wall.'\n\nDick's inference seemed excellent, and full of eagerness I tapped with\nmy knife, he with his poker, all along the western wall.\n\n'There's a hollow here,' cried Dick, overjoyed, as his poker rang with a\nstrange lightness. 'Let's hunt for an opening or crack, or some\nbetraying sign.'\n\n'Here! Look here!' he shouted. 'I believe this stone pulls out.'\n\nHastening to his side and applying my knife to the thin ragged crevice\nhe had discovered, I found the stone was loose. I worked feverishly\nwhile Dick held the torch. 'Now it's coming!' I cried, and even as I\nspoke it fell forward and crashed on to the floor. To us scrutinising\nthe aperture, there seemed evidently a spring or catch concealed behind\nit.\n\nThrusting in my arm I pressed it home. A creak sounded; there was a\nrusty wheeze, and a portion of the wall seemed to shake and move slowly\ninwards.\n\n'We've got it!' yelled Dick, as he pressed his shoulder against the\nreceding portion, 'it's a wooden door covered over with thin slabs of\nstone.'\n\n'Forrard!' cried Dick. 'Forrard on!' and as he shouted he pressed\nforward down a narrow, dusty aperture towards a chamber beyond where a\ndim light showed through the begrimed roof above.\n\nI pressed on hotly at his heels through the six feet of passage. We were\nnow within the threshold of the secret cell. But what was that horrible\nthing beneath the dim sky-light? Dick's electric torch was failing, and\nwe could not see distinctly, and a very oppression of fear seized upon\nus both. What was the gruesome object in front that resembled a dead\noctopus with decayed black arms?\n\nThere was a sickly taint in the air, and as I stood there fascinated by\nfear Dick took a step forward and threw the faint light of his torch\nupon the atrocious figure.\n\nSurely it was a gorilla grasping its victim, and bending it in to itself\nas in some horrid act of rape!\n\nDick advanced yet another foot. Then I perceived that it was worse even\nthan I suspected, for I now distinguished a giant species of\n_Nepenthes_ (_Nepenthes Ferocissimus_) most monstrously developed,\nclutching in its long arms and horrid ascidiums the remains of a human\nvictim--apparently a woman--for a gleam of yellow satin showed beneath\nthe black embrace. Good God! I thought of the 'fisherman's daughter'\nwith a shudder.\n\nI heard the torch drop. Then came a rustling shiver. The monstrous\ngrowth had sunk to the floor under pressure of the fresh air!\n\nI thought I had fainted, but the next moment I felt Dick's hand shaking\nupon my sleeve, and heard a voice quaver in my ear:\n\n_'Let's get out of this! It's altogether too damned beastly._'\n\n\n\n\n'MUCKLE-MOUTHED MEG'\n\n\n'Hang him, Provost!'[1] cried the Town Clerk; 'he was caught red-handed;\ni' the verra manner, makin' awa aff wi' a quey o' your ain frae oor\nCommon.'\n\n'Fear God, Provost,' exhorted the Burgh Chamberlain, astonished at the\nProvost's hesitancy, 'but ne'er a North Tyne Robson.'\n\n'Ay,' rang out a dozen voices from the crowd assembled in front of the\nProvost's house in Hawick, 'mak him \"kiss the woodie\"; let the prood\nNorthumbrian thief cool his heels i' the wind!'\n\n'Up wi' him!' cried Madge wi' the Fiery Face, who had just been loosed\nfrom the 'jougs,' wherein she had been confined for 'kenspeckle\nincontinence.' 'Up wi' the clarty callant! Let him swing like a corby\ncraa i' a taty patch!'\n\nBut the canny wife of the Provost, douce man, plucked him by the sleeve.\n'Dod! man,' she whispered him in the ear, 'he's a braw chield for a'\nthat. Bethink you o' oor \"Muckle-Mouthed Meg,\" that ne'er a Tery[2]\nwill wed wi' withoot a handsome tocher! Aweel, let him wed wi' her the\nnoo \"ower the tangs\" an' ride awa wi' her on his saddle-bow. 'Twere pity\nto hang sic a handsome chield as he is an' no mak use o' him as a\nson-in-law, even if he be ane o' the \"auld enemy.\"'\n\nThe Provost looked anew upon the careless, intrepid young Northumbrian,\nwho seemed not to care a bodle for his imminent fate. He regarded his\nproposed son-in-law approvingly, for he was the pure type of North Tyne\nBorderer--of medium stature, but finely formed, with tanned complexion,\ntawny moustache and ruddy hair, keen blue eye and oval face--most\npleasant to look upon. 'Aweel,' concluded the Provost, 'we wull gie him\nthe chance.'\n\n'Look ye,' he addressed himself to the captive, 'the guidwife is verra\ntender hairted: she disna care to see ye trail i' the wind, but will\noffer ye Meg, oor daughter, instead o' the halter ye hae truly earned.\nYe can tak Meg--an' your life as her tocher.'\n\nRobson's proud determination to accept his fate and suffer silently as\nbecame a hardy Northumbrian wavered a little.\n\nHe was but twenty-five years of age, and life was very sweet to him. He\nthought of the merry moonlight, of the joys of riding, and the fierce\nexcitements of the foray with passionate desire. The old song of the\nBorderers was ringing in his ears:\n\n    'Sweet is the sound o' the driven steers\n    And sweet the gleam o' the moonlit spears,\n    When the red cock crows o'er byre and store\n    And the Borderer rides on his foraying splore.'\n\nHe looked from the tail of his eye upon 'Meg wi' the muckle mouth.' No\nbeauty certainly, but 'twas fighting he craved, not women. Yet she was\nnot ill-natured, he surmised--the 'muckle mouth' signified good temper;\n'twas far better than a 'muckle tongue'--she would do at a pinch as his\nhousekeeper.\n\nMeg meanwhile on her part was also eyeing him askance. He was a handsome\ngallant surely! Her heart longed for the canty fellow. Yet if he showed\nthe least sign of disdain he should go hang for her.\n\nRobson now looked directly upon her. 'Well, Meg,' he decided swiftly,\n'I'll take ye'; then he added in a flash of understanding, 'if ye'll\ntake me.' His tact triumphed. With a ready smile that stretched almost\nfrom ear to ear Meg surrendered herself joyfully.\n\n'Ay, my lad, I'll tak ye,' she replied on the instant.\n\nThe crowd now broke into a boisterous 'hooray,' as keen for the wedding\nas a moment before they had been eident for the funeral. 'Bring oot the\ntangs!' they vociferated loudly. A pair of tongs were at once produced,\nand under the direction of the blacksmith the captive and the woman held\nhands, and took each other for man and wife.\n\nThe 'handfasting' thus concluded, 'Ye hae forgot the bride ale!' cried\nmany voices. 'We mun drink their health, Provost, ye ken. Bring oot the\nale, canny man!' 'Ay, or clairt,' suggested a thin-faced scrivener. 'A\nmutchkin o' usquebaugh for ilka man,' shouted a burly flesher, ''tis\nmair heartenin'.'\n\nThe Provost turned a little pale at their unforeseen demand: he almost\nregretted his consent to the wedding. Then he recollected that there was\na firkin of home-brewed in the cellar that a recent thunderstorm had\nturned sour, and his brow grew clear. 'Bring oot the pickle firkin,' he\nbade his man, 'an' serve it around.'\n\nSo with a taste of sour ale in their mouths man and wife rode forth from\nHawick the airt of Peel Fell.\n\nRobson's good mare--her head turned homeward--went forward at a good\ntrot and recked little of her double burden.\n\n'What ails ye?' inquired Robson shortly, feeling that his bride was\nshaking in curious fashion behind him on her pillion.\n\n'I was juist laughin',' responded Meg, 'at oor venture, for here we are\nnewly marrit an' I dinna even ken your name richtly; ye are a Robson, I\nken, an' \"Wudspurs\" is your toname, but whatten's your hame name?'\n\n'My father and mother aye called me Si,' responded Robson. 'Ye can call\nme that, an' ye like.'\n\nMeg kept silence a while, then she said coaxingly, 'Si is a pretty name\neneuch; 'tis short an' sweet; gie me a kiss, Si,' she wheedled, with a\ngentle clasp about his waist.\n\n'I'll kiss ye when we win home,' replied her husband cautiously.\n\n'But just ae kiss--to gang on wi',' coaxed Meg further.\n\nSi turned half about and smacked his wife upon her rosy cheek, which\nseemingly he found satisfactory.\n\n'Plenty more for ye when we sit i' the ingle neuk together the night,'\nhe said.\n\nMeg, enchanted at this prospect, said no more, but looked about her as\nthey rode up the Slitrig water.\n\nThey could see the twisted horn of Pencrist and the round Maiden Paps on\ntheir right hand, and on their left bare Carlin Tooth on the outermost\nedge of Carter Bar; they were soon out upon the bare moorlands that\nstretch away to the water of Tyne on the one side and to the waters of\nLiddle on the other.\n\nAs they slowly ascended by the skirts of Peel Fell Meg broke the silence\nagain.\n\n'Ye arena marrit a'ready?' she inquired, as a sudden suspicion assailed\nher.\n\n'No fears,' retorted Si with conviction.\n\n'Weel, ye are the noo,' said Meg to herself, slightly increasing her\nhold on her man.\n\n'Then wha is 't that fends for ye?' she asked further.\n\n'I hae an old wife--the shepherd's--that bides with me,' replied Si.\n\n'She'll no' fend for ye the way I can,' returned Meg, 'for I can bake\nan' mak ye sowans, scones, brose, kail o' all kinds, an' parritch.'\n\n'I'd be fain o' some here and now,' replied Si,[3] 'for ye are not very\nhospitable in Hawick. A sup sour ale's all I've had since I took the\nfell yestreen.'\n\n'Puir laddie!' said Meg sympathetically. 'There was sic an unco\ncarfuffle that I had clean forgot the vivers.' Then, preparing to\ndescend from the pillion, she proposed that they should get down and\nwalk so as to ease the mare up the fell.\n\nSi, highly approving her thoughtfulness, jumped down and led the mare\nwith bridle drawn over her head through the flows and mosses above the\nDeadwater of Tyne.\n\n'Ye can almost see my bit biggin',' said Si, as he halted and pointed\neastward of Larriston Fell to a patch of black peat and heather high on\nthe rolling moorland.\n\n''Tis gey ootbye,' said Meg; 'clean aff the map a'thegither.'\n\n'It's caad whiles outside i' the wunter,' admitted Si, 'yet i' the but\nwi' aad Maud the collie an' her litter, Dand the shepherd, an' Sall his\nwife about the blazing peats on the hearth ye'll be warmer an' cosier\nthan the Queen of Scotland.'\n\n'There wull be a muckle ghaists aboot?' inquired Meg, as she gazed\nanxiously upon the wild expanse of moor, grasslands, and bog that\nstretched away, boundless as the sea, to an infinite horizon.\n\n'There's nowt but the \"wee grey man\" o' the moor,' replied Si\nunconcernedly; 'there's no harm in him; he will whiles even help up a\n\"cassen\" yowe (ewe). Not but what there's the \"Bargeist\"--he's\nmestitched, yet red thread i' your mutch and a branch o' the rowan tree\nwill keep him awa nicelies. And Dand kens fine how to fettle him whether\nby day or night--\n\n     \"Rowan tree and red thread gar the witches come ill speed.\"\n\n'Mount again now, my lass,' he added, 'for we ha' crossed the water o'\nNorth Tyne, and will win home to the \"Bower\" cheeks by the gloaming.'\n\nAs the good mare pressed on unweariedly bridegroom and bride rode up to\nthe 'yett' of 'the Bower' in the late twilight. On hearing the mare's\nshoes ring on the cobbles beside the gate the old shepherd, who had\nevidently been waiting, expectant of his master's return, came hirpling\nout in haste. Then seeing the strange figure seated behind his master he\nstood stock still in astonishment.\n\n'Whatten's this gear ye ha' lifted the noo?' he finally inquired, when\nhe had found his voice.\n\n''Tis a wife I ha' lifted from Hawick town,' cried Si gaily, as he leapt\nfrom his mare, overjoyed to be at home again.\n\n''Twould be i' the dark then?' suggested Dand, his eye fascinated by the\n'muckle mouth,' 'or belike in an ower great haste ye lifted the first\n\"yowe\" (ewe) ye cam' across?'\n\n''Twas in broad daylight,' retorted Si, catching him a friendly buffet\non the shoulder. 'Ye would ne'er ha' seen your master again had it no'\nbeen for Meg,' and as he helped her down he briefly narrated his\nadventure.\n\n'Aweel,' commented Dand to himself, shaking his head the while, as he\nled the mare to the byre, 'I'm nane so sure but I would ha' juist pit up\nwi' the hangin'.' Then he added aloud, 'The wife will be sair vext when\nshe sees the Scots heifer ye ha' ridden back wi'.'\n\nMeg's good-nature, however, her willingness to help, and her skill in\ncooking soon triumphed over Sall's ill-humour, and peace reigned within\nthe 'but' as supper was being made ready that evening.\n\nAfterwards within the 'ben,' sitting cheek by jowl upon a rough bench\nbeside the peats the Northumbrian bridegroom, and the Scots bride found\nmuch to content them, either with the other, whilst Maud the collie, who\nhad stolen in with them, looked with resentment in her soft brown liquid\neyes upon the strange woman who had so unexpectedly taken her place with\nthe master, and might have been seen to frown when Si redeemed his\npromise of 'plenty mair' to 'Meg' on their ride home to 'the Bower.'\n\n'The Bower,' as Si had christened his dwelling--originally a shepherd's\nsheiling--had recently been enlarged by the addition of the 'ben' and a\nroom above the 'but,' so that the building had the look of a lop-sided,\nrough peel tower.\n\nWith help of his brothers down the water and a mason from Falstone Si\nhad run a dry-stone dyke--strengthened with fir tree trunks--round about\nfor the protection of his sheep and nowt in the event of a foray, and\nwas as pleased with 'the Bower' as Lord William Howard with Naworth.\n'Twas a quaint name enough, for 'the Bower' stood on the true march line\nof the naked Border, and in the very haunt and playground of the winds.\nNot only was it obnoxious to the winds, but equally exposed to raiding\nfrom Scotland, as also to the 'broken men' of 'the Waste,' for it stood\nerect above the Lewis Burn where it flows forth from Hells-bottom on\nthe edge of Coplestone, where the Liddesdale fells join hands with those\nof Cumbrian Bewcastle.\n\nYet Si had prospered, for his 'grayne' befriended him, and as for the\nfierce reivers from Liddesdale, why, he would ride with them so long as\nthey ran their forays into Cumberland or Scotland and not within North\nTyne.\n\nAnd now the 'Hunters' Moon' was up, waxing nightly, and proclaiming to\nall about the Borderland that the customary truce of summer was over,\nand the time of the crowing of the 'Red Cock' was at hand.\n\nDanger, however, came not from Scotland in the first instance, but from\nEngland, as it happened.\n\nThe tale of Si's marriage had soon got wind upon the Border, and proved\noccasion for many a jest and gibe far and wide, and when it came to the\nears of the Land Sergeant of Gilsland he scented opportunity of revenge\nfor a 'lick' on the head he had received in a fray with the Robsons when\nthey drove a foray into South Tyne a few months bygone.\n\n''Tis matter of march treason,' he said, when he heard of Si's means of\nescape from the Hawick halter. 'Whether he be married or no signifieth\nnot, for all intercommuning with the Scots is clean against Border law.\n'Tis a matter for the Lord Warden's court, and a hanging matter at that.\nAy, \"Merry Carlisle\" will fit him fine.'\n\nThus devising his revenge he determined to act at once. Taking two of\nhis men with him he rode up by the edge of 'the Waste' towards\nCoplestone Fell, with intent to capture Si, or, should he evade capture,\nto leave a citation at 'the Bower' for his appearance at the next\nmeeting of the Lord Wardens on account of notorious breakage of the\nBorder law.\n\nBut Si had already been made aware of his enemy's intention, and had\ninstructed Meg how to act in such an emergency, for it might well be\nthat trouble would come when he was out looking after a 'hogging' he had\nof 'blackfaces' that were pasturing above the Forks, where the Lewis\nBurn and Oakenshaw Burn mate. The season of the foray had opened and\nflocks must be guarded by day and night. One afternoon when Si had\nridden down to the Forks to relieve Dand, Meg stood by the 'yett,'\nexpectant of the old shepherd's return, and watchful of enemies. As she\nturned her gaze southward she was suddenly aware of three figures\nclearly tricked out against the grey sky above the further fell: their\nsilhouettes showed like midges dapped against the window by a boy, and\nMeg could see that the centaurs were coming forward on a fair round trot\nin Indian file. She could not distinguish at the distance horse from\nrider, but she could note the pose of the horse's head, and the movement\nagainst the sky-line. 'Three-quarters of an hour,' commented the gazer.\n'Good going on the fell top, evil wi' peat hags, flows, an' gairs\nbelow.'\n\nShe looked eastward, and there saw to her infinite relief old Dand\ncoming slowly up the track on the ancient pony. Then, after having gone\nwithin to make certain preparations, she set out on a brisk step to meet\nDand. Dand had quickened his pace when he too saw the three black\nsilhouettes above, and met his mistress within two yards of the\ndry-stone walling.\n\nA very animated conversation took place between the two, and by the time\nthey reached the door cheeks of 'the Bower' they seemed to have settled\ntheir scheme of strategy satisfactorily, for either turned away from\nother with a wink o' the eye.\n\nThe strange riders had dismounted and walked their horses through the\npeat hags and mosses, but now were up again, and pressing on to the\n'yett.' The foremost rider--the Land Sergeant--knocked heavily on the\ndoor with the butt of his lance and demanded to see 'Robson o' the\nBower i' the name o' my Lord Warden.'\n\n'He's no' within,' cried Meg in return. 'Whatten want ye at him?'\n\nThen she slowly slid back the bar, and, opening the door partly, stood\nin the space thus afforded, her hands upon her hip bones.\n\n'So you're the Scots lass he brought back with him from Hawick,' said\nthe Land Sergeant, after a cool survey of Meg's features. 'Doubtless\nthere was great provocation,' he added with a grin, 'but he broke the\nBorder laws, my lass, and must answer for 't. Intercommuning with the\nScots is absolutely forbidden, and is punishable with death. So, my\nlass, I advise ye to slip away home as fast as Robson's mare or shanks's\nnag will carry ye. Meantime I must search the house for your man, and if\nI cannot find him I'll leave a citation for the Lord Wardens' meeting\nwith ye for Robson.'\n\n'When Si,' retorted Meg very deliberately, 'intercommunes wi' me, as ye\nca' it,' here the 'muckle-mouth' expanded east and west, 'he\nintercommunes wi' me i' Scotland, an' there ye haena ony power ower him\nor me. The Bower is biggit on the verra march line,' she explained, 'an'\nthe ben is ower on the Scots side whaur we intercommune,' and Meg, with\nher arms akimbo and her mouth on the grin, contemplated her enemy in\nscornful triumph.\n\n'Here! take ye this citation,' cried the Land Sergeant in his wrath, for\nhe heard an echo of Meg's laughter proceed from his men behind him,\nhanding the parchment slip to her as he spoke.\n\nMeg, however, instead of taking it, shouted a loud and mysterious\nsummons to assistance. 'Oot an' at 'im; oot an' at 'im, Bargeist! Hoop,\nholla, Bargeist!' then slammed to the door.\n\nA few seconds only elapsed when there came round the corner a strange\nmischancy creature, with loose hide and hanging horns, long tail and\nclattering hoofs. Scrambling very swiftly forward it shook its shaggy\nhead in an angry roar, and edged its horns sharply against the Land\nSergeant's nearest man.\n\n'Come awa, Sergeant; come awa,' cried the fellow in terror. ''Tis the\nBargeist, the Bargeist! Ye can fight against thae devils if ye like, but\nI'll no',' and therewith clapping in his spurs he turned his horse's\nhead and fled down the path without ever a glance behind him.\n\nHis fellow--a trifle braver--stood his ground a few seconds longer, but\nwhen his horse caught sight of the fearsome threatening horns beneath\nhis belly he shied violently, then bolted after his companion.\n\nAt this moment out came Meg with a glowing poker.\n\n'This wull shift ye, if the Bargeist disna,' she cried, as she lunged at\nthe Land Sergeant's mare and caught her fair upon the near buttock.\n\nWith a muffled skreigh the mare leapt forward, seized the bit 'twixt her\nteeth, and _ventre a terre_ pursued the others in spite of her rider's\nremonstrances.\n\nSome half a mile away the three men succeeded in pulling up their\nhorses, and debated with some heat what had best be done. The Land\nSergeant was for going back to the Bower to search for Robson, but his\ntwo men were for going home with all speed. As they were hotly debating\nthis the Land Sergeant descried a solitary horseman coming up the track\nfrom the eastward, and a sudden light gleamed in his eye.\n\n'Hi!' he cried sharply. 'Here's \"Wudspurs\" for a ducat! Take cover, and,\nwhen I whistle, on to him like a brock!'\n\n'Twas Si himself that was riding gaily up the water, for he had disposed\nof his 'hogging' to a grazier from Hexham at a good price, and was now\nbethinking him whence he had best re-stock his farm--whether from\nCumberland or Scotland.\n\nHe was just fixing upon Cumberland when a sharp whistle smote on his\near, and three figures rising forth of some brackens were instantly upon\nhim. The foremost figure was afoot, with dag in his hand ready\npresented; the other two were mounting their horses, their lances in\ntheir hands. Si's mind cleared in a flash. Shouting aloud, 'Dand! to me!\nHelp!' he charged the footman fiercely. 'Pouff!' said the dag feebly,\nand a bullet grazed the horse's withers. The horse, rearing up, struck\nout and caught the fellow on the forehead with his iron-shod hoof,\ndriving him to earth, where Si pierced him through with his lance. The\nother two men now circled warily round him--the one barring escape\neastward, the other keeping him from his home. Either was 'waiting on'\nlike a hawk before a favouring chance. But now two further figures\nappeared upon the scene. Dand with a whinger and Meg with her glowing\nbrand came speeding to their master's rescue. The Land Sergeant and his\nman bore down upon Si with lances levelled in haste, hoping to dispatch\nhim out of hand.\n\nSi wheeled and turned his horse so swiftly that he surprised his nearest\nfoe, and 'instantly stooped' upon him. He caught him, turned half\nabout, and ran him through the hip, and dragged him from his saddle. But\nhis lance's head was twisted, he could not free it, and the Land\nSergeant bore down on him with gleaming spear. Just as Si thought he was\ntransfixed something interposed, a sigh or groan was heard; then Si was\non the ground, kneeling beside his wife whose life-blood a spear head\nwas drinking.\n\n'Oh, Meg,' he cried; 'my Meg! Twice ye ha' saved my life, and now I\ncanna save yours,' and he supported his wife in his arms with infinite\ntenderness. Meg lay quietly against his bosom, her eyes fixed upon his,\nthen she murmured softly with 'ane little laughter,' 'Kiss me good-bye,\nSi, an'--on the \"muckle moo.\"' Even as their lips met a mist stole\ngently over Meg's eyes, and she saw Si no more.\n\n[Footnote 1: Provost is really an anachronism, Hawick having been content\nwith Bailies till the nineteenth century.]\n\n[Footnote 2: Tery, an inhabitant of Hawick, derived from their slogan\n'Teribus and Tery Odin.']\n\n[Footnote 3: Hawick hospitality and 'Hawick gills' are proverbial: any\none who has been fortunate, like the author, in having been a guest at\nthe Common Riding will have realised this.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE PRIOR OF TYNEMOUTH\n\n\nPrior Olaf stood on the central merlon of the gate tower that protected\nthe little cell of Tynemouth from assault on the landward side, and\ngazed intently over the sea below him to the eastward haze wherein he\nfeared to descry the red-brown sails of the serpent ships.\n\nHe was himself by birth a Dane: had even in his ardent youth been a\nfollower of the Raven sign and the banner of the Landwaster, but having\nbeen wounded and left behind in a raid into England had been nursed by\nmonks, and eventually had taken the robe and cowl.\n\nThe wind had been continuously for a week in the eastern airt, and a\nraid from his heathen fellow-countrymen seemed inevitable, since\nProvidence appeared to be tempting them with opportunity.\n\nThe good Prior could discern nothing alarming, yet he had a foreboding\nthat even now the heathen were approaching on the favouring wind, and\nwould thunder on the gate that very day.\n\nDescending, he proceeded slowly to the chapel built by Oswald--saint\nand king--in honour of the mother of our Lord, and there before the\nshrine of Saint Oswyn prostrated himself in prayer. Long and earnestly\nhe prayed, for it seemed to the Prior that the test of his acceptance\nwas to be found in the continued absence of the Danes. The sin that he\nhad committed in his youth had, he trusted, been washed away by his\nfastings and mortifications. In that event surely his prayers to the\nVirgin, Saint Cuthbert, and Saint Oswyn, would prevail, and the Danes\nwould come not with fire and sword against his beloved cell.\n\nThe Prior's heart glowed in hope renewed.\n\n'_Sursum corda_,' he murmured, then recommenced his litany.\n\n'_De Saevitia Teutonorum qui veniunt in pandis myoparonibus, libera nos,\nDomine!_'\n\nScarce had he finished, when a startled brother approached rapidly\na-tiptoe and touched the Prior gently on the shoulder.\n\n'They come, Holy Prior! They come! the cruel heathen can be seen swiftly\napproaching in their long ships.'\n\nPrior Olaf turned ashen pale. He could not prevent a groan escaping him,\nfor now he knew that his penances had not yet proved effectual.\n\n'_Mea culpa, mea culpa_,' he murmured wearily, then as he rose up with\npale cheek a gleam of fire lit in his eye, for he would die rather than\npermit Saint Oswyn's shrine to be pillaged by the heathen. He called for\nthe sub-Prior and entrusted the defence to him.\n\nThe cell was splendidly situated, being protected on the three\nsides--east, north, and west--by moat, steep cliffs, and the immediate\nsea.\n\nTo the south or land side a strong wall with gate tower, furnished with\nparapet and brettices for casting down of stones and melted lead, stood\nsentinel and protector.\n\nThe sub-Prior--the light of battle in his eye--gave orders to his\naffrighted flock, and bade the _Conversi_ (lay brethren) heat the lead\nand carry up big stones to the brettices, where he himself took command.\nThereupon he looked down upon the serpent ships sailing into the mouth\nof the Tyne, and on the sands below discharging their freight of\nlong-haired men with bucklers, swords, and torches in their hands.\n\nIn a plump they swarmed up the cliffs and advanced--led by a young chief\nknown to his followers as Eric the Red--to the monastery gate.\n\nThere Eric demanded instant admittance for his men, the surrender of all\ntreasure, sacred and profane, as well as of food and stores.\n\nThis the sub-Prior proudly refusing in honour of the Virgin, Saint\nCuthbert, and Saint Oswyn, a flight of arrows hissed over the parapet,\ntorches were lit and flung against the gate; the fight became general.\n\nThe sub-Prior had prepared a quantity of heavy stones upon the brettices\nwhich he designed to use in the last resort, and now when the gate was\nbeginning to burn he bade his men be ready with their levers.\n\n'_Down with the gate!_' cried Red Eric triumphantly. 'Down with it! See,\nit burns!' and as he shouted he led his followers on with a rush. Like a\nswarm of bees they clustered about their leader, and clambered up on\neach other's shoulders. Fire was afoot below; battle-axes crashed above.\n\n'Now!' cried the sub-Prior, as he thrust his lever home, and each man\nupon the brettices echoed 'Now,' and thrust the lever home at the word.\n\nThe stones crashed down; the heaviest of all caught Eric himself and\ndrove him to the ground, where he lay unconscious, his ribs driven deep\ninto his lungs.\n\n'Open the gate and drag their leader in!' cried the sub-Prior\ntriumphantly from above to his servants below.\n\nObeying, they rushed forth upon the astounded Danes, seized the dying\nchief, and bore him swiftly within the gate tower.\n\nThe attackers, disconcerted by this sudden sortie, and disheartened by\nthe loss of their chief, withdrew from the wall, and shortly desisted\nfrom their assault, for the English saints, they muttered to themselves,\nwere this day evidently fighting on behalf of their priests; 'twere\nwiser to meddle no further with them this day.\n\nDispersing, therefore, they ravaged the hamlet of Shields and forayed\nthe country for cattle, then before the sun's setting embarked upon\ntheir long ships, and sailed southward along the coast.\n\nMeantime the sub-Prior in the moment of his triumph had looked\nexultingly upon his enemy, then more compassionately as became a\nChristian monk, and drew near as if to ease his suffering.\n\nBut the young Dane was already dead.\n\nAs he bent over the corpse the Prior himself approached, for he trusted\nto learn that in answer to his renewed prayers the Danes had been driven\noff.\n\n'We ha' prevailed,' cried the sub-Prior triumphantly; 'see, their\nleader, whom they called \"Eric the Red,\" will trouble us no more. _Laus\nDeo et omnibus Sanctis!_'\n\n'Eric!' echoed the Prior, as he stooped towards the young Dane lying\ndead below him. 'Eric!' Then as he gazed he reeled backward, and only\nescaped falling by reaching forth his hand to the wall.\n\nLeaning back in the shadow of the gate-house he pressed his hand to his\nheart and shrouded his face from oversight within his cowl.\n\nThen slowly recovering self-possession he gave orders that the young man\nshould be buried without the cemetery garth, and walked with unsteady\nfootstep towards the chapel.\n\n'Our saintly Prior,' said Brother Boniface, with awe, as he watched his\nSuperior's tall, bowed figure enter within the chapel, 'even in his\nmoment of triumph thinks of Heaven. He has gone to render thanks for the\ndeath of this savage, red-haired Dane.'\n\nSongs of thanksgiving were uplifted that night at Compline in the choir.\n'Te Deum' was especially chanted with inspired ardour in honour of\nvictory.\n\n'Look!' whispered the simple-hearted, tawny-faced, tousled-haired\nBrother Boniface to his neighbour, a sharp-eyed Anglian Brother, the\nartist and illuminator of the little community, 'Look upon the ascetic,\nsaintly face of our beloved Prior! what joy must be his in that his\nprayers prevailed this day!'\n\n'Thou jolter-head!' muttered the Anglian to himself; then with a jog to\nBoniface's ribs, 'Didst not mark the exact resemblance'--here he\ndelineated a contour with swift movement of finger--''twixt Red Eric and\nour Prior?' Then to himself again he muttered, 'I doubt he is not long\nfor this world, since I met his wraith as I entered into the choir.'\n\nBut Boniface heeded not his words: his eyes were still fixed upon his\nbeloved Prior, who moved not, though the rest of the monks having sung\nthe '_Deo Patri sit gloria_' were leaving the choir.\n\nBoniface moved a-tiptoe and touched his Superior reverently on the\nshoulder. 'Beloved Prior,' he said, 'thou art outworn with the care of\nthy community. Arise and seek repose.'\n\nHe touched the Prior's hand, then started back, for it was quite cold;\nthe Prior had already sought and gained eternal repose.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HAUNTED ALE-HOUSE\n\n\n'_An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth_,' so Donald Macgregor\nmuttered to himself as he strode cautiously down the water of Coquet,\nhalting at the many crooks of that wayward water to spy out the land as\nhe went forward.\n\nHe had already good suspicions of where his quarry was harboured, for he\nhad seen and interviewed drovers who had returned from the great\nStagshawbank Fair, and had gleaned certain information of his\nfoster-brother Alastair.\n\nBut more than this he had to direct his feet; there was in his ears the\necho of Alastair's pibroch--the _piobaireachd_--which he was to hear\nwhenever the Laird would be in trouble or wanting him.\n\nOnward the _piobaireachd_ led him--down the water of amber-coloured\nCoquet--and now round the last crook he had just turned he saw a\nbuilding of dark grey stone upon the edge of the haugh below him.\n\nHe halted at once, retraced his steps, and hid himself in the bracken,\nfor he knew from the descriptions given him that the Slyme ale-house lay\nthere below him--the last place on the English border at which Alastair\nhad been seen or heard of. The Slyme ale-house had an ill repute, and\nwas said to be haunted moreover; none would lie there the night who had\nanything to lose--'twas the haunt of kites and 'corbie craws.' As he\nwatched and waited there stole down from the fells above him 'oncome' of\nmist or 'haar' from the eastward, which soon drew a plaid of hodden grey\nabove the shoulder of Shillmoor. On the lower level a ray of white light\nstill showed like the gleam of a malevolent eye behind a mask.\n\nMeantime a cold mist came stealing up the valley. The eerie lonely\naspect of all about him made Donald shiver and earnestly debate his\nintention.\n\nSpying about, he saw an outcrop of rock some two hundred yards further\nalong the fell side. Thither he crawled like a rogue collie, and watched\ntherefrom, keen-eyed as a kestrel, the ale-house below.\n\nHe had some strips of meat with him and oatmeal in a bag, and with this\nhe satisfied his hunger as he lay at watch. All the while the\n_piobaireachd_ was still sounding in his ears.\n\nThrough the mist he could see two cows 'coming home' on the haugh below\nslowly and sedately to their milking.\n\nNow three figures emerged from the inn; a tall, thin man came first--a\ncollie at his heels--that was at once sent off to round up a hirsel of\newes on the hill.\n\nA woman followed, calling 'guss-guss' to the pig routing on the bank;\nfinally a third figure--short, misshapen--a hunchback, as the watcher\nnoted, who called 'coop-coop' to a rough pony cropping grass in the\nintake beyond the inn.\n\nShortly this gear was rounded up and driven into the walled enclosure--a\nhalf pound attached to the western end of the buildings.\n\nThe three figures followed their stock within, and the watcher surmising\nthat all were housed for the night cautiously made his way down the\nslope, but on a sudden all three reappeared, and the watcher dropped\nlike a shot rabbit straight into a bed of thistles and nettles, fearful\nof discovery.\n\nIt seemed that they were about to secure themselves and their flocks\nagainst evil by way of charm and spell, for round about the ale-house\nthey bent their steps--the way of the sun--brandishing rowan boughs and\nchanting a fragment of ancient rhyme:\n\n    '_By the rowan's power--\n    By the thorn's might\n    Safe i' the bower\n    Be all our insight!_'\n\nHaving perambulated round their buildings and wall three successive\ntimes they disappeared within, and the watcher heard to his\ngratification the sound of bolt and bar being pushed home.\n\nThe solitary watcher smiled to himself--the secret smile of the\nHighlander who has grasped the situation and knows how to make profit\nthereof unknown to others.\n\nThe tall, thin man was the innkeeper--evidently a timorous fellow; the\nhunchback was his 'man'--malevolent probably, the doer of the other's\ndark behests; whilst the woman was presumably his wife, the cook and\nhousekeeper of the ale-house.\n\nWell, while they slept he would investigate and complete his plans for\nthe early morn at the time when all three would reappear and drive forth\ntheir flocks again.\n\nThere was a small haystack at the west end of the inn, which Donald\nmarked out as his resting-place for the night. Thither he made his\ncautious way--the _piobaireachd_ sounding ever more clearly in his ears.\n\nWhen he reached the haystack the melody seemed to be intensified; then\nsuddenly he heard it no more.\n\nHa! a flash of inspiration shook him. This must be the very spot where\nAlastair was done to death--perhaps even buried here. He looked about\nhim and noted that the wind was freshening and the mist was scurrying in\ndense clouds above as if it might lift, and then the moon might light\nhim to further discovery.\n\nThus reflecting he sat down behind the stack, and waited patiently for\nthe moon to rise and shine above the mist.\n\nAn hour passed, then a faint glimmer showed in the east above\nShillmoor's edge.\n\nHe stood up and peeped round the stack; he could distinguish the rounded\nmoon--nearly at the full--beating with white wings like an owl through\nthe tangled mist.\n\nIn another quarter of an hour he could see sufficiently well to commence\ninvestigation. He noted as he searched the ground about him that quite\nrecently the earth had been disturbed just beyond the verge of the\nhaystack. A space had evidently been roughly dug over--a space that\nseemed the size of a grave.\n\nHereupon he sought for some instrument wherewith to make further\ninvestigation, and by good luck soon hit upon an old, broken-shafted\nspade that lay in a small potato croft adjoining. With this he set to\nwork to howk the turf away, and found it light to work, for it had been\nloosely shovelled in, and came away with ease. Working incessantly, at\nfour feet below the excavated turf, he saw an object lying loose, which\nhe seized in excited, trembling hands, and surveyed in the moonlight.\nAy, it was Alastair's bonnet, for there was the blackcock's tail\nfeathers which Alastair had always proudly worn in right of his birth.\nStained with blood--the bonnet itself cloven in twain with a blow from\nhatchet or axe. 'My bonny Alastair!' he groaned aloud. 'Dear laddie!\nBut, by Gott--ye'll be avenged fine the morn's morning!' Reverently he\nwent on with his howking, and soon Alastair's pale face showed in the\nmoonlight, stained with soil, and bloody under the gash above his\nforehead.\n\nDonald kneeled down in the grave and kissed like a lover his\nfoster-brother on the brow.\n\nThen pondering awhile he muttered brokenly, 'I'll hap ye in again,\nAlastair, beloved; when I've a sign to bury wi' ye that will prove to ye\nmy troth.'\n\nSo saying he sat down beside the grave and cleaned Alastair's bonnet,\nthen placed it on his own head in token of his vow, and waited for the\ndawn and his revenge.\n\nHe did not sleep, but thought again of the past: how he had had the care\nof the young fatherless Laird, had learned him to stalk the red deer and\ndraw salmon from the river; how Alastair had even outstripped his\nteacher, and how each after Culloden's fight had saved the other's life.\nThen, finally, how he had counselled Alastair to turn drover with him\ntill the 'Redcoats' should depart, as the best method to avoid capture,\nand how constantly Alastair's high spirits led them into danger. And now\nit was all over--all over save the final duty to his brother. As he thus\nmeditated long and deeply the hours went swiftly by, and it was with a\nsudden shock that he heard the bolts and bars being withdrawn on the\nfurther side of the inn. Instantly he sprang to his feet, prepared for\naction. He left his sword ready in the scabbard, and his dag primed for\nuse. Then he stole round the corner, and there saw the tall man and the\nhunchback before him.\n\n''Tis his wraith!' cried the tall man, noticing the bonnet, and swung\nback in his terror, as he tried to cross himself by way of charm.\n\n'I tell't ye,' quoth the hunchback unperturbed, 'that we should ha'\ndriven a stake through his inside to prevent him from walkin' this\ngate.'\n\n'Whisht ye, haud your damned whisht!' cried the other in a fury, his\nknees shaking in terror. Then turning servilely towards Donald, whom he\nnow perceived to be a stranger, 'Ye are welcome, sir, to any ale or\nRhenish my poor inn affords, for ye will be a Highland grazier--yen of\nour best customers,' he ended in an attempt at a bow.\n\n'Draw and defend your nainsel',' was Donald's reply.\n\nThe tall man laid his hand to his whinger at his side, and shouted to\nhis 'man,' 'Draw, Jarret, and knife this murdering Scots villain.'\n\nThe hunchback, nothing loath, produced an evil-looking jockteleg, and\nhastened to his master's assistance.\n\n'Knife him i' the back,' cried the former, 'whiles I haud him i' play i'\nfront.'\n\nThe hunchback was so furious in his attack, which he pressed right home\nwithin Donald's guard, that Donald was unable to ward off the tall man\nin front of him.\n\nThen just as the innkeeper had Donald at his mercy, and was in the very\nact of striking home, his arm was suddenly paralysed, a spasm of terror\nshook him through and through, his eyes glazed over. '_There's twa o'\nthem_,' he muttered, and instead of striking he shrank his hand back as\nif to ward off a new assailant, and Donald had a momentary vision of his\nbrother by his side. The innkeeper made a pass, then his whinger\ndropped; he turned to flee, tripped and fell upon his face, and lay\nmotionless--his whinger by his side. At this the hunchback broke into\nrage, 'Ye're no worth fightin' for,' he cried in his fury, gave a kick\nat his fallen master, and fled to the inn door.\n\nDonald fired his dag at his retreating foe, winged him in the shoulder,\nand hastened his retreat, but failed to bring him down. The door was\nslammed to, the bolt was shot. The hunchback had gained his city of\nrefuge.\n\nAll was quiet; Donald was victorious; he looked upon the fallen\ninnkeeper, turned him over, and saw that his eyes were fixed in death.\n\n'Ye hae helped fine to your ain vengeance, Alastair,' he said quietly,\nas he picked up the fallen whinger. 'Ye niver failed me yet; and I haena\nfailed ye.'\n\nThen Donald carried the whinger with him and went back to the graveside,\nstill open to the sky.\n\n'I ha' paid the debt, Alastair,' said Donald, taking off his bonnet and\nlaying the whinger in the grave as proof of his fealty, 'and it is\nfarewell, my brother.'\n\nKneeling down he reverently happed him in afresh, then rising with a\nheart contented, whistled triumphant as a pibroch, and took the airt of\nScotland by way of Cocklawfoot, murmuring to himself, '_an eye for an\neye, and a tooth for a tooth_.'\n\n\n\n\nTHE CRY OF THE PEACOCK\n\n\n'Damn the dice!' cried the elder of the two players, in a spasm of rage;\n'damn my ill-luck--damn everything!' and as he shouted his imprecations\nhe regarded his opponent askance, as if including him in his\nmalediction.\n\n''Twas a thousand to one against you throwing two sixes,' he cried. Then\nhe flung his marker on the floor, pushed back his chair, and rising,\nwalked moodily to the chimney-piece and gazed despairingly into the\nfire, for his estate had vanished--his last two farms had been lost to\nthe 'double six.' Not only had he lost his estate, but he was hopelessly\nindebted to his companion for many an I.O.U. and bill beyond his\nmortgage. He might be made bankrupt at any moment.\n\nThe other kept silence a few moments before he said anything. A gleam of\ntriumph and delight had shown for a second in his eye, but outwardly he\nwas as cool as ever.\n\n''Tis a strange thing,' he said soothingly; 'I too have had my turn of\nill-luck before this. I remember well one evening at Oxford years ago\nwhen I played high stakes with Lord Cantrip and others at \"The House.\"\nHadn't a stiver left one night, but I pawned my grandfather's Louis xiv.\nwatch for the next evening's play. Luck turned, and I had my revenge.\nHad it not been for that last heirloom I should have enlisted, and\nprobably have met my fate at Badajoz.'\n\nThe speaker was a powerfully built man of thirty-five years of age; he\nwas broad rather than tall, underbred, coarse in complexion, and his\njaw, well developed, seemed to indicate will power.\n\nHis companion was forty years of age, had a high, well-bred carriage,\nand a sensitive face that showed charm rather than strength.\n\nHe made no reply to the other's sympathy or suggestion, but continued to\ngaze moodily into the dying log fire on the hearth, and on the\nsmoke-begrimed Sussex 'back' which exhibited the 'Flight into Egypt.'\n\nHe groaned within himself; he too would have to make his 'flight into\nEgypt,' There was nothing left in the dear old beloved manor house that\nwould furnish sufficient capital for another gamble.\n\n'The last family heirloom,' he said finally, 'departed in my father's\ntime. The manor goes in mine.'\n\nThere was a space of silence. Then the elder threw out a fresh\nsuggestion.\n\n'There's maybe something ye've left out of your calculation,' he said\nsuggestively, 'something that some might put as high as the estate\nitself.'\n\n'What d' ye mean?' inquired the other, turning about so as fully to see\nthe other's face.\n\n'Well, as 'twixt friends and neighbours I'll speak out fairly,'\nresponded the man at the green table, 'and as I'm your guest you'll\nunderstand I'm perfectly straight in my proposition. The long and short\no't then is that I'm settled in this new place of mine next yours; that\nit is time for me to \"range myself,\" and that if you'll give me your\ndaughter's hand--give me leave, that is, to propose for her hand in\nmarriage, and she does me the honour of accepting--well then, I'll\nsettle your manor, or what's left of it, on her and her heirs for ever.\nMake a dower-house of it, in fact. And more than this, I'll burn all\nyour I.O.U.'s in addition. You'll be a free man once again.'\n\nHis host started violently, gave a sudden haughty and contemptuous look\nat the speaker, made as if he would speak, then turned swiftly back to\nthe fire again.\n\nHe had a fierce desire to kick this vile newcomer--this Mosenthal, 'the\nforeigner,' or 'ootner'--the son of a rich Jewish Manchester\ntradesman--out of the house, but the fellow was his guest, and he\nchecked himself. Above all, he dreaded public bankruptcy; he, the last\nmale descendant of the proud race of Heronsbeck.\n\n'Think it over,' said the other quietly. 'I think 'tis a fair\noffer--free to take or free to drop.'\n\nStill his host made no reply. The other after a little pause proceeded\nwith his tempting proposals. He had reached out his hand for the\ndice-box on the table; he took it up and rattled the dice in the box as\nif to throw on to the table.\n\n'Come,' he cried vivaciously. 'Have a throw! Let luck decide. I'll back\nyour throw against mine. A hundred pounds to a penny.'\n\nHe rattled the dice noisily, and cast them on the table, still holding\nthe box tight over the ivory cubes.\n\nThe tempter prevailed; he had re-aroused the gambling fever in his host,\nwho now advanced to the table and looked irresolutely on the upturned\nbox.\n\n'Done!' he cried suddenly. The other's fist lifted up; the cubes\nnestled close together showing dots two and one.\n\n'Luck's turned,' said his guest philosophically, as he laid down the\nnotes.\n\nThe other flung the dice swiftly on to the green board; the cubes rolled\napart, then as they settled they showed six and five.\n\nA spark of momentary fire flickered in the gambler's eye; he picked up\nthe notes; then the frown came back to his brow; he shivered, looked at\nthe clock, then, 'It's damned late,' he said, 'and if you don't want any\nmore to drink we'd better go to bed.'\n\nSo saying Heronsbeck of Heronsbeck lit a candle for his guest, showed\nhim to his chamber, then went gloomily to his own.\n\nThere was no sleep, however, for him that night, for he dreaded the\nmorning and the astounded look of his darling Lily--his only child--when\nhe had to tell her of Mosenthal's proposal.\n\n'Of course she won't do it--she couldn't. There'll be no harm done, for\nshe'd as soon accept a Hottentot as a rich Jew.' So her father reflected\naloud.\n\nBut she wouldn't like it. He hated to think of her expression when he\nconveyed Mosenthal's offer to her.\n\nThe Jew's notes positively burned in his fingers as he had laid them\ndown on his dressing-table; the fellow's offer was extraordinarily\ntempting. Ah, welladay! This was the end, then, of Heronsbeck Hall,\nwhich he prized above every earthly possession after his daughter. His\nfather had lost the half of it over cards; now he himself had thrown\naway the rest in like manner. There was the grouse moor; he counted up\nthe 'amenities' as he lay in bed, even as a lover enumerates the charms\nof his mistress.\n\nThe wine-dark moorland--how he loved it! And the great days in autumn\nafter grouse and blackcock. Then the fishing in the beck for trout as a\nboy, and the call of the sounding 'forces.' Then the huntings afoot on\nthe high fells, and the reckless gallops on the haughs below. No wonder\nhe loved it, for he and his forefathers were part and parcel of the\nland. They had been there and owned it since the days of the Testa de\nNevil. He was 'hefted' to it, as the farmers said of their stock.\n\nWell, all was now over. The 'lament' must sound over Heronsbeck.\nMosenthal must take the estate; he himself would take Lily abroad and\nlive forgotten, for he had rejected Mosenthal's proposal now,\nabsolutely.\n\nJust at this decisive moment he distinctly heard the cry of a peacock\nsound--weird and discordant--without.\n\n'The peacock's cry!' It was as the wail of the banshee in his ear.\n\nPeacocks had long since disappeared from the Hall, yet their fateful\ncry, which had sounded through the night of the strange death of his\nancestor who first brought them there, had been wonderfully allied with\nthe fortunes of his house.\n\nHe accepted the omen.\n\nRising up with the first gleam of dawn, he went out into the park.\n\nHe determined to appraise and make an inventory of all that remained on\nthe place that he could call his own still and sell. There was some\ntimber left. Then all the stock on the home farm would be disposed of.\nAs he endeavoured to 'tot' this up he noticed a figure swinging along\nacross the park at a great pace. Was a stranger already fearless about\ntrespass?\n\nTurning away from the approaching intruder, he commenced his calculation\nafresh. Suddenly a voice hailed him joyfully.\n\n'Back again! Back again, Pater, at long last! Yes, the rolling stone has\ngathered some moss after all--honourably, if luckily, come by. So here I\nam, Pater, like the Prodigal--to crave forgiveness, and--to repay you my\ndebts.'\n\nHeronsbeck turned and stared upon the speaker. 'Joe!' he cried faintly,\nbut with Joe, his only son, he had quarrelled. Joe had vanished on the\nKlondyke in a blizzard. This must be his ghost.\n\n'Come, Dad!' called the beloved figure in front of him beseechingly.\n\n'My boy, my boy!' cried his father, pressing his son to his bosom.\n'Thank God for ye, my boy, my boy! But how can it be that you're alive?'\nhe asked apprehensively, as though fearing his son might vanish again\nfrom his eyes.\n\n'A good Samaritan--this time disguised as a Jesuit Father, rescued me.\nThen I saved a pal myself eventually, who died of fever and left me all\nhis pile.'\n\n'Yet I heard the peacock cry this morning,' muttered Heronsbeck to\nhimself, still apprehensive of misfortune.\n\n'And did you also, Pater, hear the peacock shouting?' asked his son in\nastonishment.\n\n'Why, as I came over the fell by the Hanging Stone at break o' day--just\nabove the young larch plantation where we had the record woodcock\nshoot--I heard his rasping cry.\n\n\"Hallo!\" I called back to him. \"Hallo, old bugler! You've got it all\nwrong this time. 'Tis not 'The Last Post,' but 'Reveille' that you must\nsound over Heronsbeck Hall this day.\"'\n\n\n\n\nKITTY'S BOWER\n\n\nWhen Eric Chesters of Chesters Castle married Miss Brocklebridge--the\nbold and handsome heiress of Sir William, ironmaster, baronet, and\nexpectant baron, all the world and his wife clapped hands and cried 'an\nideal arrangement,' and foretold long years of success and happiness for\nthe happy pair.\n\nAt the club after the wedding the 'best man,' however, set forth a\ndifferent view of the matter.\n\n'Of course on paper it's ideal,' he said; 'Sir William is of the order\nof Melchisedec--having neither father nor mother, while Eric's pedigree\nis the joy of the Heralds' College. Edith's money will pay off the\nmortgages on Chesters Castle, no doubt, but, as Stevenson shrewdly said,\n\"_The Bohemian must not marry the Puritan._\" Now Eric is not naturally a\nmarrying man; he yielded to his aged mother's solicitations and the\nwell-developed charms and black eyes of his wife. She sighs for a\ncareer, and thinks Chesters Castle a fine foundation for it, but her\ncrest is a ladder; Eric's is a pierrot. In short, she is an Alpine\nclimber, and Eric a charming Prince Florizel of Bohemia. I give them a\nyear in which to find each other out--_apres cela le deluge_.'\n\nThe 'best man' proved right in his casting of their horoscope, for a\nprolonged honeymoon spent in going round the world revealed a rift in\nthe lute which a season in town developed into an undoubted crack.\n\nThus, when Mrs. Chesters pressed on her husband the desirability of\nentering Parliament, he protested that he had only seven skins; and when\nshe wished to pay a round of visits to distinguished people he\nmaintained that they ought to reside at Chesters Castle for a while.\n\nShe yielded, but her husband's castle completed her disillusion. She had\nthought of it as a social _point d'appui_--she found it in her own words\n'a gloomy shooting barrack.'\n\nBut her husband loved it, and rejoiced in the opportunity of renewing\nhis youth with the salmon-fishing, the grouse and blackcock driving, and\nthe great days of hunting on the wide moorlands of the Border, over\nwhich his ancestors in bygone centuries had ridden day and night on raid\nand foray. Mrs. Chesters could ride, had enjoyed the social advantages\nof the Quorn and Pytchley, but she hated what she called disdainfully,\n'bogtrotting with Picts and Scots.'\n\nShe had not yet become indifferent to her husband, but she was terribly\ndisappointed with his total lack of ambition.\n\nNow that the salmon-fishing was over and the covers shot, she pined for\ntown, but her husband begged for a few more weeks of hunting first.\n\nWhat joy could he find in the long days out on the barren fells? She\nrealised that he had become indifferent to her, though his charm of\nmanner to herself was externally the same.\n\nShe grew suspicious, if not jealous. Then one day an anonymous letter\ncame to her--signed 'Your Well-Wisher,' which corroborated her own\nuneasy thoughts--suggesting coarsely that her husband was chasing a\n_vixen_--not a fox.\n\nNo name was actually mentioned, but Mrs. Chesters realised at once who\n'the woman' was.\n\nShe remembered noticing a young girl at an early meet held at the\ncastle, who had attracted her attention by her air of breeding, beauty,\nand faultless seat on her mare. She had learnt that the girl was the\ndaughter of an old yeoman farmer who lived on his farm, quaintly called\n'The Bower,' far outbye on the moorland beside the Blackburn Lynn.\n\nShe had mentioned the matter to her husband, and asked him where the\ngirl had acquired her good looks and her breeding. He had replied--and\nshe thought now--with a slight uneasiness of manner, that Miss Todd came\nof a 'grayne' that had lived on the Border before ever the Normans came\ninto the land, that by intermarrying with a few other ancient yeomen\nfamilies a distinct and natural aristocratic type had resulted. 'Clean\nliving, fresh air, and as much hunting as possible,' have all assisted.\nNature also has assimilated the lines of her children's faces to the\nclassical lines wind-chiselled of her great fells. Their oval faces,\nblue eyes, fair hair, and clean-chiselled features are her endowment.\n\n'The Todds,' he had concluded with a laugh, 'have a tradition that they\ndescend from Eylaf--one of the bodyguard of St. Cuthbert and his\ncoffin--who, in a time of famine stole a cheese, and was for a time\nturned into a tod. The tod, or fox, is their totem, and him they\ndiligently pursue.'\n\nAll that he had said then came back now with special meaning. Mrs.\nChesters pondered deeply as to how she had best act in this\nconjuncture, and had not yet determined, when on the next afternoon she\noverheard a scrap of conversation as she was passing beside the stables.\n\nShe heard the head groom call to the stable lad to saddle a second horse\nand ride out to meet the Master on his way home from hunting that\nafternoon.\n\n'Which way will I take?' asked the lad in reply.\n\n'The Master rode the airt o' Ladiesdale,' the head groom had replied,\nfor he was somewhat of a wag. _Ladiesdale_ for Liddesdale! Mrs. Chesters\nfled; her cheek was burning, but her mind was made up.\n\nShe got out maps and discovered where 'The Bower'--ominous name--lay,\nand what tracks led thereto. Thither she would ride on the next hunting\nday and confront the girl, settle the matter with her husband, and put\nan end to his shameful intrigue at once.\n\nShe had not very long to wait, for in the week after the Meet was\nadvertised at the Craig, which was, she knew, some few miles west of The\nBower, overlooking the Black Burn.\n\nEarly in the afternoon she rode out 'to meet her husband,' as she told\nthe groom, when she mounted, but in reality to catch him, if she could,\nwith the girl on his way back with her to her home.\n\nShe mounted up the fell to the southward on whose crest the track showed\nlike a wisp of hay left by the reaper. Gaining the top she paused and\nlooked athwart the mighty view outstretched before her. To her husband\nshe knew it was as Swinburne's 'great glad land that knows not bourne\nnor bound,' but to herself it was a desert.\n\nBelow her the barren moorlands spread away--'harvestless as ocean'--till\nthey met the whitelands of the further fells, where wandering sheep\nsought their living. On the sky's verge ran the line of Rome's great\nbarrier of wall. This seemed to increase the sense of infinity already\ngiven by the landscape, for the mighty wall was now but a wreck upon\nTime's shore.\n\nIn the mid way 'twixt moor and whiteland lay The Bower. Mrs. Chesters\nrode on down towards the farmhouse, where it stood eminent upon a knoll\nbeyond the burn, covered with ivy, and sheltered by ash trees from the\nblasts of the west wind.\n\nShe had marked a clump of rowans and geans a hundred yards or so from\nthe burn where she determined to stop her horse and reconnoitre before\ngoing up to the farm itself.\n\nConcealing herself as best she could within the small copse she noticed\nthat the track descended to where usually a ford was discoverable. She\ncould note horses' hoofs on the bank top, but the cart road to the farm\nran on the farther side of the burn, winding in and out of the rolling\npasture. To the right hand fifty yards away, a light wooden bridge with\nhand-rail leapt from rock to rock above the foaming water.\n\nBoiling amidst the rocky chasm it poured an amber flood across the ford\nbelow.\n\nA bold rider might have perhaps leaped his horse across; that might\npossibly have been safer than to walk a horse through where a stumble\nmight mean doom to both.\n\nNo, Mrs. Chesters decided; if she went up to the farm she would have to\ndismount and walk across the little bridge. As she reflected thus the\nfarm door opened, and a young girl came out and gazed steadily to the\nwest as though expecting some visitor. Then she moved onward, and came\nslowly down towards the ford.\n\nMrs. Chesters crouched lower upon her horse's shoulder, waited till the\nmaiden had reached the water's edge, then turned her horse and trotted\nswiftly down to battle with her rival across the water.\n\n'And so it's you who dare to set your cap at my husband, Mr. Chesters of\nCastle Chesters, is it? And you're waiting at the ford for his\nreturning, like a sweet, innocent, rustic maiden?'\n\nKitty's cheek had blanched a little when she saw who the rider was, but\nher voice was unshaken as she replied quietly, 'I ne'er set my cap at\nhim, not I. The Todds hae lived and owned land here years before ever a\nChesters came to Chesters Castle.'\n\nMrs. Chesters had scrutinised with harsh eyes every detail of her\nrival's face and figure. Those delicate lines of hip and waist were\nsurely no longer as fine as before. She felt her worst fears were\nrealised. Losing her temper she said roughly:\n\n'You little fool! Don't you know you're making a scandal of yourself up\nand down the whole countryside? Have you no sense of shame?'\n\n'I can fend for myself,' said Kitty quietly, though a touch of colour\nhad showed on her cheeks.\n\n'There's but one way for you to avoid further trouble for every one and\neventual ruin for yourself, and that is, to promise me never to see my\nhusband again.'\n\n'I'll mak nae such promise,' retorted the other hotly. 'Maybe,' she\nadded quietly, '_it's your ain blame that ye canna keep your man at\nhame_.'\n\nMrs. Chesters flamed. She was furious with rage. She struck out with the\nthong of her hunting crop at her rival across the burn, but she was a\nyard or more short of the hateful, delicate form confronting her so\nsteadily.\n\n'Why don't ye ride through the ford?' asked Kitty unabashed, and even\nsmiling. She knew that her rival was afraid and despised her, while Mrs.\nChesters knew that Kitty knew, and hated her all the more therefore. She\nwould have cheerfully given a thousand pounds for one clean cut with the\nwhip across that oval cheek.\n\nAs Mrs. Chesters was trying to choke her wrath down and regain her\nspeech, she saw Kitty's eye turn westward with a swift look of delight.\n\nMrs. Chesters followed the line; she saw a black dot riding down the\n'Slack' of the fell, and guessed instantly it was her husband returning\nto The Bower after hunting.\n\nIn an instant she had made up her mind. Evidently the girl was expecting\nhim to come by the ford. Well, she, Mrs. Chesters would ride out to meet\nhim and intercept him before ever he won thither to his paramour.\n\nShe turned the horse's head with never a word and rode quickly up the\nburn, keeping out of sight as far as possible. A few hundred yards on\nthere was an outcrop of rock with alder and scrub oak intermingling. The\ntrack seemed to run through it, by the edge of the Blackburn Lynn.\nPressing onward, Mrs. Chesters determined to ensconce herself there\nbehind the rocks, or in the trees, and surprise her husband as he rode\nthrough. On he came, gaily whistling, happy as a thrush in spring\nrejoicing in his mate; on he came, his horse trotting swiftly, scenting\na 'feed' at The Bower's stable.\n\n'So I've caught you, Eric!' cried his wife, as she thrust her horse\nacross his path from behind an adjacent rock.\n\nEric's mare shied violently, missed her footing on the narrow rocky\npath, staggered, then rearing upward on a vain spring forward fell\nbackward over like some huge stone into the black belly of the lynn.\n\nMrs. Chesters followed with her eyes--she felt herself turned to marble;\nthen she was conscious that a horse had reappeared in the black eddies\nbelow, but no rider was on its back. Was this some horrid nightmare she\ncould not awake from?\n\nThen she saw the girl on the opposite bank who cried accusingly, 'What\nhae ye done wi' him, ye wicked woman?'\n\nMrs. Chesters was now released from her spell.\n\n'His horse shied,' she called across the waters, 'and fell into the lynn\nwith him. You search that side and I this.' So saying she got down from\nher horse, tied the bridle to a tree, and sought as best she could for\nany trace of her husband's body on her side of the black cauldron of\nwaters.\n\n'Ye hae been his deid,' Kitty had shouted above the tumult of the lynn.\nNot another word did the rival mourners address to each other.\n\nKitty had helped to lead the fallen horse out of the channel on her side\nof the burn, then smitten with a sudden thought she jumped into the\nsaddle and rode off down the water thinking the corpse must have been\ncarried down steam by the heavy current.\n\nMrs. Chesters vainly wandered up and down the rocky edges of the lynn,\npeered into the black, circling cauldron in the centre, but seeing\nnothing emerge she made her way to the farm, promised a great reward to\nany one who could bring her news of her husband's body being found, then\nrode wearily home across the weary moors.\n\nThat night Kitty lay sleepless on her bed caught in a storm of sobbing;\nshe recalled all the sweet details of her love episode, all the charms\nof her lover--which were now buried for ever in the black lynn. Then she\nsang to herself softly,\n\n    'Nae living man I'll love again,\n    Now that my lovely knight is slain.\n    With ae lock of his gowden hair\n      I'll bind my heart for evermair.'\n\nShe had scarcely finished her lament when she saw a faint light show\nbeside her window. Formless and nebulous at first it seemed to be\ngrowing quickly into particular shape and cognisance. Kitty had watched\nthe strange light, paralysed with terror, then, with a sudden\ninspiration:\n\n'Eric!' cried she, starting up on her bed, 'Eric! Is it thou? I knew\nthou wouldest return to me.'\n\nThe apparition answered only by beckoning with a forefinger.\n\n'Lead me to him,' she cried, as she rose and hastily flung on her\nclothes.\n\nThe wraith led onward; Kitty let herself out of the window, and thence\nto the ground by help of the ivy roots.\n\nThe night was still and thronged with stars, that seemed to watch her\ntenderly and to be cognisant of her love. 'He is alive, he is alive,'\nshe cried to them, as she followed hot foot after the wraith that led to\nthe rocky lynn.\n\nOnward with steady foot and without a trace of fear she followed--in\nthrough a tangle of alder, thence through a cleft in a big rock, and\nthere below her, stretched on a ledge from which the ebbing waters had\njust receded, lay her 'Man.'\n\n'My man!' she murmured with a little cry between a laugh and a sob, 'my\nman is alive.'\n\n'Eric,' and she bent down over him, lifted the wet hair from his brow\nand kissed him on the forehead.\n\n'Kitty,' he replied faintly, trying to lift his head to hers, 'I knew\nthou wouldst find me, beloved; my soul went forth to seek thee.\n\n'I was badly stunned,' he went on presently, 'but it is nothing serious.\nThe flood lifted me upon this ledge, and so saved me.\n\n'Well, there is but one thing now to do, my love. I am dead to my wife,\nand she is dead to me. Let the dead bury their dead,' he added with a\nsmile.\n\n'Now go fetch me dry clothes. I will change, and then we will ride away\nto Heathdown junction, and thence away to a new life in a new land.'\n\nKitty drew in her breath. 'But are ye able? Are ye strong enough, Eric?\nArt sure thou canst give up all for a life with me?'\n\n'Faith of a Borderer!' he answered gaily, as he kissed her hand. 'Now go\nand do as I bid. There's no time to be lost. See! I grow stronger every\nminute,' and he rose up on his knee and crawled forth from his refuge\nassisted by Kitty. Then she went swiftly back to the farm and brought\nwith her dry clothes and a plaid, a second time she returned for meat\nand drink for her lover, and the third and last time for his horse,\nwhich she had already stabled in the byre.\n\n'And now,' said Eric in her ear, as he lifted her into the saddle,\n'we'll ride westward where we'll buy another \"Bower\" in another land.'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThrough the early mist that morning an old shepherd was making his way\nhome from a late mart, when he encountered what he swore was 'the wraith\no' a great muckle moss-trooper wi' his marrow ahint him ridin' the ae\nblack horse.'\n\nArrived at home, he roused his wife, and imparted his information.\n\n'Whisht, man, hand your whisht,' retorted she. 'Noo get intil your ain\nbed. Ye aye see _double_ after a mart day.'\n\n\n\n\nTHE TALE OF THE THREE ANTIQUARIES\n\n\nThomas Turnbull stood beside his spade and gazed rapturously at a small\nportable Roman altar which he had just unearthed. Owing to a fortunate\nlegacy he had recently been enabled to retire from his business as a\nship's broker, and had bought a farm not far from the line of the Roman\nWall in mid Northumberland.\n\nHe prided himself on being a practical man in all he undertook--'Plain\nTom Turnbull' he styled himself, and in the pursuit of antiquities,\nwhich was now his hobby, he sneered at all theorists, and relied upon\nthe spade. '_Magister Palae_' was his motto, and now he had justified\nhis belief in his farm's occupying the site of an early out-lying Roman\ncamp.\n\nSquat in build, sanguine in complexion, and auburn-haired, he stood\n'four-square to all the winds'; his bold, prominent eyes recalled the\nmuzzle of an ancient blunderbuss ready to loose off at a moment's\nnotice.\n\nNow the Society of Antiquaries of Oldcastle, of which he was a member,\nwere making a pilgrimage along the Wall on the next day, and he had\noffered to provide tea for their refreshment at the conclusion of their\nexcursion.\n\nThus his 'find' was twice fortunate. He would now be enabled to confound\nTelfer, one of the most learned of the Society's members, by the\nevidence of his spade work. Telfer was an antiquary of the\n'well-documented' kind, an attorney by profession, thin and anaemic--'a\nparchment browser,' Turnbull called him, as one founding himself upon\nreferences in all discussions on antiquity. He had been indeed very\nsceptical of the existence of Turnbull's 'early, out-lying camp' and had\nannoyed 'Plain Tom' by his doubts.\n\nTurnbull laid aside his spade, wiped the perspiration from his brow, and\ntook up his altar again reverently. Then he drew from his pocket a small\nflask, poured a few drops into the tiny _focus_ on the top as a libation\nto Bacchus, and himself toasted 'the spade.' Carefully handling his\nprecious possession he returned home with it in his arms and placed it\non the drawing-room mantelpiece, to the dismay of his wife, who\nmisdoubted the religion of the Romans. 'That's a settler for Telfer,' he\nsaid triumphantly; 'he'll be up to-morrow, and he'll have to swallow\nit.'\n\n'Swallow it! Swallow it!' echoed his wife. 'My dear, what do you mean?'\n\n'He'll have to swallow it first, then he can have his tea on the top of\nit,' replied her husband with a grin. 'But do you give a look to it\nbefore he goes, for he'd pinch it if he got the chance.'\n\n'You don't mean to say that he would actually steal it?' queried his\nwife, aghast.\n\n'Wouldn't he, though? He'd lift anything that was not too heavy or too\nhot,' retorted her husband.\n\nThe next day proved to be a lovely autumn morning, and the prospect\nalong the Wall perfect for the antiquary, who could see it crawling like\nsome great serpent on its belly, with many an undulation from east to\nwest, over many a mile beneath the racing clouds and sunshine.\n\nTurnbull walked down to meet the party of excursionists beside a newly\nexcavated mile-castle where they were to eat their sandwiches and\ndiscuss their theories. After that he was to conduct them to his house\n'The Crag,' and show them his altar and give them refreshment.\n\nTurnbull took the very earliest opportunity of informing them of his\n'find,' and while his friends congratulated him Mr. Telfer opined that\nits discovery proved nothing as to a camp, for a portable altar might\neasily be discovered anywhere along the Wall, and there was no record of\nany camp at that particular spot. 'The spade will show,' cried 'Plain\nTom,' triumphantly. 'It's just my first-fruits. Wait a few weeks and my\nspade will prove it.' Almost at once the party moved onwards, for they\nhad an early train to catch, and as soon as they reached the house tea\nwas set before them, and their host handed round the altar for\ninspection. 'Pity there's no record on it to show to what God it was\ndedicated,' said one, 'and by whom.'\n\n'It probably belonged to some pioneers along the Wall who built\nthemselves a temporary camp whilst prospecting,' said Turnbull.\n\nTelfer, on the other hand, was of opinion that the altar was not of the\nlocal freestone, had probably been brought from a neighbouring camp, and\neventually thrown away when the Picts and Scots overran the Wall.\n\n'If you'll show me the place where you found it,' he added, 'I can prove\nto you, I think, that the surrounding stone is different.'\n\n'My pioneers probably imported it,' said the other boldly, 'but the kind\nof stone is neither here nor there. However, I'll gladly show you the\nidentical spot where I howked it out.'\n\nWhile the rest of the party made their way down the valley towards the\nrailway station, 'Plain Tom' went off with his sceptic to the place of\nexcavation.\n\n'There,' said he, pointing to the spot, 'that's where it came from,' and\nas he spoke he turned over with his spade some debris that had fallen\ninto the hole. His companion took up a fragment of stone, examined it,\nshook his head, then proceeded to 'howk' out with his stick a stone of\nsome size lying half-bedded in the earth at the bottom of the hole. He\nlevered it away, and it rolled over on its side; something glittered\nbeneath. 'Ha! an aureus!' cried the attorney, and dashed upon it.\n\n'I told you so, I told you so,' shouted his host in triumphant joy.\n'This proves it!'\n\nHis joy was perhaps excessive; it seemed to eclipse at least his\nsurprise, but his companion paid no attention to him in his own\nexcitement.\n\n'Ha! an aureus of Hadrian--and in excellent preservation,' rejoined the\nother, after a careful examination. 'What an uncommonly lucky find!' and\nwithout more ado he slid it into the palm of his left hand.\n\n'A find!' echoed 'Plain Tom,' choking upon astonishment and rage. 'Here,\nhand it over--I'm owner here,' for his own particular pet coin was\ndisappearing from his ken.\n\n'Even if you were the Lord of the Manor you could not make your claim\ngood,' replied the attorney coolly. 'He who finds, keeps. Treasure trove\nto be claimed must be hidden--_lucri aut metus causa_. This aureus was\nevidently lost or cast away in flight. The finder retains it.'\n\n'Cast away in flight' sounded ludicrously enough in the other's ears,\nbut he was incapable of speech. Indeed, 'Plain Tom' with difficulty\ncontrolled the fires that were scorching him within. His hands trembled\nconvulsively on the handle of the spade; his enemy had turned about and\ntaken a step down the hillside as if to follow his companions. Now\nbeckoned Opportunity. 'Plain Tom' grasped his spade more tightly, lifted\nit in air, and brought it down with a thud on the top of his enemy's\ncloth cap. The attorney's knees gave way instantly; he sank in a heap,\nthen slowly rolled forward and onward down the slope. The aureus had\ndropped from his limp hand. 'Plain Tom' was on to it like a knife--the\nsong of Deborah and Barak on his lips. Then he paused and looked upon\nthe motionless figure of the man below now lying half hidden amongst\nsome bracken. What was to be done? A shudder of dismay crept up the\nobserver's spine. Could he be dead? No, no, he was only stunned.\n\nWell, 'Plain Tom' swiftly determined on his line of action. There was a\nshepherd's cottage only a quarter of a mile away where he might get help\nto lift and carry the fallen man; he would leave him there for the night\nafter explaining that he had found him lying unconscious from a faint in\nthe bracken. That done, he would himself go for the local doctor and\nexplain how he had found the attorney's body. Then he examined the spade\ncarefully. There was no sign of blood upon it, fortunately. He had\ncaught his enemy squarely with the flat of it; all was well, for none\nhad seen him--not even his victim--lift it and strike.\n\nThe shepherd was at home, and at once accompanied him to the spot. 'He's\ndeid,' said the herd, lifting up a limp arm. 'I'm doubtin' he's got\nawa.'\n\n'Nonsense,' said his companion with affected assurance. 'He'd a weak\nheart, I know, and the long walk has been over much for him. His pulse\nis all right,' he added, pretending to feel upon the wrist. 'Now we'll\ncarry him to your house, and I'll fetch the doctor. He'll be all right\nin an hour or two, I'll bet a guinea.'\n\nThe attorney was of slim build, and the two men carried him easily to\nthe cottage. Leaving him there Turnbull strode off for the doctor, whom\nhe found at home. Explaining how he had found the body, he helped the\ndoctor saddle his pony and bade him ride with all speed, requesting him\nto bring him word to 'The Crag' when he had recalled his patient to\nconsciousness.\n\nThen 'Plain Tom' set off for his home, whistling to himself to keep up\nhis spirits, and ever and anon glancing at his recovered aureus with\njoy. 'Magister Palae,' he muttered to himself, ''tis a fine weapon.'\n\nThe doctor did not arrive at The Crag till some two hours later, and\nwhen he did he showed a long face. After he had seated himself in\nTurnbull's little sanctum, sacred to his antiquities, he delivered\nhimself slowly of his professional opinion. 'He's bad,' he said\nmournfully, 'verra bad,' for the doctor was Scotch; 'he's had an unco\nshock'--he glanced keenly at his companion as he spoke--'and a verra bad\nfall. His hairt is gey weak--and he says--if he disna recover he'll\nhaunt ye--for what ye've done.'\n\n'For what I've done!' cried 'Plain Tom,' aghast. 'The poor man's brain's\naffected. What on earth can he mean?'\n\n'And he said also that if the worst should happen,' continued the other\nwith unmoved visage, 'that he would bequeath me the aureus. He's a\nwarrum-hearted body, an' he kens that I'm a bit of an antiquary mysel'.'\n\n'_His_ aureus!' exclaimed 'Plain Tom' with re-aroused indignation, and\nforgetful of secrecy, 'why, the damned fellow--no, I don't mean that--I\nmean he's delirious; but he'll be all right again soon, doctor?' he\nappealed earnestly.\n\n'I'm nane so sure of that,' replied the other, shaking his head. 'I\nthought as I came alang I had a sort of a feeling as of a wraith nigh\nabout me--a lang, eldritch sort o' a form i' the mist.'\n\nHis host shuddered, looked through the window apprehensively in the\ngloaming, saw some vague, misty wraith approaching. Then he felt for the\naureus in his waistcoat pocket.\n\n'Oot wi' it,' the doctor demanded, and 'oot' it came after a struggle.\nThe doctor rose and held out his hand. 'Aweel,' he said, 'it's safe wi'\nme. I'll awa noo--back to my patient, for I'll no' can leave him just\nyet.'\n\nThen the door closed silently behind him. '_Vicisti, O Caledonia_,'\ngroaned 'Plain Tom,' and as he spoke he rose up in search of the whisky\nbottle and consolation.\n\n\n\n\nAPUD CORSTOPITUM\n\n(_per lineam murus._)\n\n\nL. Sentius Castus--at one time an officer in the 'Domestici,' or\nEmperor's Guards--had volunteered for active service, and was now a\n'Vexillarius,' or Standard Bearer to the first squadron of horse\nattached to the Sixth Legion--'the Victorious and Faithful,' that had\ncome over to Britain with the Emperor Hadrian. He was sitting one August\nafternoon by the fountain in the Forum of Corstopitum, engaged upon\nimproving a system of fire signals for use on the great wall, which\nHadrian was building from the Tyne estuary to the Solway Firth.\n\nAs he reflected he glanced occasionally up at the tall figure of a\nyouthful Briton beside him--a noble of the tribe of the Brigantes--whom\nthe soldiers had nicknamed 'Rufus' on account of his auburn hair.\n\nThese two had become such close friends that the prefect of the camp had\nlikened them to Nisus and Euryalus, for they were inseparable. '_His\namor unus erat pariterque in bella ruebant._'\n\n'Rufus' was employed as an 'explorator'--a pioneer, or scout, along the\nwall, as he had an exact knowledge of the country, but he was at the\nmoment engaged upon a piece of sculpture--having a natural gift for the\nchisel--and was putting a final touch to the figure of a lion standing\nabove a dead stag.\n\nHe stooped and drew a stopper of clay from the lion's mouth, and at once\na stream of water broke through and flashed into the trough.\n\n'_Euge! Macte virtute, puer!_' cried Castus in delight; ''tis a superb\nfountain head! And the carving is wondrous, for though thou hast seen\nthe stag thou hast not the lion; yet there he stands full of pride and\nchallenge on his kill, just as I have seen him in the Circus Maximus in\nRome.\n\n'By the way,' he continued, 'I have ordered Scaevola, the camp's head\nmason, to cut that altar which we promised to set up to Sylvanus when we\nbrought down the famous Grindon stag--that great hart o' grease--which\nevery officer in Corstopitum had hunted in vain.'\n\nAs he spoke he rose up and laid his tablet and style aside.\n\n'How jealous they all were,' he continued. 'How the Prefect doubted its\nweight and sneered at its tynes and the bay and tray!'\n\n'I think,' replied his friend with a laugh, 'that he would willingly\nhimself have set up an altar to every god from Jupiter Optimus Maximus\nto our local Mogon, had he had the luck to grass him.'\n\n'The Forum would have been lined with them,' assented his friend,\nsmiling also. 'Well, this is the inscription I gave to Scaevola to cut\non the one altar we promised--he was cheap at one.\n\n    'Silvano invicto sacrum\n    L. Sentius Castus signifer Leg VI.\n    Et Tetricus explorator murus\n    Ob cervum eximiae formae captum\n    Quem multi antecessores eorum\n    Praedari non potuerunt.\n\n'That is work for a mason, not for an artist like yourself, who have\nembellished Caesar's town in Ultima Thule with a masterpiece.\n\n'Mark this day with white chalk, for thou shalt behold Caesar himself,\nsince he hath just ridden in from Pons Aelii, and will shortly inspect\nhis new town of Corstopitum. Think on the immensa Romanae Pacis Majestas\nwhen thou seest him here!'\n\n'I wish greatly to see him,' replied the young Briton, 'yet I dread the\neagle eye of our Imperator.'\n\n'Nay,' said his friend, 'he will never affright thee, for though he is\nthe ruler of the broad universe he hath a human heart that takes\ninterest in all things under the sky, being soldier, traveller,\nadministrator, builder, student, and poet at once.'\n\nThere came a sudden shrilling of the tuba at this moment.\n\n'See!' cried the Vexillarius. 'There he goeth into the Praetorium.'\n\nThe twain stood watchful as sentinels, and very shortly they saw Caesar\nproceeding to the steps leading into the Forum, accompanied by the Comes\nBrittanorum and the Clarissimus and the Consularis, attended by his\nguard, on whose shields were blazoned as insignia the forts upon the\nmighty wall.\n\nCaesar was clad, they noted, not in the long robe of Imperator, but in\nthe shorter tunic of the Consul, with heavy purple border.\n\nThe two young men stood stiff at the salute as Hadrian drew near. Then\nthe Emperor, recognising his former guardsman, spoke to him kindly by\nname.\n\n'Ha! Castus. Thou lookest right well. Art better employed here than in\ntrailing thy toga and neighing after the beautiful ladies in Rome? Thou\nhast found soldiering on the confines of our Empire to thy liking?'\n\n'Yes, indeed, sire,' replied the standard-bearer, ''tis the sole\nprofession for a man.'\n\nHadrian looked upon the erect figure, keen eye, and sun-tanned face of\nthe speaker with evident approval. Then as he was about to pass onward\nhis eye was struck by the newly carved fountain-head.\n\n'Who hath carved this fountain?' he inquired. 'I did not know we had an\nartist in the camp.'\n\n''Twould scarce disgrace the garden of the Palatine,' replied Castus,\noverjoyed at the opportunity of praising his comrade in Caesar's\npresence; ''tis the handicraft of my friend here--a pioneer upon thy\nwall--one who though born a Briton is now more Roman than myself, and\nhath expended all his skill upon the carving in the hope of pleasing the\neye of Caesar.'\n\nHadrian, ever a patron of the arts, glanced quickly at the reddening\ncheeks of the young Briton, then stepped forward to the fountain-head,\nand scrutinised it with close attention. 'He hath the true eye of the\nartist, this friend of thine,' he said, with evident appreciation, 'for\nthe stag is admirably depicted--the tongue hanging loose from the mouth\nas I have noted myself when a beast is slain, and as for the lion,\nthough he can scarce ever have seen a lion in Britain, I suppose, 'tis\nadmirable in its decorative effect.' He turned to the blushing artist\nand thanked him graciously for his accomplishment, adding that he would\nsend him a bronze ewer from his own table as a trifling recompense.\n\nSo saying he passed on, and the two comrades looked at each other\njoyously.\n\n'Now!' cried the Roman standard-bearer, 'thou hast seen, and been\naddressed by, the Ruler of the world.\n\n'Art thou not proud this day? Art not at least an inch taller? Is Caesar\nnot like to one of the immortal gods, thinkest thou?'\n\n'He is, indeed,' replied the young Briton. 'I knew not such majesty and\nkindness could dwell together in mortal man. To die for him would be no\nvirtue but a pleasure. I have never seen so noble a face; strength\ntherein is sustained by intelligence as columns uphold a mighty roof.\nHis mouth speaks even when he utters no words. He unites in himself the\ncharm of a woman to the power and dignity of a man.'\n\n'Thou hast spoken it,' replied his companion; 'thou hast hit off his\nstrange and unique qualities. I had not thought of it before like that,\nbut thy observation, as Caesar himself said, is excellent, and thy\ndescription is true. The one thing I like not,' he added, 'is the beard\nhe hath grown; that is a new thing in a Roman Emperor and, as I judge\nit, somewhat barbaric.'\n\nThe next day Hadrian set forth again to ride _per lineam murus_ across\nmoor and fell to Luguvallum and the western sea.\n\nCastus and Rufus accompanied him as guides, and the Prefect with his\nguard escorted the Emperor to the wall that was being swiftly built on\nthe brow of the hill above Corstopitum.\n\nThere Castus pointed out to Hadrian the track of Dere Street--the road\nof Agricola--that seemed to flutter like some white butterfly up the\ndistant and opposite fell-side crowned by the Wannys' heights--birthplace\nof the river Wansbeck.\n\n'That track, sire, leads to Habitancum, Bremenium, Ad Fines, and\nTrimontium beside Tweed,' said Castus. 'I would it might be prolonged to\nMons Grampius, and even to the Cimmerian sea, where I would set up the\n_Arae finium Imperii Romani_ on the very edge o' the world.'\n\nHadrian smiled at his officer's enthusiasm, then he said gravely: 'The\nEmpire's weight is heavy enough already--Atlas himself could scarce\nsustain it. Buttresses are needed, and my wall and camps will furnish\nthem on this furthest frontier. Beyond is but a waste given over to\nwolves, wild boars, and painted savages. But what a prospect is here!\n'Tis like the sea stretching away for ever in harvestless waves.'\n\nOn and westward they rode and along the windy crest of the fell, then\ndipped down to the north Tyne river and the camp of Chesters set\nthereby, thence through the limestone crags to Boreovicus on the\nmoorland--established on the edge of the basaltic outcrop that frowns\nupon Bromlea Lough.\n\nThis great camp was already finished and garrisoned by Tungrian\nauxiliaries; the great wall that was to link together the various camps,\ntrailed its length like a serpent till it mounted to Winshields height.\nAcross the valley rose the purple fells of South Tyne, and in the\ndistant haze Skiddaw's crest soared like an eagle.\n\nOn Winshields height Caesar was met by the Prefect of Luguvallum and his\nguard, and here Castus and Rufus bade him farewell, and turned back\ntowards Corstopitum.\n\nAs they rode eastward, and had gained the edge of a fir wood beyond\nBoreovicus, a very beautiful girl stepped suddenly forward, and laid a\nhand on the rein of Rufus's pony.\n\nShe is of an extraordinary beauty, thought Castus, as he noted the\nwealth of hair, blue eyes, clear skin, and finely chiselled features.\nEvidently of noble birth, for she wore a linen shirt under her robe of\nfur, and carried a gold chain about her neck. There was a look of\narrogance about her--a disdain, as it were, that set off her beauty like\na jewel, and as she conversed with Rufus she seemed, so Castus thought,\nto be eyeing himself not without interest.\n\n'What dost thou think of me, O Roman?' she seemed to ask through her\ndisdainful eyes. 'Am I not more beautiful than all the women of Rome?\nWouldst like to possess me? I care for none that proves not himself to\nbe a conqueror.'\n\nCastus moved his pony slowly onward, then pausing for his comrade looked\nback upon this proud girl of the wood who had aroused sensations he\nthought he had left behind him in Rome.\n\nAs she bade good-bye to Rufus she turned away, but her last glance was\nnot upon Rufus but upon Castus, as the latter delighted to note.\n\n'Who is this moorland beauty?' he inquired of his comrade, as the two\nrode on again together.\n\n'She is a cousin of mine,' Rufus replied carelessly. 'My mother and her\nfather and mother desire us to wed, but there is no hurry for that. I\nlong for more hunting with thee, O Castus, and to be the complete\nsoldier before I give myself to marriage.'\n\n'How is she named?' inquired his friend further, unable to subdue his\ninterest.\n\n'Penchrysa,' said Rufus, 'but for short I call her Pen.'\n\n'Penchrysa,' repeated Castus to himself; ''tis a fit and most romantic\nname.' Then aloud he asked, 'Did she look upon Caesar as he passed by\nthis morning?'\n\n'Yes,' replied Rufus, 'she heard he was to pass along the wall, and she\nsaw him from the shelter of the wood.'\n\n'Does she then love Rome like yourself?' pursued Castus.\n\nHis companion hesitated a moment before he replied. 'She hath a proud\nsoul in her. She loves courage and prowess above all else, and so will,\nI believe, love Rome even as I, at the last. The great wall,' continued\nthe young Briton, 'will prove to her Rome's might, and Corstopitum with\nits stored granaries and streets of shops will show her its\ncivilisation. I have bid her come in to-morrow with her small brother\nwhen the market is open and the country folk bring in their mead and\nhoney and fowls, and any grouse and salmon they may have netted.'\n\n'Good,' replied Castus, 'we will show her the sights of Rome's newest\nachievement.'\n\nThen fearing he might be playing false with his friend he thrust away\nall idea of this disdainful beauty of the moors from him and commenced\nto explain to his comrade his simplification of the then method of\nsending five signals from turret to turret, from mile castle to mile\ncastle along the length of the wall, so as to ensure greater accuracy.\n\nYet ever the challenge of the arrogant moorland princess assailed his\nheart.\n\nProud as a stag she had stood regarding him; as graceful in all her\nlimbs--her breast curved like a breaking wave. She was infinitely more\nfascinating than Lalage of Corinth, who had lately devastated the youths\nof Rome. Her clear oval face, the bluebells of her eyes, her auburn hair\nhaunted him.\n\n    '_Iam matura viro plenis jam nubilis annis._'\n\nHe began to weave sophistries whereby he proved to his own satisfaction\nthat Rufus cared not for his cousin, that she disdained him, and\nconsequently was fair game for himself. By midday on the morrow the\nforum of Corstopitum was crowded; there was a throng of British\ncountry-folk come in to sell, and of Roman auxiliaries from diverse\ncamps come in to purchase.\n\nCastus and Rufus were acting as interpreters between buyers and sellers\nwhen they saw their invited guest approaching in company with a handsome\nboy of some fifteen years, whose hand she held in hers.\n\n'Welcome!' cried Rufus. 'Now what will you like best to see first? The\npottery shop with its wares--Samian and Castor and rustic, or the great\ncorn granaries, or the metal-worker's booth where you can buy a fibula\nfor yourself, or a boss for your horse's bridle?'\n\nHis cousin hesitating, Castus suggested the metal-worker's booth as\nbeing closest, and thither they repaired.\n\nRufus explained with evident delight the use of the various articles set\nforth, and Castus, discerning that the fair visitor had a little Latin,\njoined in the conversation.\n\n'Here is a fibula,' he said, 'skilfully ornamented with the head of\nMinerva. Take it,' he said, as he gracefully presented it to her, 'as a\nmemento of Rome's most northern town.'\n\nQuietly she accepted the gift with a word of thanks, then added, 'but\nnot from Rome,' with an enigmatic smile that strangely attracted the\nRoman soldier. '_Not from Rome!_' repeated Castus to himself, with\nthrobbing heart, 'then _from me_ she must mean,' he conjectured, and the\npassion in his breast flamed hotter than before.\n\nHe watched her closely as they fared through the town, and though she\nwas quick to perceive, she did not seem surprised at the novelties she\nsaw, whereby Castus found himself more attracted by her than ever.\nBarbarian she might be held in Rome, but there was a beauty, pride, and\nstrength in her he had never met with on the Via Sacra.\n\nWhen the time came for her to depart Castus eagerly suggested that she\nshould come again two days later when games for all comers were to be\nheld in the town.\n\n'Yes,' added Rufus, 'you must come. The games will be superb.' Then with\na laugh, 'Castus and I are to box.'\n\nPenchrysa's eye quickened; she shot one glance at Castus, then promising\nto return she waved a hand and departed, leading her small brother with\nthe other. Castus waited long to see if she would not look back over her\nshoulder, but no, she went steadily forward, and this only whetted his\nappetite the more.\n\nThe afternoon set apart for the games was fair and gay with a west wind\nthat speeded like a greyhound over the wide fells.\n\nThe little arena--dug out in the hollow below the camp--was surrounded\nby a vast throng of eager spectators drawn from along the wall and the\nmoor beyond.\n\nThere was a holiday in camp; the rumour of a fighting with cocks had\nbrought in the Britons; some Spaniards had come over from Chesters,\nsundry Gauls from Vindolana, and there were the Tungrian auxiliaries\nfrom Boreovicus itself.\n\nSo it was amid a motley throng of spectators that Castus and Rufus stood\nup to box together with the _caestus_ that afternoon, and a murmur of\nadmiration rose up from the spectators as the two handsome, graceful\nyoung men stepped lightly into the grassy arena. Their right arms and\nfists were bound about with thongs of bull's hide; the balls of lead and\niron usually attached thereto in the case of professional _pugils_ were\nabsent, as the encounter was a friendly one, and meant to amuse and\ninstruct the soldiers. So, stripped for the match and smiling upon each\nother, they took their places in the green arena, and, facing north and\nsouth so as to avoid the sun, saluted the Prefect, after the manner of\ngladiators, and at once began preluding to the attack.\n\nRufus had been carefully instructed by Castus for some little time past,\nand was now almost as skilful as his instructor. In strength probably\nthe Roman was the superior, but the Briton was somewhat more alert and\nactive on his feet.\n\nThe first round was devoted to a display of their art; the second grew\nsomewhat more intent in purpose, the applause of the spectators\nstimulating the two boxers to put forth their whole strength.\n\nCastus had seen Penchrysa sitting in the amphitheatre to his right hand,\nand had at once realised that she was really interested in the fight and\nwas applauding himself, not her cousin.\n\nInspired by this to renewed effort he deceived his friend by a clever\nfeint, then getting in a fine clean hit with his left on the forehead,\nfollowed it up with a right-hander on the jaw. Rufus staggered backward,\nswayed wildly on his feet, then fell unconscious to the ground.\n\nApplause broke out over the whole amphitheatre, and Castus was proudly\nconscious that the white hands of Penchrysa were clapping him\nvigorously, even as he ran forward to raise his friend's head and assist\nhim to his feet as he recovered from his faint.\n\nAfter this some cock-fighting followed, and many of the spectators left\nor changed their seats. Castus marked Penchrysa rise and walk away with\nher brother, and he followed them amid the crowd.\n\n'I am victorious,' he said, as he came up with them, 'but the victory is\nyours, for had you not applauded I had not won.'\n\nPenchrysa looked upon him with a glowing eye that seemed to Castus to\nhave lost its first hostility, as she said simply she was pleased that\nhe had been victorious.\n\nShe said she must go, and bending down her head, added in a low, hurried\nvoice, '_If thou wishest further converse with me meet me as the moon\nrises by the limestone crags above Chesters to-morrow night._' She laid\nher finger on her lip, and moved away with her supple grace through the\nstraggling crowd.\n\nCastus, enraptured by the thought that he had captured this proud\nbeauty, could scarce contain himself for joy. He had no difficulty in\nkeeping his assignation, for he had a good pretext in an old promise to\nadvise with the Commander of the Chesters Camp. Thus he rode out\njoyously next afternoon from Corstopitum, and as dusk drew on and the\ntime for the moon's rising came near, he dismounted below the limestone\ncrags and led his horse slowly up to the highest point of the limestone\noutcrop where a monolith stood dark and threatening. Tethering his\nhorse to a tree near by he advanced towards it, and the moon--now\nrisen--faintly touched it with light. Two figures moved from it as he\ncame up. The first was Penchrysa, the second an old, grey-bearded man.\n\n'Welcome, O Roman!' said she gravely, then with more emotion, 'thy looks\nand actions tell me thou lovest me. If so I have a proposal to make to\nthee; and as I know your tongue but ill this old man, my friend, who has\nserved with your armies, will set it before thee, for I have no skill in\nthe Roman language.'\n\nCastus, carried away by his passion, seized her hand and kissed it, and\nwas about to put his arms about her, but she put up her hand and bade\nhim wait for her proposal from the interpreter's lips.\n\n'Thou art strong, O Roman,' said the old man earnestly, 'brave, and\ncanst command men, for my Princess has watched thee narrowly. She is of\nroyal birth, and royal amongst womankind. None surpasses her. She will\ngive thee herself if thou wilt command our hosts. The Caledonii will\navenge Mons Grampius and rise with the British race, fling off the hated\nyoke of Rome, and make this island free as it was of old. There are ten\nthousand within call of us now!' He whistled thrice like a golden\nplover, and on all sides dark forms showed themselves in response to his\ncall. 'The rule of Rome approacheth its doom. This wall proves their\nweakness. The Emperor is in the western land and can be dispatched with\nease. We want a leader, and our Princess chooseth thee. Take her and be\nEmperor of Britain.'\n\nAs he spake thus, Penchrysa leaned forward and whispered in the ear of\nthe astounded Roman, 'Come, and we will rule together!' Her lovely face\nshowing lovelier in the soft moonlight, her breath honey-sweet upon his\ncheek, the vision of rule together had almost intoxicated him. But then\nthe shame of betrayal rose in him like a flood. Lust dropped from him as\na garment. In one second he had drawn his sword and stabbed his\ntemptress to the heart. 'So perish!' he cried aloud, 'all enemies of\nRome!'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe bounded to his horse, leapt on its back, and at breakneck speed they\nhurtled down the fell. He was wounded by darts in shoulder and right\narm, and his horse's loins were gashed by a spear, yet the camp at\nChesters was but two miles away, and, setting his teeth together, he\ngave his horse the rein and leaned forward on its neck to take his\nweight off the loins.\n\nThe yells of the pursuers became fainter as he sped onward. Soon he saw\nthe dark outline of the camp on the haugh below, and in a few minutes\narrived at the western port.\n\n'Who are ye?' inquired the sentry of the port.\n\n'Castus, Vexillarius of the first squadron, Sixth Legion,' he shouted\nhoarsely, 'the Britons have risen!'\n\nThe stone gate jarred on its hinge; Castus, thrusting through,\ndismounted and wiped the foam from his gallant steed.\n\n'What a fool I have been!' he murmured. 'Never again will I traffic with\na woman. _Vale, O Femina--in eternum vale!_ Henceforth I dedicate my\nlife to Rome--\n\n    \"_Romae matri meae--\n    Orbis Imperatrici._\"'\n\nAnd, ratifying his vow by the head of Caesar, he fell to the ground,\nunconscious through loss of blood.\n\n\n\n\n      Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty\n                at the Edinburgh University Press\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Notes.\n\n\nWords have been hyphenated consistently within each story, and\npunctuation has been corrected without notation.\n\nSpaces in common contractions (whether in dialect or not) e.g. \"there's\"\n\"Aah'll\" and \"ye'd\" have been closed up.\n\nDialect contractions, e.g. \"o't\" and \"wi't\", or \"is 't\" and \"D' ye\" are\ngiven as generally printed.\n\nFootnotes have been moved to the end of each story.\n\nThe following obvious typographical errors in the original have been\ncorrected:\n\n    On Page 158, \"and swings away at a hand gallop\" changed to \"and\n    swings away at a hard gallop\".\n\n    On Page 181 \"for Ah'll stan' none\" changed to \"for Aah'll stan'\n    none\" (consistent with spelling in same speech).\n\n    On Page 209, \"went forward at a good trot an drecked\" changed to\n    \"went forward at a good trot and recked.\"\n\n    In Footnote 1 to \"Muckle-Mouthed Meg\" (i.e. Footnote to Page 205)\n    \"Provost is really an anacronism\" changed to \"Provost is really an\n    anachronism.\"\n\nThe questionable spellings of \"Chateau-Laffite\" and \"Vindolana\" are as per\nthe original book.","title":"Border Ghost Stories","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":52454}