SCENE III. THE STORM ON SOLWAY

The lugger shot ahead for Scotland, the swift wind upon her beam.

Suddenly its strength increased, and a storm swept down upon Solway.

Clouds gathered above, and on the incoming 'bore' Maxwell saw with

dismay the 'white horses of Solway' shaking their manes.

Darkness lowered about them; then a jagged flash of lightning rent the

murky air, and Sandie as he wrestled with the tiller saw a face white as

foam and 'unco ghash' beside him.

'Hae ye onything on your conscience, Laird?' cried Sandie in his ear,

'ony bit adultery or murder? If ye hae, mak a vow instantly to St.

Nicholas, or we're lost.'

Maxwell made no reply, but groaned as he looked wildly through the

storm.

Twelve forms--well kent to him--did he not see them pointing their

accusing fingers against him? There was Ian--there Alastair, next

Hamilton--he could look no further. _God in Heaven! Wharton had hung his

pledges._

Maxwell sank backwards, his hands to his eyes.

'Mak the vow, Laird,' yelled Sandie again in his ear, desperately.

'I'll mak a vow to Saint Nicholas,' murmured the other brokenly, 'to

build a tower to his honour, and put a light into it nightly for all

poor sailors on Solway.'

Heartened by this, Sandie thrust all his strength upon the tiller and

kept the lugger straight 'twixt Scylla and Charybdis.

But 'the white horses' were now upon them, their streaming manes

enveloping the gunwale, and Maxwell gave himself up for lost. The lugger

shivered, then grated violently. 'What's yon?' he cried in terror.

'Yon's the first stone o' Repentance Tower,'[1] cried Sandie

triumphantly, as he drave the lugger high upon the beach.

[Footnote 1: Tradition commonly holds that the builder of the tower had

thrown his captives overboard to lighten the boat, when returning from a

raid into England; but if the writer remembers aright, Dr. Nielson in

one of his erudite articles, seemed able to prove that Sir Robert

Maxwell--who married the Herries heiress and became Lord Herries--was

the builder. In this case the above tale gives the truer version of the

tower's origin.]

THE LORD WARDEN'S TOMB

My companion had surprised me by a sudden change of demeanour, for which

I could not account, and I was watching him out of the tail of my eye

from behind a pillar in the nave of the church which we were exploring.

We had just been viewing the recumbent figure of a famous Lord Warden of

the western English march, that lay on a raised tomb in the north

transept, and after I had blazoned the coat of arms and admired the

dignity of the carving, I passed on into the nave, but my companion had

not followed me.

I noted that he was extraordinarily interested in this figure of Lord

Wharton, and I watched him, as I have said, with attention.

Then, driven seemingly by sudden impulse, he lifted his right hand and

dealt the stone figure a swift buffet with his fist. At once he glanced

round hurriedly--ashamed, evidently, of his action--and rejoined me in

the nave without comment, trusting, doubtless, that I had not observed

him.

I was infinitely astonished, for Maxwell, my companion on our bicycling

and walking tour, was a quiet, somewhat dour but devout Scot, a history

scholar of Balliol College, and usually most reticent of emotion. I

talked of Border ballads and Lord Wardens of the marches, and

endeavoured to draw him on the subject, but he made no response.

Then I sang softly--

'_As I went down the water side

None but my foe to be my guide._'

Hereat his eyes flashed, and he responded with extended fist:

'_I lighted down, my sword did draw--

I hackit him in pieces sma'._'

Then turning swiftly upon me he said sternly:

'_You mustn't quote the Border Ballads to me; I have them in my blood._'

He looked so strange that at once I changed the conversation and

suggested that we should ascend Wild Boar's Fell that afternoon, and

return for supper at the inn where we proposed stopping the night.

He assented, and we had a fine climb and a glorious view over the West

Borderland; we could see Skiddaw and Helvellyn to the north-west, and

even thought we saw Criffel looming in the haze beyond Solway; to the

east the great hills beside Crossfell lifted their great rampire and

gave a sense of security to the green vale below.

Reinvigorated by our walk we returned in good heart to the inn.

After supper I thought a pipe and Stevenson's essay on 'A Walking Tour'

were appropriate to my mood, but Maxwell said he was for a stroll in the

moonlight, and went out.

As he had not returned by eleven I grew a little anxious, also a trifle

annoyed at the thought that perhaps I ought to put on my boots again and

go in search of him.

At 11.15 I determined to sally forth, but when I was on the street and

could see nobody about I was perplexed as to where to look for him.

I turned to the church, and without definite aim went through the gate

and walked around the church through the numerous headstones.

By the side of the north transept, wherein was the Wharton recumbent

figure, I noticed a new-made grave, and casually looking over it saw a

dark figure lying therein. The grave was half in the shadow of the

church, half lit by the moon, so that I could not see very distinctly,

but as I bent over it I thought I recognised--with a sudden start of

horror--the knickerbockers of my friend Maxwell.

I looked about in hope of seeing some one, but all was silent; not a

sound stirred in the village.

I must make certain, I felt, for I could not leave the man there,

whoever it might be, so gingerly enough I let myself down into the

further end of the grave, and, taking a step forward, bent over the

body.

Yes, it was Maxwell; he was lying in a huddled lump with his head bent

forward on his breast. I felt for his pulse, and found it beating

regularly. Thank heaven, he was not dead! He must have fallen in by

misadventure in the darkness before the moon rose, I conjectured.

I determined to run back to the inn for the 'boots,' since with another

man's help I could lift my friend out and carry him back, and get the

doctor to attend him.

'Boots' was just going to bed, and while he was searching for a rope and

a lantern I ran for the doctor, and thence back to the graveyard.

'Boots' was there awaiting me, and between us we raised Maxwell's limp

body and then carried him slowly to the inn.

As far as we could see he had sustained a severe concussion, but I

noticed he had a big bruise on his forehead as well as a swelling on

the back of his head. We had laid him on the sofa in the parlour, and

had just completed our investigation when the doctor arrived. I shook

hands and explained how I had found my friend in the open grave by the

north transept so unexpectedly.

'He hadn't had--well, let us say, too much supper?' asked the physician,

after he had felt the pulse and examined the limbs to see if anything

was broken.

'No,' I replied. 'We had supper together; he had a lemon squash and a

cup of coffee only to drink.'

'He's been in for a fight then,' said the doctor. 'Got one on the brow,

then falling into the grave has bruised the back of the head. He's

suffering from concussion, but nothing more, so far as I can see. Was he

a quarrelsome fellow?' he inquired. 'Strange place in any event to come

to blows in--and with whom? for we're a peaceable folk here save perhaps

at the annual horse fair when gipsies and others congregate in numbers,

and whisky bottles are everywhere.'

I assured him that Maxwell was a quiet Oxford scholar, and incapable of

brawling.

The doctor drew a bottle of strong smelling salts from his pocket and

applied them to Maxwell's nostrils.

'He's coming round,' he said; 'we'll just give him some sal volatile,

and then to bed and a long rest. In a day or two he should be all right

again.'

Maxwell now opened his eyes, looked about him dizzily, then said

faintly, 'Where am I?' Then still faintly, so low that only I caught the

words, '_I could swear it was Wharton himself_.'

Thereon we took him upstairs, undressed him and put him to bed, and

after he had had his dose of sal volatile the doctor departed, assuring

me that my friend was 'all right,' but that he would look in again about

midday.

I saw him off at the front door, then I turned to the 'Boots,' and said

in his ear, 'Look here, I'm going out to see if I can't find out who the

fellow was who tackled my friend. If I want to be let in before daybreak

I'll come and tap on your window in the yard.'

I slid a _pourboire_ into his hand and went off softly across the street

to the church once more, for I felt almost certain that the

fellow--whoever he was--would come back some time or another to see how

his victim had fared, since conceivably the blow might have proved

mortal. Once in the churchyard I made my way on tiptoe to the

graveside. There I waited in the re-entering angle of the transept,

where the shadow of the church was darkest, in the hope of Maxwell's

assailant soon returning to the scene of the encounter. I did not

venture to light my pipe, fearing the smell of tobacco might discover

me.

I waited with infinite patience till the moon lost her radiance and a

pale light glimmered through the eastern trees. Nothing had stirred, no

sound had I caught save that of an owl in the distance.

I returned to the inn, knocked up 'Boots,' went silently to bed, and

slept late.

As soon as I was up I went to see how Maxwell fared, and found him

sitting up and drinking a cup of tea.

He looked a little pale, but otherwise was not much worse for his

misadventure.

'Now,' I said, after, congratulating him on his recovery, 'if it doesn't

excite you too much tell me exactly what occurred in the churchyard last

night, for 'tis an absolute mystery to me, besides having given me an

awful "gliff," old fellow, for I have been wondering what might have

happened if I hadn't by the merest chance discovered you in your

premature grave.'

'I should probably have got an infernal chill, old chap, had it not

been for your kindly foresight,' he replied with a smile; then with a

change of tone he went on, 'But it was the most extraordinary adventure

conceivable--so extraordinary that you'll scarcely credit me in relating

it.

'I felt curiously attracted by the old church and the tomb within, so I

went across after leaving you and wandered about the churchyard. Close

beside the corner of the north transept was the empty grave, as you

know, and beside it a quaint old headstone with an interesting

coat-of-arms upon it. I knelt down and tried to decipher the blazon in

the moonlight.

'Suddenly I felt as if some one were near me--some one with an ill

intent, and, turning, saw stepping out of the shadow a figure with its

face outlined against the moon, the exact image of the Lord Warden on

the tomb in the transept. I felt the same access of rage I had

experienced in the church sweep over me. I clenched my fists

unconsciously. "You're one of the false Maxwells?" he said

threateningly. "And you're a damned murderer," I retorted, and let out

at him with my fists. At that moment I felt a sharp, stinging blow on my

temple, and, reeling backward, tripped and fell--in a night of stars as

it were--all of a huddle into the empty grave.'

Maxwell stopped, looked me directly in the face. 'That's all I

remember--and that's an exact description of my strange adventure.'

Whilst I was recovering from my astonishment at his weird story, the

doctor was announced, and came forward to shake hands with his patient.

'Tell the doctor,' said Maxwell to me, 'exactly what I have told you,

and let us hear what he has to say.'

I obeyed, and when I had concluded I inquired if he felt able to put any

faith in the relation.

'Doctors are often a sceptical folk,' he replied with a smile, 'but if

they are wise they try to account for things. Once out of curiosity I

stayed a night in a "haunted house," as it was called, and I confess I

did not like the experience. I had that curious feeling as of a hostile

presence which your friend evidently had both in the church and in the

churchyard. I saw nothing, but I had strange impressions borne in on me,

and I heard noises I could not account for.'

'Have you ever heard of any one having encountered the form or wraith of

this Lord Warden of old?' I inquired.

'I don't think any one in the village would wander in the churchyard

after dark,' he replied, smiling. Then he rose up to go, saying he had

another appointment, but promised to call again in the afternoon with a

sleeping draught, and hoped his patient would be quite well in the

morning.

I accompanied him to the inn door, and went down the street with him.

'Tell me,' I said, 'exactly what you do think, for if I mistake not you

were purposely reticent with my friend just now.'

'I was,' he said, after a pause, 'because I had reasons. Promise not to

mention to your friend either now or at any time later----' I gave the

required promise, and waited eagerly for his response.

'Well,' he said slowly, 'I once got a "gliff" myself in exactly the same

place as I made a short cut through the churchyard one autumn evening. I

was not thinking of the dead Warden or the tomb in the transept, and yet

'twas none other that I saw.'

Then he added gravely, 'These things are not good for the nerves.

Wherefore I would advise you to take your friend off as soon as

possible, and don't let him visit the churchyard again.'

CASTLE ICHABOD

'When you saw the dog, my dear,' said my uncle, the Rector, to his wife,

'almost exactly, if I remember right, a year ago this month of November,

what sort of size and colour was it, again? I remember it growled

terribly on the top of the wall by the mausoleum, and I thought it must

have been a retriever, from your description of it, but it ought really

as a wraith to have been a collie,' and here my uncle slightly

contracted his left eye in my direction.

'I think it must have been a retriever, John,' replied my aunt gravely,

yet I thought a waft from her eye stole towards me as she spoke, 'for

"Geordie" swears it was a tarrible great savage durg; but it may be, of

course, that he had forgotten himself and your exhortations, at the

King's Head last night, and mistaken a collie for a retriever.' I found

it difficult not to smile, for, if my uncle had been 'pulling my aunt's

leg' she was certainly twitching his cassock. This was a 'parlour game'

at the Rectory, as I discovered later, and one in which my aunt always

came off the winner.

My uncle now addressed himself to me. 'You must know, Charles,' said he,

'that the northern part of the Castle Park, between the burn and the

ring wall, is supposed to be haunted by the wraiths of a shepherd and

his collie dog. He was taking a short cut home from our village to the

big moor farm beyond the common, and was probably suffering from the old

disease of the north; he tried to cross the swollen burn by the

stepping-stones, it seems, fell in, and was drowned. The faithful collie

had tried to save him, for he was found with him, his teeth fast in his

master's plaid.'

'I love that collie,' said my aunt; 'he ought to have had a headstone

with "Faithful unto Death" engraved on it.'

'So he should have had, my dear,' my uncle assented, 'had we been here

at the time. Well, Charles, the point is that several people have

thought----' Here my aunt moved a little impatiently in her chair. 'Have

been quite sure,' corrected my uncle, 'that they have seen the dog or

its wraith, but no one has yet seen the shepherd, I believe. Your aunt

last autumn saw the dog on the top of the wall that surrounds the

mausoleum, jumping up and down and growling dreadfully, and last night

our stableman--"Geordie"--a disabled pitman, was chivvied by him across

the park from close beside the mausoleum. What can you make of that?'

questioned my uncle, the humorous look again in his eye.

'Did Geordie run away?' I inquired magisterially.

'He ran,' replied my uncle, smiling, 'as he expressed it himself, "like

a whippet or a hunted hare."'

'Did you run, Aunt Mary?' I inquired next.

'I daren't, Charlie, to tell you the truth. If I had begun to run I

should have screamed, so I just walked on as fast as ever I could.'

'Then it didn't follow you?' I inquired.

'No,' said my aunt, shaking her head; 'it seemed to me like one of those

savage, tied-up mongrels that guard the carts of carriers in the town on

market days.'

'The curious thing,' interrupted my uncle, who was a keen antiquary, 'is

that the dog should haunt the mausoleum, since it contains not his

master, but "Hell-fire Dick," the last of the Norman Fitzalans--and so

named not only because he belonged to the famous club, but also, as I

gather from tradition, because of his language and complexion.

'Had he been alive no shepherd had dared trespass in his park, and no

dog would have come out alive. So it is curious they should forgather

after death.'

My aunt here interposed.

'Are you not afraid for your uncle's orthodoxy?' she asked of me, 'when

he shows himself so sceptical?'

My uncle, discovering that he had put himself at a disadvantage, now

suggested that I should--as a lawyer--investigate the matter and give my

opinion upon it.

'Willingly,' I replied, laughing. 'The chief witness, I take it, will be

your henchman, the redoubtable "Geordie," aunt being prosecutor, the

wraith the defendant, and you, uncle, the sceptical public.'

This being arranged, the subject was dropped, and my uncle gave me

further information about the Fitzalans.

'Undoubtedly they were Normans,' said he, 'but descent has been so

frequently in the female line that when my Lord Richard--"Hell-fire

Dick"--died, he had perhaps no more Norman blood in him than you have.

There was this one virtue about him, that he loved the old abode and

possessions of his ancestors passionately, and when he died he left

directions that he should be buried in the mausoleum on the knoll in

the park whence the sea stands out clearly behind the castle.

He had daughters--wild and high-spirited like their father--who divided

up the property between them, and the present owner of the Castle--the

representative of the eldest daughter--cares only for his rents and

royalties, would sell if he could, and comes here about twice a year for

what partridge and pheasant shooting there may be. The coal pits are

extending their shafts and workings northward, his park will soon be

undermined, and the "amenities"--to use the auctioneers' phrase--will

soon no longer exist. I think we may truthfully call the great pile of

building _Castle Ichabod, for its glory has certainly departed_.'

My uncle thus concluded his tale, then knocked out the ashes of his

pipe, and conducted me to my bedroom.

The next morning after breakfast I went in search of 'Geordie,' my chief

witness, concerning whom my uncle had already given me a little

information.

He had when working as a hewer down the pit been disabled by a fall of

stone; then as he had been a 'handy man' and used to both horses and

flowers the Rector had taken him into his service as groom-gardener.

'Crammed with northern self-sufficiency and a sort of scornful

incivility, he has a keen sense of humour and a heart of gold,' said my

uncle, as he forewarned me as to the character of my witness.

Thus fortified, I went in search of 'Geordie,' and found him busy tying

up chrysanthemums.

Pretending a deep interest in them and a profound admiration of his

skill, I soon found I had established friendly relations. Then I offered

him a cigarette, and plunged boldly into my examination.

'Tell me,' I said, 'about your adventure with the dog or its ghost in

the park two nights ago. My aunt has told me something of her own

experience a year ago, and advised me to compare her account with yours,

for I am much interested in these occurrences.'

'Why,' replied he, nothing loth to talk about himself, 'it happened this

fashion. Aa wes comin' back through the park cannily enough when close

beside the mussulyum oot spangs at us a great ugly brute of a durg

wivoot a sound to his pads. Aa'd heard nowt, but there he was glarin' at

us, an' showin' his great ugly fangs. "By gox, Geordie," I says to

maaself, "it's a mad durg ye have to fettle." Sae I lets oot wiv a kick

that would have shifted a bullock, but aal that happened was that he

seemed to catch haud o' my trousers, for I felt them rip. Gox! I

thinks, 'tis an evil sperrit, sae I set awa like a hare--game leg an'

aal--tearin' towards the park wall like a whippit, followed by the evil

sperrit that made no sound wiv his pads, but was growlin' terrible aal

the time.'

'Then it wasn't a _real_ dog?' I interrupted here.

'_Wasn't a real durg?_' replied Geordie indignantly, his eyebrows

puckering and his jowl coming forward aggressively.

'It made no noise with its feet, and you called it a spirit,' I

explained hastily.

'Aa's feared o' nowt,' said Geordie, 'that's livin', but when it comes

to evil sperrits 'tis the Priest should tackle them. Aa winnot.'

'So it was an evil spirit in the form of a dog,' I suggested; 'but what

was the precise form--mastiff, retriever, or collie perhaps, for the

Rector says there is a tale of a ghost of a drowned collie that haunts

the Park?'

'Collie be damned!' cried he decisively. 'An' as for what specie o' durg

it was hoo can Aa tell hoo many species there may be in Hell?'

'You had me there,' I acknowledged, smiling. 'Well, tell me how you

escaped from the brute.'

'He chivvied us aboot halfway te the wall, an' then I think he gied it

up; leastways when Aa gied a keek ower my shoulder as Aa drew near it he

wasn't there.'

'You didn't hear the dog dashing on you or galloping after you, and yet

you heard it growling, and felt it take a piece out of your trousers. It

seems half real, half Hell-hound!' I commented.

'It's easy talkin',' replied Geordie contemptuously, 'but if he had had

a hand o' yor breeks ye'd have knawn he was _damned_ real, Aa's warrant

ye,' and he spat on the ground with emphasis.

'My aunt saw the hound a year ago,' I continued, 'but it didn't chase

her; it only growled and frightened her.'

'Mevvies it kenned she was the Priest's wife,' suggested my companion.

Then with a grin, 'Noo, as thoo's his nephew thoo gan and see if it will

chivvy thoo, and, if it does, Aa'l bet thoo thoo'll run from it faster

than thoo's ever run i' your life afore.'

I turned away with a laugh, saying I was going to look about for the

dog's tracks.

'The beggar had ne tracks, Aa warrant thoo,' shouted my informant after

me, but he was wrong, for I soon found tracks in the park here and there

in the soft grass, and an impress of paws which evidently must have

been bandaged--that is, there was a round slot only, no separate pads

were showing. _The Hell-hound was evidently club-footed._ As I looked at

the imprint a little closer I grew certain that the hound's paws had

been bound round with some soft material--linen, calico, or washleather,

for one of the coverings had come unloosed and I saw a distinct mark of

claws.

I investigated the mausoleum next, and found that there was a wall some

four feet six inches high round about it for the evident purpose of

protection against cattle. Between this and the circular tomb-containing

tower were some yew trees which had thriven well, and now extended their

long fingers above and beyond the encircling wall.

The yew branches were so thick and the dews had been so heavy that

certainty was out of the question, but I thought I had discovered this

at least, that the hound had been lying beneath the bushes, and had

given 'Geordie' his hunt from the mausoleum exactly as he had asserted.

I returned to the Rectory, my mind made up. I would borrow a revolver

from my uncle, and watch beside the mausoleum all that night.

Fortified by tea, encouraged by my aunt, and chaffed by my uncle, I set

off for my sentry post carrying an electric torch, some sticks of

chocolate, and a revolver. I approached the mausoleum very warily; a

soft west wind was blowing, the night was quiet with alternate swathes

of darkness and light as billowy clouds took the moon by storm and

passed beyond her. I stayed in the shadow of the trees, beside the

knoll, and spied out the landscape, and listened for any tell-tale

sound. Beyond the jet-black bastions of Castle Ichabod I could see the

white turmoil of the waking sea half a mile to the eastward; I could

hear her ancient threnody, but saw no sign of life within the park.

Waiting for the next spell of darkness I walked swiftly up to the

protecting wall of the mausoleum, climbed over, and with the torch's aid

found a yew branch on which I could sit and observe--whenever it was

moonlight--the little dell that ran down to the burn wherein the

shepherd and dog had been drowned.

Silence reigned supreme. I could just hear the gentle brushings of the

yew branches as they rose and fell upon the wind--the ghostly sighing of

a ghostly spirit that had once belonged, perhaps, to the former owner of

the Castle.

I was fairly comfortable with my back against the trunk of the yew, and

ate chocolate instead of smoking; hours passed, and I had fits of

drowsiness, and began to think I was wasting my time.

Then on a sudden I woke with a start; some nerve in my subconsciousness

had warned me in time; I was certain some one or something was near that

was uncanny.

The moonlight flooded the little dell, I saw a black shadow advancing

swiftly on all fours, not unlike a big baboon. What in Heaven's name was

it?

A touch of ice slid down my spine--the unknown with its terrors besieged

my brain--the apparition was too big for a dog. I gazed, rooted to my

perch, unable to move a hand or foot.

The creature drew swiftly closer, then on the sudden rose up; I saw the

glint of the moonlight touch on a gun barrel, and discovered that the

bearer was a man.

I breathed more freely, but--what was he doing with the gun? Then I

caught sight of a dog padding swiftly after the newcomer, who was now

close beside the mausoleum, and stood erect beside the wall two yards

away from me. I did not stir, but watched him in a fascinated attention.

Just as the press of cloud again obscured the moon I saw him take a bag

from his back out of which pheasants' tails were distinctly protruding.

I almost laughed aloud, for I recognised that it was only a poacher I

had to deal with. In one hand I held my torch, in the other my revolver.

'Have you had good sport?' I asked, as I covered him with both my

weapons simultaneously. He jumped back in alarm, then, 'Who the devil

are you?' he inquired hoarsely, and in another second recovering

himself, cried to the dog, '_Sick him, Tyke_.'

'Call off your damned dog,' I retorted, pulling up my feet, 'or I

shoot.'

He hesitated a moment, pulling his gun round.

'Quick,' I shouted.

'Down, Tyke,' he said sulkily to his dog, that was already growling and

jumping at my trousers. 'What d' ye want, damn ye?' he inquired surlily.

'I wanted to find out about the dog that frightened my aunt up at the

Rectory last year and the gardener two nights ago,' I replied, feeling I

had the upper hand in the encounter. 'There was a tale of a ghost in the

park, and I thought I would investigate it.' The moon had emerged again,

and I could see that my poacher was a strong, burly fellow, with a

rough, resolute face, who was surveying me as thoroughly as I surveyed

him.

'Would you like a brace of pheasants?' he inquired abruptly.

'No, thanks,' I said; 'I'm only here for a day or two.'

'Well,' he continued with a touch of defiance, 'if every yen had their

right I'd mevvies be shuttin' pheasants all day long like aad "Hell-Fire

Dick" i' the monument here, for he was a tarrible favouryte wi' the

women, ye must ken. Why, my grandfether was the very spit image o' the

aad Lord, for I've seen his picture up at the Castle. Ay, an' my name's

Allan as well.'

The man interested me considerably, for he was a splendid

figure--compact, alert, with hair cropped like a _poilu_, vivid with

life as a sporting terrier--so I inquired what he did for a living when

he wasn't covert shooting.

'I work doon the pit,' he replied, 'an' earns a good wage, but whiles I

tires ov it an' longs for a walk up the hedgerows, to hear the partridge

call and the pheasant shoutin' as he gans up to roost, an' to say to

myself, "Aha, my fine fellow, but thoo'll be i' my bag to-morrow night,

an' in my kite the night after that."' He paused a moment, then asked

suspiciously, 'Thoo'll not blab--thoo'll not tell the police?'

'No,' I replied readily, 'that's no concern of mine, but I shall have to

tell my aunt at the Rectory, for you gave her with your dog a great

fright that night she crossed the park a year ago.

'If it had been aad "Oleomargarine," commented my companion, 'it wud ha'

done him good, for he's sairly wantin' a bit exercise.'

Smothering a smile at his irreverent description of my uncle, I asked my

poacher a final question.

'Have you ever seen the ghost of the man or the collie dog they talk

about here in the park?'

'Not I,' said he, fondling the ears of his savage mongrel retriever, 'I

reckon they're gliffed o' my aad Tyke.'

NOTE.--The individuals described above, and the episode are

imaginary, but a ghost is said to haunt the hall, in the form of a

lady with a child in her arms, who watches from one of the high

windows in 'lofty Seaton Delaval,' for the return of a Delaval

lover.

It has been suggested that the apparition is due to an optical

illusion of light upon the window panes.

THE MUNIMENT ROOM

My uncle had succeeded late in life to the family estate in the north of

England, which was situated on the wild moorland of north-west

Yorkshire.

With him the entail would end, and though it was known that the estate

had been much impoverished and was heavily mortgaged, still the

succession was not a thing 'to be sneezed at.' So my mother, his sister,

herself a practical Yorkshire woman, phrased it, and consequently I was

bid to accept with gratitude an invitation to visit my uncle in the home

of his fathers.

Thither, therefore, I went, yet reluctantly, for my uncle was reputed

somewhat eccentric, and a great antiquary, and as he had been early

reconciled to Rome and ordained a priest, whereas I came of a sound

Protestant stock, I feared we might not find each other's company

entirely sympathetic. 'I shall only find in him,' I thought, 'a "snuffy

priest," and he in me only an Oxford cub.'

A long drive over the moorland in a pelting storm of sleet and rain was

not encouraging, nor was the companionship of the old, deaf Scots

groom, who drove me, exhilarating, for he persisted, as the ancient deaf

not uncommonly do, in regarding a stranger as a personal grievance

gratuitously thrust upon him.

Thus if I blamed the weather he transferred the fault upon myself for

having chosen to come upon such a stormy day; and when I inquired after

my uncle's health he replied that he was 'well enough so long as folk

didn't come hindering him from his studies.'

To this I replied humbly that I had heard he was writing a book upon his

family, which was one of the most ancient in the county, and that it was

a pity he should be the last of so old and formerly so famous a stock.

'Ay,' retorted my driver, with a glance of scorn out of the tail of his

eye, as he flicked upon his white steed, 'ay, there'll maybe be a sair

down-come when he's depairted.'

After this shaft I sank into silence, and was relieved when I saw the

grey, buttressed gables of Startington Hall appear below us grouped amid

its trees.

'It certainly looks like a haunted house,' I remarked aloud, though I

was merely speaking to myself, 'even though the tradition has no

foundation of fact.'

'How do ye ken it's haunted?' retorted my companion, whose hearing

seemed to vary with his mood. 'And even if 'tis, there's naething can

steer the maister, for tak awa Papistry, he has a hairt o' gold--the

bairns aboot here juist love him.'

'So you're not a Papist?' I inquired, smiling.

'No' me,' responded he grimly. 'I come o' the reet auld Presbyterian

stock, and I keep off the maister some o' thae hairpies that are aye

after him and his gear.'

He pulled up as he spoke at the porch of the Hall, and as I descended I

noted a stooping figure clad in a black soutane coming round the corner

of the house evidently to greet me.

As I shook hands with him I could see in a glance that though he might

be a recluse and an antiquary he had a lively and gentle heart; for if

his face was yellow and his pupils sere there was a wonderfully shy and

sympathetic mobility about his lips and face.

'You have had a long, wet drive, I fear,' he said, 'and these wild

Yorkshire moorlands are often inhospitable to strangers, yet in time one

gets to love them for this, their very bold and uncompromising

character. Also, they make one rejoice the more in a warm fireside.'

So speaking he led the way through a rounded hall, very poorly

furnished, but hung with family portraits interspersed with heads of

deer, and many masks of foxes, badgers, and hares.

Turning to the left he opened a door into a small library, which was

lined with books from skirting-board to cornice; a ripe fire glowed upon

the hearth, and two easy full-bottomed leathern chairs stood on either

side.

'The rougher the weather without,' said my uncle genially, 'the warmer

the welcome within, and here one may warm both body and soul,' he

pointed to the fire and the well-filled bookshelves.

'Most of them are my own treasures,' he added, 'for the Startington

family was given to keep up cellar and stable, rather than the library,

as probably you know. Most of my time now, however,' he said in

conclusion, 'is spent in the muniment room upstairs, so that you may

count this room as your own, and may smoke as much as you please. Since

you are an Oxford man, and all Oxford men smoke, you are bound,

syllogistically, to be a smoker. For myself,' he added, his hand upon

the door-handle, 'I--like most priests--do not smoke, yet tobacco is not

in the index, and we usually take a little snuff occasionally,' and he

tapped upon a small box hidden within his waistband.

Therewith he was gone, and left me to my own devices till dinner-time,

or supper rather, for he did not dress.

The next few days passed very enjoyably for me, since the weather was

fine, and after studying in my Aristotle all morning, I took long walks

over the breezy moorland, and then in the evening after supper made

myself very much at home amid my uncle's books and the burnt sacrifice

of tobacco. I was not, however, very long in the house before I found

that my uncle was uncommonly preoccupied; something seemed to be

weighing upon his mind, for though he unbent at supper-time, and talked

by starts excellently over the port wine at dessert, he frequently fell

into an abstraction from which only with a mighty effort could he pluck

himself and resume his speech.

As I knew him to be engaged upon his family history I thought that his

gentle mind must be exercised upon some uncomfortable episode in the

life story of an ancestor, and I hit upon the notion that a certain Sir

Humphrey Startington--a notable merchant adventurer, who was said to

have largely increased the family estate by his traffic in slaves in the

seventeenth century--was the family skeleton that was haunting him. I

thought perhaps that my uncle's conscience was whispering in his ear

that he should make restitution, and as I knew that he was most eager to

find funds to rebuild and redecorate the chapel--now much dilapidated--I

assumed that a battle was being waged within his soul between these two

opposing claims.

Having arrived at this solution I led up to the subject of family

histories in general one evening over the supper-table when he was more

than usually inclined to talk and linger over our dessert.

'Families, I suppose, like nations, wax and wane,' I said, 'they become

atrophied, if not extinct.' The port was magnificent--of the year

'64--and I felt oracular. 'Hence the use of bastards. Robert the Devil

from the top of his tower falls in love with the laundrywoman bleaching

linen on the green, and in natural course William the Conqueror sees the

light of day.'

My uncle interrupted my eloquence.

'Far more often than people think the fall of a family, ay, or even of a

nation, is due to some crime or other which--unrepented and

unpurged--has festered in the body and brought corruption with it.

'I have deeply studied this profound problem, and I might tell you tales

of how son has never succeeded father, how gradually a house has sunk

into physical decay, and ended in abortion and an idiot.'

Falling into dejection he paused a moment, then with great emotion he

repeated the magnificent lines of Hector prophesying the fall of Priam,

and his house, and his great town of Troy. His voice trembled and shook

sadly as he concluded, 'My house too has fallen and nears its end, and I

alone am left to tell the tale--the tale of a most foul--as I am

convinced--and unnatural murder.'

With this he clasped his hands together and looked darkly into the

future; then as he rose to bid me farewell and turned towards the door,

I heard him murmur to himself: '_Illa culpa, illa culpa, illa maxima

culpa_.'

The door closed; I was left to my pipe and my reverie. 'It must have

been the Buccaneer who "wrought this deed of shame,"' I reflected, but

then I understood that he had been 'reconciled' to Rome before he died,

had given gifts to the Church, built the chapel here, and so 'made a

good end.' On the other hand I remembered that he had died childless.

The past was dead and gone, however, and did not much interest me, but

my uncle's emotion and distress touched me to the quick, and I

determined to avoid the subject henceforth in our conversation.

I went to bed early that night, for I had been a longer walk than usual

that afternoon, but whether it was that I was overtired, or could not

rid my mind of my uncle's suffering I know not. The one thing certain

was that after a slight doze I became extraordinarily wide-awake.

I was convinced that I heard footsteps somewhere or other in the house,

and as I listened with the greatest intentness I distinctly caught the

sound of some one treading upon the staircase that led into the hall.

It must be either my uncle--walking perhaps in his sleep--or else the

ghost. I sat up in bed to listen the better, and without a doubt caught

the sound of a footfall treading on the stone floor, apparently down in

the hall below. Curiosity prevailed over alarm; I got up, put on a

dressing-gown and socks, and proceeded cautiously without along the

corridor.

The footsteps had come to a halt seemingly, for now I heard nothing; and

then on a sudden by the light of the waning moon that showed in a faint

milk-white aureole through the high window emblazoned with the bugles

and caltrops of the Startingtons, that lit the hall below, I saw a dim

figure coming up the stairway towards me upon soundless feet; I drew

back in utmost astonishment, and shrank away beside a massive oak

cupboard on the landing.

The figure mounted the steps slowly, and as though in pain, passed

gently by me with just such a movement of the air as a moth might make

in its flight, and with a tiny sound as of a sigh turned to the left and

retreated along the passage.

''Tis a lady!' I murmured to myself, overcome with astonishment.

Almost at once I heard a firm tread of feet upon the stairs below, and

there mounting quickly another figure now showed at the head of the

stairs, and I recognised in the half light that it was my uncle.

He did not pause, but turned at once to the left, and incontinently

followed after the fragile figure of the lady, who had disappeared from

view into the misty depth of the corridor.

I stood dumbfounded. Here was a double mystery which I felt bound,

though a little shaken in my nerves, to unravel.

A-tiptoe I followed after my uncle along the dark passage, feeling my

way lest I should knock against the pictures or the various bronze casts

that stood on pedestals beside the wall.

The passage turned shortly again to the left and led, as I knew, past my

uncle's bedroom to the muniment room situate at the end of the wing.

When I turned the corner there was just sufficient moonlight from the

south window to show me the dim figure of my uncle standing within the

muniment room, apparently feeling with his hands upon the wall.

As I stood irresolute, but keenly watchful, I saw the sudden purple

flame of a match leap up in the darkling room. My uncle had lit a match,

and with trembling, excited fingers was applying the flame to a candle

that stood on the table.

He held the candle up towards the wall, peering intently upon it, and as

I drew nearer on tiptoe I could hear him exclaiming in disjointed

utterance.

'She vanished here. Just here. At last, then, I have discovered her

grave. Yet the cruelty of it! for I know she was innocent.'

He drew something from his pocket and marked upon the wall therewith;

then tapped with his knuckles, and, finding it to resound hollow, cried

joyfully, 'Ay, it is as I suspected, quite resonant. Yes! she shall have

a Christian burial.' He drew his hand across his forehead, signed with

the Cross, louted low before an ikon of the Madonna, and I heard him say

fervently:

'Ago tibi gratias, Immaculata.'

Seemingly satisfied, he turned again and narrowly scrutinised the wall

once more, then slowly, and as though very tired, withdrew from the room

and came back along the passage, and passed within his own chamber.

As he came on I stepped velvet-footed backwards, waited a few minutes at

the corner to see if he would come out once more, but as he almost

immediately extinguished the light I concluded that his quest was

completed for the night, and made my way back to my bedroom.

In the morning I was surprised to find my uncle already in the parlour

where usually I breakfasted by myself, for he was used to take his _cafe

au lait_ in his own room.

Bidding him good morning I had scarcely taken my seat when he produced a

miniature from his pocket, and earnestly gazing upon me inquired what I

thought of the character of the individual depicted in it.

I looked upon the medallion with great intentness, for I felt convinced

the mystery of the night was connected inseparably with it.

What I saw was a portrait--artistically executed in pastel--of a

delicate lady in eighteenth-century costume, with a strangely pathetic

expression in her dark brown eyes as of one perpetually striving to

understand and to be understood by others. Her mouth also showed the

same fragile tenderness of feeling, and altogether she seemed intended

to be--if not herself a musician or a poetess--at least the wife of a

musician or poet or sculptor.

'Not a strong character,' I replied musingly, 'but a most sweet and

delicate lady--one who should pass her time in playing upon the

clavichord or the viol d'amore. In sympathy of temperament I think she

would be more Italian than English.'

'You are right,' said my companion eagerly, 'she was Italian on her

mother's side. But what of her moral character?--that is what I want to

know from you--what think you of her constancy?'

I looked again into the deep brown eyes and pondered before I replied.

'I think,' I said slowly, 'I think that where she had once loved she

would love ever.'

My uncle's intensity became instantly relaxed, and a joyous look

overspread his face.

'I am sure of it,' he said with conviction, 'but I rejoice, nephew, that

your sound judgment bears out my intuition; but though you make me

happy the thought of the outrageous cruelty of her death makes me

miserable, for there is but one poor thing we now can do for her, that

is, to find her bones, and lay them to rest in the graveyard.

'As for the jealous and inhuman pride of the husband that could thus

immure in the walls of his house the tender, loving, fragile bride I can

find no adequate words.

'I cannot rest till I know this for a certainty, or till I have given

the poor bones their proper service and burial. I have sent for the

village mason--a discreet man enough--and should you care to assist me

in my task, nephew, I shall be greatly indebted to you.'

I very readily volunteered my services, for I had been profoundly

interested in the cause of my uncle's abstraction from the first, and

the mysterious apparition had enhanced my curiosity.

So the three of us set to work with hammers and chisels, and in the

course of a few hours' work we had proved to my uncle's satisfaction

that his intuition had been correct in that we found the remains of a

human body interred within the hollow of the walls; _yet 'twas not the

corpse of a woman, as he had surmised, but that of a young man_.

IN THE CLIFF LAND OF THE DANE

A LETTER TO THE REVEREND LAURENCE STERNE AT COXWOLD FROM JOHN HALL

STEVENSON AT SKELTON CASTLE, AS SET DOWN BY HIS NEPHEW FREDDY HALL.

The truth is, reverend sir, that being eventually designed for the Bar,

I had taken up this quest with an additional vigour, for here was a

mystery wherein my Lord Chief-Justice himself would have had a

difficulty in seeing the proper clue on 't.

For some months previous to my sojourn at Skelton Castle there had been

mysterious midnight thefts of sheep, heifers, and suchlike cattle on the

hills about here, Redcar, and Danby-way, and even on occasion a murder

added, as in the case of poor Jack Moscrop, the shepherd, who was found

in the early morning with his head cut in twain, as though by some

mighty cleaver, stark dead and cold on the low-lying ground beyond

Kirkleatham.

Much disquietude had been caused thereby amongst the farmer folk, and

the whole countryside was agape with excitement and conjecture, but

nothing had been discovered as to the malefactor, though many tales were

told, more especially by the womenfolk, who put down all mishaps to the

same unknown agent.

Some said 'twas a black man who had escaped off a foreign ship that had

been stranded by Teesmouth, but in that case one would imagine that such

an one would have eaten his victim raw, whereas the sheep and heifers

that were killed had always been 'gralloched,' as the Scotch term it,

that is, had been cut open with a knife and disembowelled, and the

carcases removed.

Some again avowed 'twas an agent of the Prince of Darkness, for there

were hoofmarks of an unshod horse discovered on one or two occasions

leading up and away from the scene of the slaughter, and blood drops

alongside, as though the booty had been slung from the horse's quarters,

and there dripped down as he sped along.

Now as you may imagine, I too had battered my brain with various

conjectures, but without practical result till one night after hunting

all day, and having lamed my mare badly with an overreach, I was

returning slowly homeward by a short cut across Eston Nab, so as to

strike the Guisboro' Road, and thence straight to Skelton.

'Twas a stormy November night, time about nine o'clock, for I had stayed

supper with a friendly yeoman, one Petch, of a noted family hereabout,

and was trudging a-foot, so as to ease the mare, along the desolate

hill-top, where in a kind of basin there lies a lonely pool of water,

set round in the farther side by a few draggled, wind-torn firs.

There was a swamped moon overhead, shining now and again as wreckage

shows amongst billows, the gleam but momentary, so that when I caught

sight of a kneeling figure across t' other side of the mere I could

scarce distinguish anything at all, whether 'twere a boggart, as they

say here, or some solitary shepherd seeking his sheep.

However, at that moment there was a break overhead, and the moon,

rheumy-eyed, shook her head clear of cloud, whereby I saw plain enough

'twas a tall, burly man kneeling beside some object or other, and a

mighty big horse standing a bit to the rearward of him.

I drew nigher without being perceived, and the light still holding, saw

that 'twas a young stirk or heifer the man was disembowelling.

'Ha, ha!' shouts I, without a further thought than that here was the

midnight miscreant and cattle-stealer, and that I had caught him

red-handed.

With that he lifts his head and gazes across the pool at me fixedly for

an instant of time, then with a whistle to his horse, leaps to his feet,

vaults to the saddle, and swings away at a hard gallop round the mere's

edge, the moonlight flashing back from some big axe he was carrying in

his right hand.

'Tally ho!' shouted I, commencing to run after him, bethinking me he was

for escaping, but no sooner had he rounded the edge some hundred and

fifty yards away than I saw 'twas he who was chasing me.

Another look at him tearing towards me was sufficient to change my

resolution, and hot foot I tore round to t' other end, trusting to win

to the wood's edge before he could catch me up.

I heard the hard breathing of the horse close behind me, the crunch of

his hoofs coming quicker and quicker; one fleeting glimpse I threw

backward, and saw a bright axe gleam above me, then my foot catching in

a tussock, I sank headlong, the horse's hoofs striking me as I fell.

I must suppose--for at that moment the moon was swallowed again by a

swirl of cloud--that in the changing light he had missed his blow, and

finding myself unhurt, I was able to gain my feet, make a double and

gain the wall's edge by the plantation before he had caught me up once

more. Just as I vaulted over a crash of stones sounded, some loose ones

at top grazing my foot as I touched the ground on the far side.

The wood, however, was pitch black, thick with unpruned trees; I bent

double and dived deeper into its gloomy belly.

'Safe now,' thinks I, as utterly outdone I sank on a noiseless bed of

pine-needles; and by the Lord Harry 'twas none too soon, for if it

hadn't been for the kindly moon dipping I'd have been in two pieces by

now. 'To Jupiter Optimus Maximus I owe an altar,' says I, in my first

recovered breath, and, 'curse that infernal reiver,' says I in my

second, 'but I'll be up ends with him yet.'

No sound came from without; all was still, save for the soughing in the

pines overhead.

A quarter of an hour passed perhaps, and I determined to creep to the

wall and see if my assailant were anywhere visible.

The wind had freshened; the clouds were unravelling to its touch, and I

could see clearly enough now across the desolate hill-top. Nothing

living showed save my mare, who was cropping the coarse grass tufts just

where I had left her.

Surmounting the wall, I approached the spot where I had seen the reiver

first. There lay red remnants that clearly told a tale. The carcase,

however, had been 'lifted,' and I could trace the direction in which my

raider had gone by the drops of blood that lay here and there by the

side of the horse's track.

As the ground in places was soft with peat or bog, by a careful

examination of the hoof marks of his horse, I was able to ascertain the

direction in which he had gone, which seemed to be nearly due

north-east, or at least east by north. The marks proved another thing,

moreover, and that is, that here was the same miscreant who had killed

the shepherd and carried off the cattle elsewhere, for 'twas an unshod

horse that had galloped over Eston Nab top that night.

'Twas sore-footed that I gained home at last, but all the way I

discussed a many plans for the discovery and punishment of my

moss-trooper.

'Tis an unpleasant remembrance to have fled; next time we met I swore to

be in a better preparation for the encounter.

Next morning I started to explore, for I knew something of the

direction. I knew also that my man was a tall, well-built, burly fellow

with a big ruddy beard, and the horse a fine seventeen hands roan that

would be known far and wide in the district.

Determining to stay out till I had discovered somewhat, I rode down to

the low-lying ground between Boulby and Redcar, as being the likeliest

region to get news of horse or man and, sure enough, at the second time

of inquiry, I was informed at a farmhouse that some six months ago

Farmer Allison, away over by Stokesly, had lost a fine, big, upstanding

roan stallion, of which he had been inordinately proud.

Of the man, though, I could glean nothing, till finally, a good

housewife, overhearing her man and myself conversing, cried out, 'Eh!

but by my surely, there's that Red Tom o' the "Fisherman's Rest," nigh

to Saltburn, that's new come there, who features him you speak of; but

he's nowt but a "fondy," oaf-rocked, they say he is; why, Moll who hawks

t' fish about says his wife beats him an' maks him wash up t'

dishes--the man being a soart o' cholterhead by all accounts.'

However, 'fondy' or no, I was sworn to go and see for myself, though the

thought that 'twas perhaps a disguise the reiver had worn gave me

discomfort, and made my quest seem foolish enough.

As I drew close to the little tavern above the cliff, I could hear a

dispute going on inside; then a crash as of some crockery falling, and

shortly a big, burly man with an auburn beard came tumbling forth in an

awkward haste, pursued by the high tone of a woman's voice within.

Shaking his sleeve free of some water-drops, he sat down on a low rock

near hand, and fell knitting at a stocking he proceeded to draw from his

jacket.

''Tis surely the man,' says I to myself, for in height, build, and

colour of hair, he seemed the fellow of the midnight raider, but yet it

seemed impossible; there might be a brother, however.

I rode up to him, and asked if I could bait my horse and seek

refreshment within.

'Ay, sir, surely ye can; if ye'll dismount I'll tak your horse, sir, an'

give him a feed o' corn,' and shambling away he touched a greasy lock at

me as he led my horse to the stable behind.

I turned to the inn, and encountered mine hostess, fuming within the

bar.

'Please draw me a pot of ale, ma'am,' says I, 'while my horse gets a

feed. Your good man, I suppose 'tis, who took him away outside?'

'Ay, he's mine, so says t' Church an' t' law, Aah b'lieve, but 'od

rabbit him, Aah says, who knaws the clumsiness o' the creature. Just fit

for nowt else but cuttin' up t' bait for t' harrin' fishin'.'

'Been here long?' says I further, carelessly.

'Six months mair or less,' says she with a snap, eyeing me suspiciously.

'Well, here's for luck and a smarter man at the next time of asking,'

and with that I tossed down the ale, paid the reckoning, and strode out

to the stable, for nothing further was to be got out of the vinegar lips

of Mrs. Boniface.

I looked narrowly round the low-roofed and ill-lit stable, but no sign

of a big roan horse anywhere did I see, only a jack-spavined cob, such

as a fishwife might hawk her fish about with.

'Ever seen or heard tell of that big roan of Farmer Allison's, strayed,

stolen, or lost, about six months since?' so I accosted Boniface anew,

on finding him rubbing down my horse's hocks with a bit of straw.

'Noah, sir, not Aah; Aah nevver seen 'im, sir. What soart o' a mak o'

horse was 'e, sir?'

I looked him full in the face as question and answer passed, and not a

shred of intelligence could I detect in his opaque, fish-like eyes.

'Oaf-rocked,' truly enough; he seemed as incapable of dissimulation as a

stalled ox, and with a heavy feeling of disappointment I inquired what

was to pay, and rode away down the slope.

'Curious,' I mused, 'how imagination plays one tricks at times! Once get

the idea of a red beard into your mind, and Barbarossa is as often met

with as the robin redbreast.'

Then all in a moment my eye caught in the spongy bottom a thin mark cut

clearly crescent-wise upon the turf. There was something strangely

familiar about the horseshoe curve. Then I remembered the unshod roan of

the night before.

'Twas the same impress, for in neither case was there any trace of the

iron rim. 'Where the horse is the rider will not be far away,' thinks I,

and hope kindled afresh in my heart, as I rode slowly on, resolving

various conjectures.

I determined finally to go call upon the farmer at Kirkleatham, whose

heifer it was, as I had learnt, that had been killed and carried off the

night before.

He was said to be tightfisted, so probably would be in a mood for

revenge, and ready enough to join in any scheme for discovery of the

reiver.

As luck had it, Farmer Johnson was within doors, and in a fine taking

about the loss of his beast: he was ready to swear an oath that he

wouldn't rest till he had caught the malefactor, and agreed upon the

instant to watch out every night in the week with me round about 'The

Fisherman's Rest' on chance of coming across the suspect either going or

returning.

'Ay, Aah'll gan mahself, an' Aah'll tak feyther's owd gun wi' me there,

for Aah'll stan' none o' his reiver tricks, an' Tom and Jack, they'll

come along too, an' 'od burn him, but we'll nab him betwixt us, the

impudent scoundrel, if it's a leevin' man he is.'

By eight o'clock we four had ensconced ourselves in hiding-places on all

sides of the little inn, having tethered our horses within a small but

thick-grown covert above the rise that led to the inn door. Here I

stationed myself and for better vision climbed a tree wherefrom I

commanded the whole situation. The others hid themselves as they found

shelter convenient, one below the cliff's edge some two hundred yards to

the east, another amongst broken boulders to the southward, while Farmer

Johnson crouched behind the wall that girt the road leading past the

ale-house from the north.

'Twas weary work watching, more by token that that night nothing

appeared save a thirsty fisherman or two, and a stray, shuffle-footed

vagrant or the like.

Next night the same, and I for one was growing somewhat cold, but Farmer

Johnson, bull-like in his obstinacy, swore he wouldn't shave his chin

till he had 'caught summat,' so off we started on the third night to our

rendezvous.

'The third time brings luck,' thought I, as I squatted down in the fork

of the same old twisted elm; 'and 'tis something stormy this evening,

which might suit our reiver's tastes.'

It would then be about eight of the clock, as I may suppose, the wind

from the seaward, the clouds lowering, fringed with a moonlight border

like broidery on a cloak, and that raw, cold touch in the air that

chills worse than the hardest winter's frost.

The night grew stormier; vapour lifted upward, and assumed strange and

threatening shape. The cloud forms might be the giants rising up out of

Jotunheim, and advancing to attack Odin and the Aesir--the evil wolf

Fenrir in the van--his bristles silvered by the moon.

An hour passed, and I began to wish I had never undertaken the quest, or

mentioned the matter to Farmer Johnson, when I heard, as if some way

off, not exactly a neigh, but a sort of defiant snorting, such as a

stallion breathes forth when he wishes to be free. Then a sound as of a

heavy stone falling succeeded, mingled with a scraping and a trampling

noise.

Craning my neck forward, I saw under a broadened fringe of moonlight the

roan horse with the ruddy-bearded reiver beside him. They had evidently

crept through some secret passage that issued into the bottom below me.

I was just upon the point of raising the hue and cry on him when an

action of his took me by surprise.

Holding up his battle-axe--for such was his weapon--he raised it aloft,

then thrust its handle deep into the soft moss of the hollow. Next, he

threw the horse's reins over the head of it, and sinking down upon his

knees, appeared to be pouring forth a prayer to Heaven, expressed in old

Danish, which I have set down in English as nearly as I can:

'Vafoder, the swiftness of Sleipnir

Breathe Thou into my roan.

Let him fly like Thy ravens

Black Munin and Hugi.

May my axe be as Thor's,

When he wieldeth Miolnir.

Winged Thor's mighty weapon.

The pride of Valhalla.

This grant me, O Odin,

Grim, Ygg and All Father.'

He then drew forth from his breast a small phial, and having set up a

square stone beside him poured forth into the cup or hollow at the top,

liquid of a dark colour, which I imagined must be either blood or wine.

This done, he seemed to fall to prayer afresh, but in so low a tone

that I could not catch the words of his utterance with any distinctness.

Then he leapt to his feet, lifted the axe, tossed it into the air,

caught it as it fell, and had vaulted upon the stallion's back before I

had even recovered from my first astonishment.

'Tally-ho!' shouts I, 'yonder he goes; forrard Mr. Johnson! forrard Tom

and Jack!' and, scrambling down my tree, I made for my horse.

The next thing I heard was a 'pang,' evidently the discharge of Farmer

Johnson's musket, and thereat a weird, smothered, savage note of pain

and rage broke out upon the night.

Seizing my horse I mounted, and out of the covert across a gap in the

wall. Dimly I could see a centaur-like figure plunging and snorting upon

the short turf by the cliff's edge, then three figures running from the

north, south, and east towards it.

The roan horse plunged and reared like one demented; the rider sitting

the while firm and supple as an Indian; then, seizing on a sudden the

bit 'twixt his teeth, off set the stallion at a tearing gallop

southward.

Away I followed hotly, the others giving chase and halloaing in the

background.

Dyke after dyke we flew headlong in the grey-white mist--the space still

even betwixt us--then, at a sudden high dry-stone wall, which loomed up

as a wave of darkness seaward, my horse jumped short, and down we fell

together, on the turf beyond.

As I lay there for a moment or two, I was certain I heard a heavy

rumbling of rock or stone by the cliff edge hard by, followed by a deep

plunge far below into the sea.

I rose to my feet and looked around me. There was no sign of horse or

rider; both had disappeared.

The cliff here made a sudden bend inland, so that I could even catch the

come and go of the waves in the far void below, and I felt 'twas lucky

for me that I had been riding the nethermost line of the twain of us.

Cautiously approaching the edge, I noticed it had been just broken away

under the tramplings of a horse, and as I peeped over I caught sight of

an indistinct figure lying on a broad slab of rock below that jutted out

some way from the cliff.

Feeling carefully around for support of root or stone, I made my way

down, and discovered, as I had already conjectured, 'twas the reiver

that lay there.

He was lying motionless, spread on his back, and was murmuring to

himself as I drew close.

I knelt beside him to lift him up, and could catch, as I tried to raise

him, what he was saying.

'Whisht ye, then, whisht, Effie, Aah never meant to break t' dish, Aah

tell thee. Leave us aloan, then, lass, doan't plague t' life oot of a

man. Ay, Aah'll fetch t' coo in i' guid time, there's no call t' bang

us that gait.'

Then he babbled indistinctly; his lips grew whiter and ceased from

moving; and when the others had come up I think he was already dead.

As I rode off for the physician in Redcar, I minded me I had once read

in a book, Reverend Sir, that this same Cleveland was once 'the

Cliff-land of the Danes,' and that the older name of Roseberry

Topping--the famous hill of these parts--was Othenesberg, or Odin's

Hill, together with much else of an antiquarian interest and varied

conjecture, which I must even leave to wiser heads than mine to

determine the true issues of, as well as their bearing upon the events

just narrated, but this I may say, that here is the same 'crazy tale' my

cousin mentioned to you, set down in all true verisimilitude by,

reverend sir, your very faithful and humble servant to command,

FREDDY HALL.

THE DOPPEL-GANGER

So this was the old home--the cradle of his race!

Percy Osbaldistone of Osbaldistone Tower gazed curiously about him in

what had formerly been the library, and espied a capacious Queen Anne

chair by the fireside which looked inviting.

Having ensconced himself therein he put up his feet against the

mantelpiece, lit a long cigar, and drew in the smoke slowly and

meditatively.

The old housekeeper and her pretty niece had given him a good supper,

and he himself, foreseeing empty cellars, had brought with him an ample

freight, so now at the long last he had arrived in harbour.

After all his vicissitudes and being for years the black sheep of the

ancient family, that he should come into possession of Osbaldistone

Tower and Manor touched his vein of humour.

He laughed grimly, rubbed one hand upon the other, and looked

contemptuously up at the portrait of an ancestor who seemed to be

scowling at the last representative of his race. It was true that there

was not much of the old family estate left, and what was left was

mortgaged, but still it was good for a few thousands, and the family

lawyer had to find them or go. The heir of the Osbaldistones continued

his reflections. He didn't 'give a damn' for his ancestors, for what had

they done save bring him into the world--a doubtful blessing?

'_Apres moi le Deluge_,' murmured he to himself with a cynical smile, as

he ensconced himself deeper in the recesses of his armchair and drank

deep from the glass by his side. His hand shook badly, and he spilled

some drops of whisky and soda upon his trousers.

'Damn!' cried he in annoyance. Then to himself _sotto voce_, 'Now that

I've got back to this old quiet place I'll soon have my rotten nerves

right again.'

Looking up after wiping his trousers he suddenly perceived to his great

astonishment, for he had heard no sound of entrance, a fellow seated in

the chair opposite which nestled under the Spanish leather screen that

kept off the draught from the door behind.

'Who the devil are you?' inquired the Lord of the Manor angrily, 'and

what d' ye want?'

'I am an Osbaldistone like yourself,' replied the stranger suavely; 'we

are the last of the ancient house that bears upon its chevron the spear

and spurs (mullets), so when I heard of your good fortune I thought it

but polite to call and gratulate you on your succession.'

Percy Osbaldistone looked across upon his unwelcome visitor with

narrowed eyes. The room was dark in its old oak panelling; there was but

the one lamp on the table behind him, and it was by the light of the

fire that he had to scrutinise the newcomer. So far as he could see the

fellow was not unlike himself: he seemed to have the high-ridged nose of

the family, which had become almost a birthmark in course of years. Yet

the sardonic hardness of chin and jaw was very different to his own

flabbiness; and as he watched his opposite Osbaldistone felt hatred

surge up within his soul.

He had heard of men having their 'double.' Perhaps this was his own. He

shivered at the thought.

Then he recollected that a branch of the family had long years ago

migrated to Virginia. Possibly the fellow was one of their descendants.

'Are you from America?' he inquired. Then he went on in haste, not

waiting for reply, 'For myself, I've only just arrived here. The only

servants are an ancient housekeeper and her little niece, and I can't do

with visitors--you'll understand me. Take a whisky and soda and then

go,' and the speaker ended with a snarl and suggestive stretch of leg

and boot.

'You are not very hospitable,' replied his opposite, suavely as before,

'but it matters little, nor do I require a whisky and soda. I simply

called in for a "crack," as you say up here, and to congratulate you on

succeeding.'

'A crack!' echoed his host surlily. 'What about?'

'Oh, about our family and yourself,' returned the other caressingly. 'I

am something of a genealogist, love family histories and dote on

skeletons in the cupboard. As a matter of fact, ours is a singularly

dull chronicle: except that the head of the family was an unsuccessful

rebel in the "15," we never travelled beyond our Anglo-Saxon

fatherdom--deep drinking, gambling, hard riding--and the _droit de

Seigneur_'--here the speaker paused a moment--'this little niece, for

example?' he hinted delicately.

'How the devil has the fellow guessed that?' thought Osbaldistone, white

with anger and touched by secret fear.

'Get out!' he cried hoarsely, and felt if his revolver lay handy in his

pocket, ready for use if needful.

His guest, however, took no notice of the command. Indeed, he went on

more coolly than before. 'I mention it,' said he, 'because there was an

ugly story about in British East Africa when you were farming out in the

wilds beyond Simba, of the rape of a native girl, who was eventually

turned out of doors at night and never reached her home again. Hyaena or

lion? Which d' ye think?'

Osbaldistone's hand dropped feebly back from his revolver. His face was

ashen-coloured. Good God! Who was this visitor? The episode of this

black girl was the one thing he had never been able to forget. Shrinking

back into his chair, he gazed as a rabbit may gaze upon the approaching

python.

'Damn the fellow!' He plucked forth his revolver with quivering fingers,

levelled it at his guest, and pulled upon the trigger. The bullet sang

across the room, passed through armchair and screen into the wainscot

beyond.

The smoke cleared; Osbaldistone could still see the unmoved and mocking

eye of his enemy that filled him with a nameless horror. He lifted his

pistol to take a better aim, then--on a strange misgiving--turned the

barrel round upon himself. 'You fool!' muttered the strange visitor

sardonically, and as he spake he vanished as silently as he had come.

IN MY LADY'S BEDCHAMBER

'Well,' said Harry laughingly, as he showed me the family portraits, and

more especially the ladies, on the wall of the panelled dining-room,

'which of them would you choose if you were, like Henry VIII., on the

look-out for a fresh wife?'

'This one, I think,' I replied, as I gazed at a charming fragile beauty

in a big bonnet, beneath which shy eyes looked bewitchingly; 'surely she

was a Frenchwoman and painted by Fragonard?'

'Aha!' cried he, 'you are a bold man, for there are tales told of

her--strange tales of feminine and deadly jealousy for all her soft

demureness. She was French, as you say, and a devoted wife, I believe,

but probably her _mari_ was not as faithful as he should have been. She

is said to haunt the house, but I haven't come across her yet myself.

You are to sleep in her bedchamber,' he added with a smile, 'so perhaps

you may be favoured with the sight of your charmer.'

I pressed naturally for further information, but he put me off by saying

it was too long a story, and that he had many other things to show me

on this my first evening in the manor house.

I had only just arrived by motor. We had dined, and my friend was

showing me round his possessions with all the pride of new and sudden

inheritance. Harry had always been lucky; he had a talent for 'dropping

in' for things unexpectedly. Thus at Eton, though really only thirteenth

man, he had played against Harrow; and now owing to unexpected deaths he

had become the possessor of a charming seventeenth-century manor house

on the northern Border--a house that, lying in a deep crook of the Tweed

and hidden by trees, had marvellously escaped the hand and torch of the

raider.

He had succeeded to his great-uncle--an antiquary and recluse--a

disappointed bachelor, and latterly, 'twas said, somewhat of a miser,

which was fortunate for my friend, who had very little of his own.

Harry was soon to be married, and I was to be best man. He had come down

to interview the agent and see what alterations and new furniture would

be required, and had insisted on my joining him for a few days' fishing

in the Tweed, while he was being inducted by agent and bailiff into his

estate and introduced to the tenantry. After surveying his ancestors'

portraits we adjourned to the hall, which was furnished with

battle-axes, Jethart spears, basket-hilted swords, maces, salmon

leisters, masks of otters and foumarts, foxes and badgers, and all the

various trophies of Border sport and warfare of old time. This was the

oldest part of the house, and proved by its stone-vaulted roof that it

had belonged to the old peel tower on to which the manor had been

engrafted; a fire of pine logs flamed in an open fireplace, gleaming and

glancing on the copper drums that held relays of firewood on either

hand.

Skins of red deer and the tufted pelts of kyloe cattle lay on the stone

floor: there were massive black oak coffers and a great wardrobe like

some huge safe for coats behind us, but two broad ancient leathern

armchairs stood by the hearth invitingly, suggestive of unperturbed

eighteenth-century ease, wherein we at once settled ourselves.

It was perhaps the absence of feminine taste and adornment that made the

house seem older than it really was; apart from the charming portraits

of the ladies in the dining-room the house resembled rather a Border

strength than a Jacobean manor house.

However, the atmosphere was rendered all the more romantic thereby, and

I lay back in my chair making believe to myself that I was staying with

a Lord Warden of the Marches in the days of the ancient feud between

England and Scotland.

We smoked and talked, however, not of the far, but of the immediate,

past, of Eton and Oxford, and of mutual friends till twelve o'clock

struck on the brazen rim of a Cromwellian clock, and we agreed that it

was bedtime.

I had clean forgotten all about the reputed ghost till my host said

'good-night' at the door of my bedroom and bade me call him if I got a

'gliff' in the night from the apparition of 'Silkie'--so he informed me

the lady was called locally. 'You've got your retriever with you,' he

said, 'so no doubt you will feel protected.'

'Brenda,' I replied, 'is Scotch by birth, so possibly she may be

superstitious. The event will determine. So long,' I said, as Harry went

off to the room of his late bachelor great-uncle.

Though very sleepy after a long motor ride I could not 'turn in' till I

had explored my bedroom, which was indeed a fascinating and enchanting

chamber. It seemed to be a coign plucked out of an old French chateau,

and inset here like a rare plant in an old stone wall. The panelling was

of Italian intarsia work inlaid with a renaissance design portraying

the tale of Cupid and Psyche; on the final panel Jupiter was handing the

cup of ambrosia to Psyche with the words, '_Sume, Psyche, et immortalis

esto, nec unquam digridietur a tuo nexu Cupido, sed istae vobis erunt

perpetuae nuptiae_'; the floor was formed of parquetry, and the rugs

above were of fine Persian workmanship. The curtains of the window were

of purple silk, embroidered, I imagined, by the fair Frenchwoman

herself, and the great four-poster bed was of fine walnut with deep

mouldings, and adorned with the fleur-de-lys of France. The whole room

seemed to be redolent of the grace of a charming _grande dame_ of old

France. I made up the fire with fresh pine logs upon the tiled hearth,

settled Brenda upon a rug by the side of it, undressed and went to bed,

enchanted by my surroundings, and very much inclined to envy my friend

his good fortune.

I fell asleep at once, for the bed was luxuriously comfortable, and I

was extraordinarily sleepy.

How long I slept I did not know, but when I awoke I had an immediate and

most lively intimation that some one was in the room. I drew myself

noiselessly upward, and at once my eyes rested upon a dainty figure

sitting in the chair by the dying fire, evidently engaged upon some

absorbing occupation. It was a woman clad in a sprigged silk gown, the

image of my lady of the dining-room portrait. What was she doing?

Seemingly pounding some substance in a small mortar. As I gazed

astounded a slight knock sounded on the door. My Lady seemed

extraordinarily perturbed; she started violently, seemed to shake

something white from the mortar as she gathered it hastily to her, moved

swiftly with the slightest rustle as of a scurrying mouse and vanished

through the door that led into the dressing-room.

I waited a few minutes to see if she would return, or perhaps some one

else enter by the other door, but no sound greeted my ear, and my eyes

could discover nothing unusual about the room.

I rose, and, moving on tiptoe, opened both doors, and with the light of

an electric torch I always carried with me, investigated the corridor

and dressing-room, but could make no discovery of any kind, nor perceive

where my fair visitant had vanished.

When I returned to my room I found Brenda had been disturbed by my

perambulation, for she was up and moving about restlessly. Giving her a

pat I bade her lie down again, and went back to bed determined to stay

awake for the chance of my Lady reappearing.

A few minutes after this Brenda seemed to be taken with a fit, for she

got up suddenly, made a bolt, as it were, for the door, shook with some

convulsive movements of her jaw, gave a horrible sort of strangled sob,

and fell with a heavy thud on the floor.

I leapt out of bed, got some water in a basin and knelt down beside her,

but she was already stiff, her teeth were clenched, and she showed a

horribly distorted mask.

A horrid suspicion awoke in my mind. I searched with my torch on the

floor where my Lady had dropped the powder, and I could plainly see the

wet edge of Brenda's tongue and the smudge of the white powder which she

had licked up.

I went back to where Brenda lay stiff and stark, and felt with a

trembling hand for her heart.

It beat no more; my Brenda was dead--poisoned by the beautiful Lady.

THE WARLOCK OF GLORORUM

'But are you sure your father wouldn't object?' I asked of my

companion--a most bright and amusing Eton boy--to whom I was playing

bear leader. 'Not a bit,' replied he; 'my father is a naturalist and

Darwinian; not a sceptic, but _Agnosticus suavis_ or _Verecundus, ordo

compositae_, you know. "Hunt the ghost by all means," said he, when I

suggested a ghost "worry," and then as he does sometimes over coffee and

a cigarette after dinner he talked with a real keen interest on the

whole subject. He talked so long that old Mac (the butler) got quite

shirty, and finally--after putting his head round the door two or three

times--came in like the Lord Mayor and bore off the whisky decanter to

the smoking-room. Now, the pater said that the love of the marvellous

was native to mankind, and Tertullian had acquired a false credit for

his motto, _Credo quia impossible_, since that was the natural failing

of the untrained intellect, and, scientifically speaking, he ought to

have been shot sitting.

'Then he went on to tell a jolly story which some great educationalist

had told him of the little girl playing in the garden, who saw Fifine,

the poodle, unexpectedly appear, and at once rushed in crying to her

mother, "Mummy, mummy, there's a bear in the garden!" Her mother, being

a wholly unimaginative creature, promptly put Maggie into the corner,

and told her to beg God's pardon for having told a lie. Presently Maggie

comes out of her corner radiant, "It's all right, mummy," she cried,

"God tells me He has often mistaken Fifine for a bear Himself." No

doubt, as he said, Maggie had had a momentary fright, and for half a

second had thought of a bear, but she knew, too, that if she stayed to

investigate she would find out it was Fifine, so preferring the luxury

of the marvellous, she fled crying in to her mother. Sometimes, of

course, he added, the ghost is the resultant of some horrible cruelty or

murder, mankind, from various motives, refusing to let the memory of the

crime die out, but more usually the ghost is born of the early

mythopoeic imagination of man that cherishes the marvellous. One never

hears of a new ghost nowadays. Science, no doubt, is an iconoclast in

the matter.'

'Well,' said I, 'how do you propose to proceed? I have gathered that

there was once a warlock or wizard here in the sixteenth century--one

of your forebears--who bore a most unhallowed reputation. Is he your

ghost, or is the ghost the result of his "goings on"?'

'Both,' replied Dick, smiling. 'At least there are a number of tales

about him and his misdeeds; one version has it that he built himself a

secret chamber wherein he conferred with the "Auld Enemy" in person, and

no one has yet discovered his "dug-out." Here's a quaint woodcut of the

old warlock,' he continued, taking down as he spoke a foxed print from

the wall and holding it out for my inspection.

'Ain't he a fearsome figure? Looks as if his liver were cayenne pepper.

Astrologer, botanist, poisoner, he is said to have been, and I don't

wonder.'

The ancient warlock possessed indeed a most mischancy visage: hard,

curious, inhuman eyes he had, thin, sunken cheeks, and a black

straggling moustache, the whole surmounted by a great bald dome of brow.

'By Alchemist out of Misanthropos,' I suggested, after a lengthy

scrutiny, 'and perhaps Misogynist as well.' My companion laughed

appreciatively. 'That's about it,' he said; 'yet there _is_ a tale of a

fisherman's daughter, the belle of the village below.

'Well,' he continued with animation, 'our job is now to discover his

secret chamber. 'Tis as good as a treasure hunt with the supernatural

thrown in. By the way,' he went on, 'it's the first time I've ever been

in Glororum Castle, as it is called, for the old place has only just

come back to us, that is, to my father as representative of the senior

branch of the Macellars, by the death of a cousin who died S.P. What

nerves they had, these old chieftains! Fancy, like the Maclean, setting

out your wife--even if a trifle _passee_--on the Skerry to drown before

your dining-room window, or, like the Macleod, lowering her into the

dungeon beneath the drawing-room that you might the better enjoy the

charms of Amaryllis--your gardener's daughter--above. Well, it's too

late this afternoon to begin our "worry," but to-morrow morning we must

start by flagging all the windows with towels, as the inquisitive lady

is said to have done at Glamis Castle.'

I willingly agreed to his proposal, which jumped well enough with my own

humour, and then as Dick went off to unpack I determined to go without

and view the castle from every side.

Dusk was now closing in on the dark and frowning tower that was perched

like an osprey upon the basalt cliffs that overlooked the sea. The

building was really rather a peel tower than a castle, for it was of no

great extent, consisting merely of the tall, gaunt tower with a wing

added on to its western side. Situated on the edge of the bare sea, like

a lighthouse abandoned, scarred by the fierce nor'-easters, with the

mutter of the waves about it below and the scream of sea-fowl above, one

could scarce imagine a more desolate or forbidding human abode than

fitly-named 'Glower-o'er-'em' Tower.

The neck of land by which it was approached from the west had been

protected by a wall, within which a garden had sheltered, wherein the

warlock had grown his herbs and poisons, but all was now ruinous and

weed-grown, and gave only an added touch to the general forlornness. The

place had been let as a shooting-box in recent years, but neither

landlord nor tenant had thought it worth while to spend any money on

reparation or embellishment. 'Twas indeed a fitting retreat for a

warlock or wizard, I thought, as with a final regard I turned to go

within doors.

Just at that moment I caught a glimpse of a fisher lass with a pannier

rounding the corner. She looked back, and I saw a roguish Romney eye

lighting a charming profile. 'Too pretty,' I thought, remembering Dick,

as she tripped onward into the shadow of the Tower.

The sea was moaning under a heavy cloud-wrack; away to the west above

the Lammermoors the sunset flared like a bale-fire, scattering sparks on

the windows of the Tower. 'Twas cheerier within than without, for the

walls were thick and kept the wind at bay, the wood fires were lively

with hissing logs, and scarce heeded a chance buffet from the down

draught lying in ambush within the open chimney-stack. We slept in the

wing without any dread of the warlock, for it had been added on to the

tower long after his time, and save for the sound of the sea far below,

resembling the dim 'mutter of the Mass,' or the spell of a necromancer,

I heard nothing throughout the night.

Next morning after breakfast was over Dick produced a pile of towels,

which we divided up between us for our voyage of discovery. 'After all,'

I said, 'we shan't want many, for bows and arrows in the far past, and

later, the window tax, kept the number of openings down.'

We ascended by the ancient stone newel stair that circled up from the

old iron 'yett' of the entry to the battlements above, and laid a towel

below the sash of every window. In the topmost storey in some servants'

rooms that had been long disused we discovered certain windows with

broken cords that entirely refused to open.

Dick's way here was of the 'Jethart' kind. He simply knocked a pane out

with the poker, and thrust the towel through.

When we had finished we descended in haste and perambulated the tower

without, counting up our tale of towels in some excitement.

'As many windows, so many towels,' I said with disappointment, as I

checked them off carefully.

'Damn!' said Dick meditatively. Then after a moment or two's thought,

'The old boy's cell must have been on the roof; he was sure to have been

an astrologer. Let's go up again and start afresh.' So saying he led the

way up to the parapet of the battlements, and there we surveyed the

roof. The main part of the roof consisted of a gable covered with heavy

stone tiles, but the further part that lay between the north-east and

north-west bartizans was flat and covered with lead, and at the verge of

this were iron steps that led down to the roof of the new wing below.

This latter we did not concern ourselves with, as we knew it dated since

the wizard's day, but carefully examined the stone tiles and the further

leads without, however, any discovery resulting.

We were just about to give up our quest when Dick's quick eyes noticed a

chink in the lead that formed the channel or gutter for the rain water

leading either way to the gargoyles beneath the bartizans outside.

'Look here!' he cried. 'See the dim light showing! I swear it's a

glimmer of glass. Evidently this particular lead was meant to be drawn

aside and admit the light.' I hastened to the side and peered with him

into the dirt-laden crack.

Opening my pen-knife I scraped away the dirt and soon verified his

conjecture that there was glass below. 'You're right!' I cried in my

excitement. 'It is glass. Now let's search and see if we can find

anything like a hinge, or at least some indication that the lead could

be withdrawn at will.' We sought all along by the containing wall and

found that the lead did not end in a flat sheet, as is usual, against

the wall, but was turned over, and evidently continued below.

'It looks very much as if it was meant to roll up and be turned over

like a blind on a roller below,' I said to my companion.

'I'm sure of it,' Dick replied with conviction. 'I'll tell you what we

must do. We'll pull up the lead, make sure of the extent of the glass,

then go below and search for the wizard's cell from the exact indication

we shall then have of its whereabouts.'

'Right!' said I, 'that's the method.'

We set to work, and soon had doubled back a strip of lead a foot broad

from the centre till the glass ended by the bartizan on either side. We

could not pull the lead right back because of the iron steps, which had

evidently been inserted when the new wing was built, and now interfered

with our further action.

The glass was set in heavy leaded panes, which were so engrained with

the grime of centuries that we could discern nothing through them.

'We must search for the wizard's cell from below,' I said. 'If we cannot

discover it there we must return and break in from above.'

'Yes,' agreed Dick, 'it would be a pity to smash the roof in if we can

find an entry below without causing damage.'

The orientation was now easy, and as we studied the position from the

parapet we could select the towelled window below which fitted best with

the position of the glass roof.

The curious thing was that the window was not situated in the centre,

but at the side of the torn up lead.

'We'll find out the reason below,' I said, as we descended in great

excitement, hastening on our quest.

The room we made for was one of the disused chambers on the top storey,

which we had remarked for its narrowness when we broke the window and

thrust a towel through.

'There must be a secret passage,' cried Dick, as he flashed his torch

upon the walls; 'we're not below the glass; we're to the right hand of

it. Wherefore search the left wall.'

Dick's inference seemed excellent, and full of eagerness I tapped with

my knife, he with his poker, all along the western wall.

'There's a hollow here,' cried Dick, overjoyed, as his poker rang with a

strange lightness. 'Let's hunt for an opening or crack, or some

betraying sign.'

'Here! Look here!' he shouted. 'I believe this stone pulls out.'

Hastening to his side and applying my knife to the thin ragged crevice

he had discovered, I found the stone was loose. I worked feverishly

while Dick held the torch. 'Now it's coming!' I cried, and even as I

spoke it fell forward and crashed on to the floor. To us scrutinising

the aperture, there seemed evidently a spring or catch concealed behind

it.

Thrusting in my arm I pressed it home. A creak sounded; there was a

rusty wheeze, and a portion of the wall seemed to shake and move slowly

inwards.

'We've got it!' yelled Dick, as he pressed his shoulder against the

receding portion, 'it's a wooden door covered over with thin slabs of

stone.'

'Forrard!' cried Dick. 'Forrard on!' and as he shouted he pressed

forward down a narrow, dusty aperture towards a chamber beyond where a

dim light showed through the begrimed roof above.

I pressed on hotly at his heels through the six feet of passage. We were

now within the threshold of the secret cell. But what was that horrible

thing beneath the dim sky-light? Dick's electric torch was failing, and

we could not see distinctly, and a very oppression of fear seized upon

us both. What was the gruesome object in front that resembled a dead

octopus with decayed black arms?

There was a sickly taint in the air, and as I stood there fascinated by

fear Dick took a step forward and threw the faint light of his torch

upon the atrocious figure.

Surely it was a gorilla grasping its victim, and bending it in to itself

as in some horrid act of rape!

Dick advanced yet another foot. Then I perceived that it was worse even

than I suspected, for I now distinguished a giant species of

_Nepenthes_ (_Nepenthes Ferocissimus_) most monstrously developed,

clutching in its long arms and horrid ascidiums the remains of a human

victim--apparently a woman--for a gleam of yellow satin showed beneath

the black embrace. Good God! I thought of the 'fisherman's daughter'

with a shudder.

I heard the torch drop. Then came a rustling shiver. The monstrous

growth had sunk to the floor under pressure of the fresh air!

I thought I had fainted, but the next moment I felt Dick's hand shaking

upon my sleeve, and heard a voice quaver in my ear:

_'Let's get out of this! It's altogether too damned beastly._'

'MUCKLE-MOUTHED MEG'

'Hang him, Provost!'[1] cried the Town Clerk; 'he was caught red-handed;

i' the verra manner, makin' awa aff wi' a quey o' your ain frae oor

Common.'

'Fear God, Provost,' exhorted the Burgh Chamberlain, astonished at the

Provost's hesitancy, 'but ne'er a North Tyne Robson.'

'Ay,' rang out a dozen voices from the crowd assembled in front of the

Provost's house in Hawick, 'mak him "kiss the woodie"; let the prood

Northumbrian thief cool his heels i' the wind!'

'Up wi' him!' cried Madge wi' the Fiery Face, who had just been loosed

from the 'jougs,' wherein she had been confined for 'kenspeckle

incontinence.' 'Up wi' the clarty callant! Let him swing like a corby

craa i' a taty patch!'

But the canny wife of the Provost, douce man, plucked him by the sleeve.

'Dod! man,' she whispered him in the ear, 'he's a braw chield for a'

that. Bethink you o' oor "Muckle-Mouthed Meg," that ne'er a Tery[2]

will wed wi' withoot a handsome tocher! Aweel, let him wed wi' her the

noo "ower the tangs" an' ride awa wi' her on his saddle-bow. 'Twere pity

to hang sic a handsome chield as he is an' no mak use o' him as a

son-in-law, even if he be ane o' the "auld enemy."'

The Provost looked anew upon the careless, intrepid young Northumbrian,

who seemed not to care a bodle for his imminent fate. He regarded his

proposed son-in-law approvingly, for he was the pure type of North Tyne

Borderer--of medium stature, but finely formed, with tanned complexion,

tawny moustache and ruddy hair, keen blue eye and oval face--most

pleasant to look upon. 'Aweel,' concluded the Provost, 'we wull gie him

the chance.'

'Look ye,' he addressed himself to the captive, 'the guidwife is verra

tender hairted: she disna care to see ye trail i' the wind, but will

offer ye Meg, oor daughter, instead o' the halter ye hae truly earned.

Ye can tak Meg--an' your life as her tocher.'

Robson's proud determination to accept his fate and suffer silently as

became a hardy Northumbrian wavered a little.

He was but twenty-five years of age, and life was very sweet to him. He

thought of the merry moonlight, of the joys of riding, and the fierce

excitements of the foray with passionate desire. The old song of the

Borderers was ringing in his ears:

'Sweet is the sound o' the driven steers

And sweet the gleam o' the moonlit spears,

When the red cock crows o'er byre and store

And the Borderer rides on his foraying splore.'

He looked from the tail of his eye upon 'Meg wi' the muckle mouth.' No

beauty certainly, but 'twas fighting he craved, not women. Yet she was

not ill-natured, he surmised--the 'muckle mouth' signified good temper;

'twas far better than a 'muckle tongue'--she would do at a pinch as his

housekeeper.

Meg meanwhile on her part was also eyeing him askance. He was a handsome

gallant surely! Her heart longed for the canty fellow. Yet if he showed

the least sign of disdain he should go hang for her.

Robson now looked directly upon her. 'Well, Meg,' he decided swiftly,

'I'll take ye'; then he added in a flash of understanding, 'if ye'll

take me.' His tact triumphed. With a ready smile that stretched almost

from ear to ear Meg surrendered herself joyfully.

'Ay, my lad, I'll tak ye,' she replied on the instant.

The crowd now broke into a boisterous 'hooray,' as keen for the wedding

as a moment before they had been eident for the funeral. 'Bring oot the

tangs!' they vociferated loudly. A pair of tongs were at once produced,

and under the direction of the blacksmith the captive and the woman held

hands, and took each other for man and wife.

The 'handfasting' thus concluded, 'Ye hae forgot the bride ale!' cried

many voices. 'We mun drink their health, Provost, ye ken. Bring oot the

ale, canny man!' 'Ay, or clairt,' suggested a thin-faced scrivener. 'A

mutchkin o' usquebaugh for ilka man,' shouted a burly flesher, ''tis

mair heartenin'.'

The Provost turned a little pale at their unforeseen demand: he almost

regretted his consent to the wedding. Then he recollected that there was

a firkin of home-brewed in the cellar that a recent thunderstorm had

turned sour, and his brow grew clear. 'Bring oot the pickle firkin,' he

bade his man, 'an' serve it around.'

So with a taste of sour ale in their mouths man and wife rode forth from

Hawick the airt of Peel Fell.

Robson's good mare--her head turned homeward--went forward at a good

trot and recked little of her double burden.