'What ails ye?' inquired Robson shortly, feeling that his bride was

shaking in curious fashion behind him on her pillion.

'I was juist laughin',' responded Meg, 'at oor venture, for here we are

newly marrit an' I dinna even ken your name richtly; ye are a Robson, I

ken, an' "Wudspurs" is your toname, but whatten's your hame name?'

'My father and mother aye called me Si,' responded Robson. 'Ye can call

me that, an' ye like.'

Meg kept silence a while, then she said coaxingly, 'Si is a pretty name

eneuch; 'tis short an' sweet; gie me a kiss, Si,' she wheedled, with a

gentle clasp about his waist.

'I'll kiss ye when we win home,' replied her husband cautiously.

'But just ae kiss--to gang on wi',' coaxed Meg further.

Si turned half about and smacked his wife upon her rosy cheek, which

seemingly he found satisfactory.

'Plenty more for ye when we sit i' the ingle neuk together the night,'

he said.

Meg, enchanted at this prospect, said no more, but looked about her as

they rode up the Slitrig water.

They could see the twisted horn of Pencrist and the round Maiden Paps on

their right hand, and on their left bare Carlin Tooth on the outermost

edge of Carter Bar; they were soon out upon the bare moorlands that

stretch away to the water of Tyne on the one side and to the waters of

Liddle on the other.

As they slowly ascended by the skirts of Peel Fell Meg broke the silence

again.

'Ye arena marrit a'ready?' she inquired, as a sudden suspicion assailed

her.

'No fears,' retorted Si with conviction.

'Weel, ye are the noo,' said Meg to herself, slightly increasing her

hold on her man.

'Then wha is 't that fends for ye?' she asked further.

'I hae an old wife--the shepherd's--that bides with me,' replied Si.

'She'll no' fend for ye the way I can,' returned Meg, 'for I can bake

an' mak ye sowans, scones, brose, kail o' all kinds, an' parritch.'

'I'd be fain o' some here and now,' replied Si,[3] 'for ye are not very

hospitable in Hawick. A sup sour ale's all I've had since I took the

fell yestreen.'

'Puir laddie!' said Meg sympathetically. 'There was sic an unco

carfuffle that I had clean forgot the vivers.' Then, preparing to

descend from the pillion, she proposed that they should get down and

walk so as to ease the mare up the fell.

Si, highly approving her thoughtfulness, jumped down and led the mare

with bridle drawn over her head through the flows and mosses above the

Deadwater of Tyne.

'Ye can almost see my bit biggin',' said Si, as he halted and pointed

eastward of Larriston Fell to a patch of black peat and heather high on

the rolling moorland.

''Tis gey ootbye,' said Meg; 'clean aff the map a'thegither.'

'It's caad whiles outside i' the wunter,' admitted Si, 'yet i' the but

wi' aad Maud the collie an' her litter, Dand the shepherd, an' Sall his

wife about the blazing peats on the hearth ye'll be warmer an' cosier

than the Queen of Scotland.'

'There wull be a muckle ghaists aboot?' inquired Meg, as she gazed

anxiously upon the wild expanse of moor, grasslands, and bog that

stretched away, boundless as the sea, to an infinite horizon.

'There's nowt but the "wee grey man" o' the moor,' replied Si

unconcernedly; 'there's no harm in him; he will whiles even help up a

"cassen" yowe (ewe). Not but what there's the "Bargeist"--he's

mestitched, yet red thread i' your mutch and a branch o' the rowan tree

will keep him awa nicelies. And Dand kens fine how to fettle him whether

by day or night--

"Rowan tree and red thread gar the witches come ill speed."

'Mount again now, my lass,' he added, 'for we ha' crossed the water o'

North Tyne, and will win home to the "Bower" cheeks by the gloaming.'

As the good mare pressed on unweariedly bridegroom and bride rode up to

the 'yett' of 'the Bower' in the late twilight. On hearing the mare's

shoes ring on the cobbles beside the gate the old shepherd, who had

evidently been waiting, expectant of his master's return, came hirpling

out in haste. Then seeing the strange figure seated behind his master he

stood stock still in astonishment.

'Whatten's this gear ye ha' lifted the noo?' he finally inquired, when

he had found his voice.

''Tis a wife I ha' lifted from Hawick town,' cried Si gaily, as he leapt

from his mare, overjoyed to be at home again.

''Twould be i' the dark then?' suggested Dand, his eye fascinated by the

'muckle mouth,' 'or belike in an ower great haste ye lifted the first

"yowe" (ewe) ye cam' across?'

''Twas in broad daylight,' retorted Si, catching him a friendly buffet

on the shoulder. 'Ye would ne'er ha' seen your master again had it no'

been for Meg,' and as he helped her down he briefly narrated his

adventure.

'Aweel,' commented Dand to himself, shaking his head the while, as he

led the mare to the byre, 'I'm nane so sure but I would ha' juist pit up

wi' the hangin'.' Then he added aloud, 'The wife will be sair vext when

she sees the Scots heifer ye ha' ridden back wi'.'

Meg's good-nature, however, her willingness to help, and her skill in

cooking soon triumphed over Sall's ill-humour, and peace reigned within

the 'but' as supper was being made ready that evening.

Afterwards within the 'ben,' sitting cheek by jowl upon a rough bench

beside the peats the Northumbrian bridegroom, and the Scots bride found

much to content them, either with the other, whilst Maud the collie, who

had stolen in with them, looked with resentment in her soft brown liquid

eyes upon the strange woman who had so unexpectedly taken her place with

the master, and might have been seen to frown when Si redeemed his

promise of 'plenty mair' to 'Meg' on their ride home to 'the Bower.'

'The Bower,' as Si had christened his dwelling--originally a shepherd's

sheiling--had recently been enlarged by the addition of the 'ben' and a

room above the 'but,' so that the building had the look of a lop-sided,

rough peel tower.

With help of his brothers down the water and a mason from Falstone Si

had run a dry-stone dyke--strengthened with fir tree trunks--round about

for the protection of his sheep and nowt in the event of a foray, and

was as pleased with 'the Bower' as Lord William Howard with Naworth.

'Twas a quaint name enough, for 'the Bower' stood on the true march line

of the naked Border, and in the very haunt and playground of the winds.

Not only was it obnoxious to the winds, but equally exposed to raiding

from Scotland, as also to the 'broken men' of 'the Waste,' for it stood

erect above the Lewis Burn where it flows forth from Hells-bottom on

the edge of Coplestone, where the Liddesdale fells join hands with those

of Cumbrian Bewcastle.

Yet Si had prospered, for his 'grayne' befriended him, and as for the

fierce reivers from Liddesdale, why, he would ride with them so long as

they ran their forays into Cumberland or Scotland and not within North

Tyne.

And now the 'Hunters' Moon' was up, waxing nightly, and proclaiming to

all about the Borderland that the customary truce of summer was over,

and the time of the crowing of the 'Red Cock' was at hand.

Danger, however, came not from Scotland in the first instance, but from

England, as it happened.

The tale of Si's marriage had soon got wind upon the Border, and proved

occasion for many a jest and gibe far and wide, and when it came to the

ears of the Land Sergeant of Gilsland he scented opportunity of revenge

for a 'lick' on the head he had received in a fray with the Robsons when

they drove a foray into South Tyne a few months bygone.

''Tis matter of march treason,' he said, when he heard of Si's means of

escape from the Hawick halter. 'Whether he be married or no signifieth

not, for all intercommuning with the Scots is clean against Border law.

'Tis a matter for the Lord Warden's court, and a hanging matter at that.

Ay, "Merry Carlisle" will fit him fine.'

Thus devising his revenge he determined to act at once. Taking two of

his men with him he rode up by the edge of 'the Waste' towards

Coplestone Fell, with intent to capture Si, or, should he evade capture,

to leave a citation at 'the Bower' for his appearance at the next

meeting of the Lord Wardens on account of notorious breakage of the

Border law.

But Si had already been made aware of his enemy's intention, and had

instructed Meg how to act in such an emergency, for it might well be

that trouble would come when he was out looking after a 'hogging' he had

of 'blackfaces' that were pasturing above the Forks, where the Lewis

Burn and Oakenshaw Burn mate. The season of the foray had opened and

flocks must be guarded by day and night. One afternoon when Si had

ridden down to the Forks to relieve Dand, Meg stood by the 'yett,'

expectant of the old shepherd's return, and watchful of enemies. As she

turned her gaze southward she was suddenly aware of three figures

clearly tricked out against the grey sky above the further fell: their

silhouettes showed like midges dapped against the window by a boy, and

Meg could see that the centaurs were coming forward on a fair round trot

in Indian file. She could not distinguish at the distance horse from

rider, but she could note the pose of the horse's head, and the movement

against the sky-line. 'Three-quarters of an hour,' commented the gazer.

'Good going on the fell top, evil wi' peat hags, flows, an' gairs

below.'

She looked eastward, and there saw to her infinite relief old Dand

coming slowly up the track on the ancient pony. Then, after having gone

within to make certain preparations, she set out on a brisk step to meet

Dand. Dand had quickened his pace when he too saw the three black

silhouettes above, and met his mistress within two yards of the

dry-stone walling.

A very animated conversation took place between the two, and by the time

they reached the door cheeks of 'the Bower' they seemed to have settled

their scheme of strategy satisfactorily, for either turned away from

other with a wink o' the eye.

The strange riders had dismounted and walked their horses through the

peat hags and mosses, but now were up again, and pressing on to the

'yett.' The foremost rider--the Land Sergeant--knocked heavily on the

door with the butt of his lance and demanded to see 'Robson o' the

Bower i' the name o' my Lord Warden.'

'He's no' within,' cried Meg in return. 'Whatten want ye at him?'

Then she slowly slid back the bar, and, opening the door partly, stood

in the space thus afforded, her hands upon her hip bones.

'So you're the Scots lass he brought back with him from Hawick,' said

the Land Sergeant, after a cool survey of Meg's features. 'Doubtless

there was great provocation,' he added with a grin, 'but he broke the

Border laws, my lass, and must answer for 't. Intercommuning with the

Scots is absolutely forbidden, and is punishable with death. So, my

lass, I advise ye to slip away home as fast as Robson's mare or shanks's

nag will carry ye. Meantime I must search the house for your man, and if

I cannot find him I'll leave a citation for the Lord Wardens' meeting

with ye for Robson.'

'When Si,' retorted Meg very deliberately, 'intercommunes wi' me, as ye

ca' it,' here the 'muckle-mouth' expanded east and west, 'he

intercommunes wi' me i' Scotland, an' there ye haena ony power ower him

or me. The Bower is biggit on the verra march line,' she explained, 'an'

the ben is ower on the Scots side whaur we intercommune,' and Meg, with

her arms akimbo and her mouth on the grin, contemplated her enemy in

scornful triumph.

'Here! take ye this citation,' cried the Land Sergeant in his wrath, for

he heard an echo of Meg's laughter proceed from his men behind him,

handing the parchment slip to her as he spoke.

Meg, however, instead of taking it, shouted a loud and mysterious

summons to assistance. 'Oot an' at 'im; oot an' at 'im, Bargeist! Hoop,

holla, Bargeist!' then slammed to the door.

A few seconds only elapsed when there came round the corner a strange

mischancy creature, with loose hide and hanging horns, long tail and

clattering hoofs. Scrambling very swiftly forward it shook its shaggy

head in an angry roar, and edged its horns sharply against the Land

Sergeant's nearest man.

'Come awa, Sergeant; come awa,' cried the fellow in terror. ''Tis the

Bargeist, the Bargeist! Ye can fight against thae devils if ye like, but

I'll no',' and therewith clapping in his spurs he turned his horse's

head and fled down the path without ever a glance behind him.

His fellow--a trifle braver--stood his ground a few seconds longer, but

when his horse caught sight of the fearsome threatening horns beneath

his belly he shied violently, then bolted after his companion.

At this moment out came Meg with a glowing poker.

'This wull shift ye, if the Bargeist disna,' she cried, as she lunged at

the Land Sergeant's mare and caught her fair upon the near buttock.

With a muffled skreigh the mare leapt forward, seized the bit 'twixt her

teeth, and _ventre a terre_ pursued the others in spite of her rider's

remonstrances.

Some half a mile away the three men succeeded in pulling up their

horses, and debated with some heat what had best be done. The Land

Sergeant was for going back to the Bower to search for Robson, but his

two men were for going home with all speed. As they were hotly debating

this the Land Sergeant descried a solitary horseman coming up the track

from the eastward, and a sudden light gleamed in his eye.

'Hi!' he cried sharply. 'Here's "Wudspurs" for a ducat! Take cover, and,

when I whistle, on to him like a brock!'

'Twas Si himself that was riding gaily up the water, for he had disposed

of his 'hogging' to a grazier from Hexham at a good price, and was now

bethinking him whence he had best re-stock his farm--whether from

Cumberland or Scotland.

He was just fixing upon Cumberland when a sharp whistle smote on his

ear, and three figures rising forth of some brackens were instantly upon

him. The foremost figure was afoot, with dag in his hand ready

presented; the other two were mounting their horses, their lances in

their hands. Si's mind cleared in a flash. Shouting aloud, 'Dand! to me!

Help!' he charged the footman fiercely. 'Pouff!' said the dag feebly,

and a bullet grazed the horse's withers. The horse, rearing up, struck

out and caught the fellow on the forehead with his iron-shod hoof,

driving him to earth, where Si pierced him through with his lance. The

other two men now circled warily round him--the one barring escape

eastward, the other keeping him from his home. Either was 'waiting on'

like a hawk before a favouring chance. But now two further figures

appeared upon the scene. Dand with a whinger and Meg with her glowing

brand came speeding to their master's rescue. The Land Sergeant and his

man bore down upon Si with lances levelled in haste, hoping to dispatch

him out of hand.

Si wheeled and turned his horse so swiftly that he surprised his nearest

foe, and 'instantly stooped' upon him. He caught him, turned half

about, and ran him through the hip, and dragged him from his saddle. But

his lance's head was twisted, he could not free it, and the Land

Sergeant bore down on him with gleaming spear. Just as Si thought he was

transfixed something interposed, a sigh or groan was heard; then Si was

on the ground, kneeling beside his wife whose life-blood a spear head

was drinking.

'Oh, Meg,' he cried; 'my Meg! Twice ye ha' saved my life, and now I

canna save yours,' and he supported his wife in his arms with infinite

tenderness. Meg lay quietly against his bosom, her eyes fixed upon his,

then she murmured softly with 'ane little laughter,' 'Kiss me good-bye,

Si, an'--on the "muckle moo."' Even as their lips met a mist stole

gently over Meg's eyes, and she saw Si no more.

[Footnote 1: Provost is really an anachronism, Hawick having been content

with Bailies till the nineteenth century.]

[Footnote 2: Tery, an inhabitant of Hawick, derived from their slogan

'Teribus and Tery Odin.']

[Footnote 3: Hawick hospitality and 'Hawick gills' are proverbial: any

one who has been fortunate, like the author, in having been a guest at

the Common Riding will have realised this.]

THE PRIOR OF TYNEMOUTH

Prior Olaf stood on the central merlon of the gate tower that protected

the little cell of Tynemouth from assault on the landward side, and

gazed intently over the sea below him to the eastward haze wherein he

feared to descry the red-brown sails of the serpent ships.

He was himself by birth a Dane: had even in his ardent youth been a

follower of the Raven sign and the banner of the Landwaster, but having

been wounded and left behind in a raid into England had been nursed by

monks, and eventually had taken the robe and cowl.

The wind had been continuously for a week in the eastern airt, and a

raid from his heathen fellow-countrymen seemed inevitable, since

Providence appeared to be tempting them with opportunity.

The good Prior could discern nothing alarming, yet he had a foreboding

that even now the heathen were approaching on the favouring wind, and

would thunder on the gate that very day.

Descending, he proceeded slowly to the chapel built by Oswald--saint

and king--in honour of the mother of our Lord, and there before the

shrine of Saint Oswyn prostrated himself in prayer. Long and earnestly

he prayed, for it seemed to the Prior that the test of his acceptance

was to be found in the continued absence of the Danes. The sin that he

had committed in his youth had, he trusted, been washed away by his

fastings and mortifications. In that event surely his prayers to the

Virgin, Saint Cuthbert, and Saint Oswyn, would prevail, and the Danes

would come not with fire and sword against his beloved cell.

The Prior's heart glowed in hope renewed.

'_Sursum corda_,' he murmured, then recommenced his litany.

'_De Saevitia Teutonorum qui veniunt in pandis myoparonibus, libera nos,

Domine!_'

Scarce had he finished, when a startled brother approached rapidly

a-tiptoe and touched the Prior gently on the shoulder.

'They come, Holy Prior! They come! the cruel heathen can be seen swiftly

approaching in their long ships.'

Prior Olaf turned ashen pale. He could not prevent a groan escaping him,

for now he knew that his penances had not yet proved effectual.

'_Mea culpa, mea culpa_,' he murmured wearily, then as he rose up with

pale cheek a gleam of fire lit in his eye, for he would die rather than

permit Saint Oswyn's shrine to be pillaged by the heathen. He called for

the sub-Prior and entrusted the defence to him.

The cell was splendidly situated, being protected on the three

sides--east, north, and west--by moat, steep cliffs, and the immediate

sea.

To the south or land side a strong wall with gate tower, furnished with

parapet and brettices for casting down of stones and melted lead, stood

sentinel and protector.

The sub-Prior--the light of battle in his eye--gave orders to his

affrighted flock, and bade the _Conversi_ (lay brethren) heat the lead

and carry up big stones to the brettices, where he himself took command.

Thereupon he looked down upon the serpent ships sailing into the mouth

of the Tyne, and on the sands below discharging their freight of

long-haired men with bucklers, swords, and torches in their hands.

In a plump they swarmed up the cliffs and advanced--led by a young chief

known to his followers as Eric the Red--to the monastery gate.

There Eric demanded instant admittance for his men, the surrender of all

treasure, sacred and profane, as well as of food and stores.

This the sub-Prior proudly refusing in honour of the Virgin, Saint

Cuthbert, and Saint Oswyn, a flight of arrows hissed over the parapet,

torches were lit and flung against the gate; the fight became general.

The sub-Prior had prepared a quantity of heavy stones upon the brettices

which he designed to use in the last resort, and now when the gate was

beginning to burn he bade his men be ready with their levers.

'_Down with the gate!_' cried Red Eric triumphantly. 'Down with it! See,

it burns!' and as he shouted he led his followers on with a rush. Like a

swarm of bees they clustered about their leader, and clambered up on

each other's shoulders. Fire was afoot below; battle-axes crashed above.

'Now!' cried the sub-Prior, as he thrust his lever home, and each man

upon the brettices echoed 'Now,' and thrust the lever home at the word.

The stones crashed down; the heaviest of all caught Eric himself and

drove him to the ground, where he lay unconscious, his ribs driven deep

into his lungs.

'Open the gate and drag their leader in!' cried the sub-Prior

triumphantly from above to his servants below.

Obeying, they rushed forth upon the astounded Danes, seized the dying

chief, and bore him swiftly within the gate tower.

The attackers, disconcerted by this sudden sortie, and disheartened by

the loss of their chief, withdrew from the wall, and shortly desisted

from their assault, for the English saints, they muttered to themselves,

were this day evidently fighting on behalf of their priests; 'twere

wiser to meddle no further with them this day.

Dispersing, therefore, they ravaged the hamlet of Shields and forayed

the country for cattle, then before the sun's setting embarked upon

their long ships, and sailed southward along the coast.

Meantime the sub-Prior in the moment of his triumph had looked

exultingly upon his enemy, then more compassionately as became a

Christian monk, and drew near as if to ease his suffering.

But the young Dane was already dead.

As he bent over the corpse the Prior himself approached, for he trusted

to learn that in answer to his renewed prayers the Danes had been driven

off.

'We ha' prevailed,' cried the sub-Prior triumphantly; 'see, their

leader, whom they called "Eric the Red," will trouble us no more. _Laus

Deo et omnibus Sanctis!_'

'Eric!' echoed the Prior, as he stooped towards the young Dane lying

dead below him. 'Eric!' Then as he gazed he reeled backward, and only

escaped falling by reaching forth his hand to the wall.

Leaning back in the shadow of the gate-house he pressed his hand to his

heart and shrouded his face from oversight within his cowl.

Then slowly recovering self-possession he gave orders that the young man

should be buried without the cemetery garth, and walked with unsteady

footstep towards the chapel.

'Our saintly Prior,' said Brother Boniface, with awe, as he watched his

Superior's tall, bowed figure enter within the chapel, 'even in his

moment of triumph thinks of Heaven. He has gone to render thanks for the

death of this savage, red-haired Dane.'

Songs of thanksgiving were uplifted that night at Compline in the choir.

'Te Deum' was especially chanted with inspired ardour in honour of

victory.

'Look!' whispered the simple-hearted, tawny-faced, tousled-haired

Brother Boniface to his neighbour, a sharp-eyed Anglian Brother, the

artist and illuminator of the little community, 'Look upon the ascetic,

saintly face of our beloved Prior! what joy must be his in that his

prayers prevailed this day!'

'Thou jolter-head!' muttered the Anglian to himself; then with a jog to

Boniface's ribs, 'Didst not mark the exact resemblance'--here he

delineated a contour with swift movement of finger--''twixt Red Eric and

our Prior?' Then to himself again he muttered, 'I doubt he is not long

for this world, since I met his wraith as I entered into the choir.'

But Boniface heeded not his words: his eyes were still fixed upon his

beloved Prior, who moved not, though the rest of the monks having sung

the '_Deo Patri sit gloria_' were leaving the choir.

Boniface moved a-tiptoe and touched his Superior reverently on the

shoulder. 'Beloved Prior,' he said, 'thou art outworn with the care of

thy community. Arise and seek repose.'

He touched the Prior's hand, then started back, for it was quite cold;

the Prior had already sought and gained eternal repose.

THE HAUNTED ALE-HOUSE

'_An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth_,' so Donald Macgregor

muttered to himself as he strode cautiously down the water of Coquet,

halting at the many crooks of that wayward water to spy out the land as

he went forward.

He had already good suspicions of where his quarry was harboured, for he

had seen and interviewed drovers who had returned from the great

Stagshawbank Fair, and had gleaned certain information of his

foster-brother Alastair.

But more than this he had to direct his feet; there was in his ears the

echo of Alastair's pibroch--the _piobaireachd_--which he was to hear

whenever the Laird would be in trouble or wanting him.

Onward the _piobaireachd_ led him--down the water of amber-coloured

Coquet--and now round the last crook he had just turned he saw a

building of dark grey stone upon the edge of the haugh below him.

He halted at once, retraced his steps, and hid himself in the bracken,

for he knew from the descriptions given him that the Slyme ale-house lay

there below him--the last place on the English border at which Alastair

had been seen or heard of. The Slyme ale-house had an ill repute, and

was said to be haunted moreover; none would lie there the night who had

anything to lose--'twas the haunt of kites and 'corbie craws.' As he

watched and waited there stole down from the fells above him 'oncome' of

mist or 'haar' from the eastward, which soon drew a plaid of hodden grey

above the shoulder of Shillmoor. On the lower level a ray of white light

still showed like the gleam of a malevolent eye behind a mask.

Meantime a cold mist came stealing up the valley. The eerie lonely

aspect of all about him made Donald shiver and earnestly debate his

intention.

Spying about, he saw an outcrop of rock some two hundred yards further

along the fell side. Thither he crawled like a rogue collie, and watched

therefrom, keen-eyed as a kestrel, the ale-house below.

He had some strips of meat with him and oatmeal in a bag, and with this

he satisfied his hunger as he lay at watch. All the while the

_piobaireachd_ was still sounding in his ears.

Through the mist he could see two cows 'coming home' on the haugh below

slowly and sedately to their milking.

Now three figures emerged from the inn; a tall, thin man came first--a

collie at his heels--that was at once sent off to round up a hirsel of

ewes on the hill.

A woman followed, calling 'guss-guss' to the pig routing on the bank;

finally a third figure--short, misshapen--a hunchback, as the watcher

noted, who called 'coop-coop' to a rough pony cropping grass in the

intake beyond the inn.

Shortly this gear was rounded up and driven into the walled enclosure--a

half pound attached to the western end of the buildings.

The three figures followed their stock within, and the watcher surmising

that all were housed for the night cautiously made his way down the

slope, but on a sudden all three reappeared, and the watcher dropped

like a shot rabbit straight into a bed of thistles and nettles, fearful

of discovery.

It seemed that they were about to secure themselves and their flocks

against evil by way of charm and spell, for round about the ale-house

they bent their steps--the way of the sun--brandishing rowan boughs and

chanting a fragment of ancient rhyme:

'_By the rowan's power--

By the thorn's might

Safe i' the bower

Be all our insight!_'

Having perambulated round their buildings and wall three successive

times they disappeared within, and the watcher heard to his

gratification the sound of bolt and bar being pushed home.

The solitary watcher smiled to himself--the secret smile of the

Highlander who has grasped the situation and knows how to make profit

thereof unknown to others.

The tall, thin man was the innkeeper--evidently a timorous fellow; the

hunchback was his 'man'--malevolent probably, the doer of the other's

dark behests; whilst the woman was presumably his wife, the cook and

housekeeper of the ale-house.

Well, while they slept he would investigate and complete his plans for

the early morn at the time when all three would reappear and drive forth

their flocks again.

There was a small haystack at the west end of the inn, which Donald

marked out as his resting-place for the night. Thither he made his

cautious way--the _piobaireachd_ sounding ever more clearly in his ears.

When he reached the haystack the melody seemed to be intensified; then

suddenly he heard it no more.

Ha! a flash of inspiration shook him. This must be the very spot where

Alastair was done to death--perhaps even buried here. He looked about

him and noted that the wind was freshening and the mist was scurrying in

dense clouds above as if it might lift, and then the moon might light

him to further discovery.

Thus reflecting he sat down behind the stack, and waited patiently for

the moon to rise and shine above the mist.

An hour passed, then a faint glimmer showed in the east above

Shillmoor's edge.

He stood up and peeped round the stack; he could distinguish the rounded

moon--nearly at the full--beating with white wings like an owl through

the tangled mist.

In another quarter of an hour he could see sufficiently well to commence

investigation. He noted as he searched the ground about him that quite

recently the earth had been disturbed just beyond the verge of the

haystack. A space had evidently been roughly dug over--a space that

seemed the size of a grave.

Hereupon he sought for some instrument wherewith to make further

investigation, and by good luck soon hit upon an old, broken-shafted

spade that lay in a small potato croft adjoining. With this he set to

work to howk the turf away, and found it light to work, for it had been

loosely shovelled in, and came away with ease. Working incessantly, at

four feet below the excavated turf, he saw an object lying loose, which

he seized in excited, trembling hands, and surveyed in the moonlight.

Ay, it was Alastair's bonnet, for there was the blackcock's tail

feathers which Alastair had always proudly worn in right of his birth.

Stained with blood--the bonnet itself cloven in twain with a blow from

hatchet or axe. 'My bonny Alastair!' he groaned aloud. 'Dear laddie!

But, by Gott--ye'll be avenged fine the morn's morning!' Reverently he

went on with his howking, and soon Alastair's pale face showed in the

moonlight, stained with soil, and bloody under the gash above his

forehead.

Donald kneeled down in the grave and kissed like a lover his

foster-brother on the brow.

Then pondering awhile he muttered brokenly, 'I'll hap ye in again,

Alastair, beloved; when I've a sign to bury wi' ye that will prove to ye

my troth.'

So saying he sat down beside the grave and cleaned Alastair's bonnet,

then placed it on his own head in token of his vow, and waited for the

dawn and his revenge.

He did not sleep, but thought again of the past: how he had had the care

of the young fatherless Laird, had learned him to stalk the red deer and

draw salmon from the river; how Alastair had even outstripped his

teacher, and how each after Culloden's fight had saved the other's life.

Then, finally, how he had counselled Alastair to turn drover with him

till the 'Redcoats' should depart, as the best method to avoid capture,

and how constantly Alastair's high spirits led them into danger. And now

it was all over--all over save the final duty to his brother. As he thus

meditated long and deeply the hours went swiftly by, and it was with a

sudden shock that he heard the bolts and bars being withdrawn on the

further side of the inn. Instantly he sprang to his feet, prepared for

action. He left his sword ready in the scabbard, and his dag primed for

use. Then he stole round the corner, and there saw the tall man and the

hunchback before him.

''Tis his wraith!' cried the tall man, noticing the bonnet, and swung

back in his terror, as he tried to cross himself by way of charm.

'I tell't ye,' quoth the hunchback unperturbed, 'that we should ha'

driven a stake through his inside to prevent him from walkin' this

gate.'

'Whisht ye, haud your damned whisht!' cried the other in a fury, his

knees shaking in terror. Then turning servilely towards Donald, whom he

now perceived to be a stranger, 'Ye are welcome, sir, to any ale or

Rhenish my poor inn affords, for ye will be a Highland grazier--yen of

our best customers,' he ended in an attempt at a bow.

'Draw and defend your nainsel',' was Donald's reply.

The tall man laid his hand to his whinger at his side, and shouted to

his 'man,' 'Draw, Jarret, and knife this murdering Scots villain.'

The hunchback, nothing loath, produced an evil-looking jockteleg, and

hastened to his master's assistance.

'Knife him i' the back,' cried the former, 'whiles I haud him i' play i'

front.'

The hunchback was so furious in his attack, which he pressed right home

within Donald's guard, that Donald was unable to ward off the tall man

in front of him.

Then just as the innkeeper had Donald at his mercy, and was in the very

act of striking home, his arm was suddenly paralysed, a spasm of terror

shook him through and through, his eyes glazed over. '_There's twa o'

them_,' he muttered, and instead of striking he shrank his hand back as

if to ward off a new assailant, and Donald had a momentary vision of his

brother by his side. The innkeeper made a pass, then his whinger

dropped; he turned to flee, tripped and fell upon his face, and lay

motionless--his whinger by his side. At this the hunchback broke into

rage, 'Ye're no worth fightin' for,' he cried in his fury, gave a kick

at his fallen master, and fled to the inn door.

Donald fired his dag at his retreating foe, winged him in the shoulder,

and hastened his retreat, but failed to bring him down. The door was

slammed to, the bolt was shot. The hunchback had gained his city of

refuge.

All was quiet; Donald was victorious; he looked upon the fallen

innkeeper, turned him over, and saw that his eyes were fixed in death.

'Ye hae helped fine to your ain vengeance, Alastair,' he said quietly,

as he picked up the fallen whinger. 'Ye niver failed me yet; and I haena

failed ye.'

Then Donald carried the whinger with him and went back to the graveside,

still open to the sky.

'I ha' paid the debt, Alastair,' said Donald, taking off his bonnet and

laying the whinger in the grave as proof of his fealty, 'and it is

farewell, my brother.'

Kneeling down he reverently happed him in afresh, then rising with a

heart contented, whistled triumphant as a pibroch, and took the airt of

Scotland by way of Cocklawfoot, murmuring to himself, '_an eye for an

eye, and a tooth for a tooth_.'

THE CRY OF THE PEACOCK

'Damn the dice!' cried the elder of the two players, in a spasm of rage;

'damn my ill-luck--damn everything!' and as he shouted his imprecations

he regarded his opponent askance, as if including him in his

malediction.

''Twas a thousand to one against you throwing two sixes,' he cried. Then

he flung his marker on the floor, pushed back his chair, and rising,

walked moodily to the chimney-piece and gazed despairingly into the

fire, for his estate had vanished--his last two farms had been lost to

the 'double six.' Not only had he lost his estate, but he was hopelessly

indebted to his companion for many an I.O.U. and bill beyond his

mortgage. He might be made bankrupt at any moment.

The other kept silence a few moments before he said anything. A gleam of

triumph and delight had shown for a second in his eye, but outwardly he

was as cool as ever.

''Tis a strange thing,' he said soothingly; 'I too have had my turn of

ill-luck before this. I remember well one evening at Oxford years ago

when I played high stakes with Lord Cantrip and others at "The House."

Hadn't a stiver left one night, but I pawned my grandfather's Louis xiv.

watch for the next evening's play. Luck turned, and I had my revenge.

Had it not been for that last heirloom I should have enlisted, and

probably have met my fate at Badajoz.'

The speaker was a powerfully built man of thirty-five years of age; he

was broad rather than tall, underbred, coarse in complexion, and his

jaw, well developed, seemed to indicate will power.

His companion was forty years of age, had a high, well-bred carriage,

and a sensitive face that showed charm rather than strength.

He made no reply to the other's sympathy or suggestion, but continued to

gaze moodily into the dying log fire on the hearth, and on the

smoke-begrimed Sussex 'back' which exhibited the 'Flight into Egypt.'

He groaned within himself; he too would have to make his 'flight into

Egypt,' There was nothing left in the dear old beloved manor house that

would furnish sufficient capital for another gamble.

'The last family heirloom,' he said finally, 'departed in my father's

time. The manor goes in mine.'

There was a space of silence. Then the elder threw out a fresh

suggestion.

'There's maybe something ye've left out of your calculation,' he said

suggestively, 'something that some might put as high as the estate

itself.'

'What d' ye mean?' inquired the other, turning about so as fully to see

the other's face.

'Well, as 'twixt friends and neighbours I'll speak out fairly,'

responded the man at the green table, 'and as I'm your guest you'll

understand I'm perfectly straight in my proposition. The long and short

o't then is that I'm settled in this new place of mine next yours; that

it is time for me to "range myself," and that if you'll give me your

daughter's hand--give me leave, that is, to propose for her hand in

marriage, and she does me the honour of accepting--well then, I'll

settle your manor, or what's left of it, on her and her heirs for ever.

Make a dower-house of it, in fact. And more than this, I'll burn all

your I.O.U.'s in addition. You'll be a free man once again.'

His host started violently, gave a sudden haughty and contemptuous look

at the speaker, made as if he would speak, then turned swiftly back to

the fire again.

He had a fierce desire to kick this vile newcomer--this Mosenthal, 'the

foreigner,' or 'ootner'--the son of a rich Jewish Manchester

tradesman--out of the house, but the fellow was his guest, and he

checked himself. Above all, he dreaded public bankruptcy; he, the last

male descendant of the proud race of Heronsbeck.

'Think it over,' said the other quietly. 'I think 'tis a fair

offer--free to take or free to drop.'

Still his host made no reply. The other after a little pause proceeded

with his tempting proposals. He had reached out his hand for the

dice-box on the table; he took it up and rattled the dice in the box as

if to throw on to the table.

'Come,' he cried vivaciously. 'Have a throw! Let luck decide. I'll back

your throw against mine. A hundred pounds to a penny.'

He rattled the dice noisily, and cast them on the table, still holding

the box tight over the ivory cubes.

The tempter prevailed; he had re-aroused the gambling fever in his host,

who now advanced to the table and looked irresolutely on the upturned

box.

'Done!' he cried suddenly. The other's fist lifted up; the cubes

nestled close together showing dots two and one.

'Luck's turned,' said his guest philosophically, as he laid down the

notes.

The other flung the dice swiftly on to the green board; the cubes rolled

apart, then as they settled they showed six and five.

A spark of momentary fire flickered in the gambler's eye; he picked up

the notes; then the frown came back to his brow; he shivered, looked at

the clock, then, 'It's damned late,' he said, 'and if you don't want any

more to drink we'd better go to bed.'

So saying Heronsbeck of Heronsbeck lit a candle for his guest, showed

him to his chamber, then went gloomily to his own.

There was no sleep, however, for him that night, for he dreaded the

morning and the astounded look of his darling Lily--his only child--when

he had to tell her of Mosenthal's proposal.

'Of course she won't do it--she couldn't. There'll be no harm done, for

she'd as soon accept a Hottentot as a rich Jew.' So her father reflected

aloud.

But she wouldn't like it. He hated to think of her expression when he

conveyed Mosenthal's offer to her.

The Jew's notes positively burned in his fingers as he had laid them

down on his dressing-table; the fellow's offer was extraordinarily

tempting. Ah, welladay! This was the end, then, of Heronsbeck Hall,

which he prized above every earthly possession after his daughter. His

father had lost the half of it over cards; now he himself had thrown

away the rest in like manner. There was the grouse moor; he counted up

the 'amenities' as he lay in bed, even as a lover enumerates the charms

of his mistress.

The wine-dark moorland--how he loved it! And the great days in autumn

after grouse and blackcock. Then the fishing in the beck for trout as a

boy, and the call of the sounding 'forces.' Then the huntings afoot on

the high fells, and the reckless gallops on the haughs below. No wonder

he loved it, for he and his forefathers were part and parcel of the

land. They had been there and owned it since the days of the Testa de

Nevil. He was 'hefted' to it, as the farmers said of their stock.

Well, all was now over. The 'lament' must sound over Heronsbeck.

Mosenthal must take the estate; he himself would take Lily abroad and

live forgotten, for he had rejected Mosenthal's proposal now,

absolutely.

Just at this decisive moment he distinctly heard the cry of a peacock

sound--weird and discordant--without.

'The peacock's cry!' It was as the wail of the banshee in his ear.

Peacocks had long since disappeared from the Hall, yet their fateful

cry, which had sounded through the night of the strange death of his

ancestor who first brought them there, had been wonderfully allied with

the fortunes of his house.

He accepted the omen.

Rising up with the first gleam of dawn, he went out into the park.

He determined to appraise and make an inventory of all that remained on

the place that he could call his own still and sell. There was some

timber left. Then all the stock on the home farm would be disposed of.

As he endeavoured to 'tot' this up he noticed a figure swinging along

across the park at a great pace. Was a stranger already fearless about

trespass?

Turning away from the approaching intruder, he commenced his calculation

afresh. Suddenly a voice hailed him joyfully.

'Back again! Back again, Pater, at long last! Yes, the rolling stone has

gathered some moss after all--honourably, if luckily, come by. So here I

am, Pater, like the Prodigal--to crave forgiveness, and--to repay you my

debts.'

Heronsbeck turned and stared upon the speaker. 'Joe!' he cried faintly,

but with Joe, his only son, he had quarrelled. Joe had vanished on the

Klondyke in a blizzard. This must be his ghost.

'Come, Dad!' called the beloved figure in front of him beseechingly.

'My boy, my boy!' cried his father, pressing his son to his bosom.

'Thank God for ye, my boy, my boy! But how can it be that you're alive?'

he asked apprehensively, as though fearing his son might vanish again

from his eyes.

'A good Samaritan--this time disguised as a Jesuit Father, rescued me.

Then I saved a pal myself eventually, who died of fever and left me all

his pile.'

'Yet I heard the peacock cry this morning,' muttered Heronsbeck to

himself, still apprehensive of misfortune.

'And did you also, Pater, hear the peacock shouting?' asked his son in

astonishment.

'Why, as I came over the fell by the Hanging Stone at break o' day--just

above the young larch plantation where we had the record woodcock

shoot--I heard his rasping cry.

"Hallo!" I called back to him. "Hallo, old bugler! You've got it all

wrong this time. 'Tis not 'The Last Post,' but 'Reveille' that you must

sound over Heronsbeck Hall this day."'

KITTY'S BOWER

When Eric Chesters of Chesters Castle married Miss Brocklebridge--the

bold and handsome heiress of Sir William, ironmaster, baronet, and

expectant baron, all the world and his wife clapped hands and cried 'an

ideal arrangement,' and foretold long years of success and happiness for

the happy pair.

At the club after the wedding the 'best man,' however, set forth a

different view of the matter.

'Of course on paper it's ideal,' he said; 'Sir William is of the order

of Melchisedec--having neither father nor mother, while Eric's pedigree

is the joy of the Heralds' College. Edith's money will pay off the

mortgages on Chesters Castle, no doubt, but, as Stevenson shrewdly said,

"_The Bohemian must not marry the Puritan._" Now Eric is not naturally a

marrying man; he yielded to his aged mother's solicitations and the

well-developed charms and black eyes of his wife. She sighs for a

career, and thinks Chesters Castle a fine foundation for it, but her

crest is a ladder; Eric's is a pierrot. In short, she is an Alpine

climber, and Eric a charming Prince Florizel of Bohemia. I give them a

year in which to find each other out--_apres cela le deluge_.'

The 'best man' proved right in his casting of their horoscope, for a

prolonged honeymoon spent in going round the world revealed a rift in

the lute which a season in town developed into an undoubted crack.

Thus, when Mrs. Chesters pressed on her husband the desirability of

entering Parliament, he protested that he had only seven skins; and when

she wished to pay a round of visits to distinguished people he

maintained that they ought to reside at Chesters Castle for a while.

She yielded, but her husband's castle completed her disillusion. She had

thought of it as a social _point d'appui_--she found it in her own words

'a gloomy shooting barrack.'

But her husband loved it, and rejoiced in the opportunity of renewing

his youth with the salmon-fishing, the grouse and blackcock driving, and

the great days of hunting on the wide moorlands of the Border, over

which his ancestors in bygone centuries had ridden day and night on raid

and foray. Mrs. Chesters could ride, had enjoyed the social advantages

of the Quorn and Pytchley, but she hated what she called disdainfully,

'bogtrotting with Picts and Scots.'

She had not yet become indifferent to her husband, but she was terribly

disappointed with his total lack of ambition.

Now that the salmon-fishing was over and the covers shot, she pined for

town, but her husband begged for a few more weeks of hunting first.

What joy could he find in the long days out on the barren fells? She

realised that he had become indifferent to her, though his charm of

manner to herself was externally the same.

She grew suspicious, if not jealous. Then one day an anonymous letter

came to her--signed 'Your Well-Wisher,' which corroborated her own

uneasy thoughts--suggesting coarsely that her husband was chasing a

_vixen_--not a fox.

No name was actually mentioned, but Mrs. Chesters realised at once who

'the woman' was.

She remembered noticing a young girl at an early meet held at the

castle, who had attracted her attention by her air of breeding, beauty,

and faultless seat on her mare. She had learnt that the girl was the

daughter of an old yeoman farmer who lived on his farm, quaintly called

'The Bower,' far outbye on the moorland beside the Blackburn Lynn.

She had mentioned the matter to her husband, and asked him where the

girl had acquired her good looks and her breeding. He had replied--and

she thought now--with a slight uneasiness of manner, that Miss Todd came

of a 'grayne' that had lived on the Border before ever the Normans came

into the land, that by intermarrying with a few other ancient yeomen

families a distinct and natural aristocratic type had resulted. 'Clean

living, fresh air, and as much hunting as possible,' have all assisted.

Nature also has assimilated the lines of her children's faces to the

classical lines wind-chiselled of her great fells. Their oval faces,

blue eyes, fair hair, and clean-chiselled features are her endowment.

'The Todds,' he had concluded with a laugh, 'have a tradition that they

descend from Eylaf--one of the bodyguard of St. Cuthbert and his

coffin--who, in a time of famine stole a cheese, and was for a time

turned into a tod. The tod, or fox, is their totem, and him they

diligently pursue.'

All that he had said then came back now with special meaning. Mrs.

Chesters pondered deeply as to how she had best act in this

conjuncture, and had not yet determined, when on the next afternoon she

overheard a scrap of conversation as she was passing beside the stables.

She heard the head groom call to the stable lad to saddle a second horse

and ride out to meet the Master on his way home from hunting that

afternoon.

'Which way will I take?' asked the lad in reply.

'The Master rode the airt o' Ladiesdale,' the head groom had replied,

for he was somewhat of a wag. _Ladiesdale_ for Liddesdale! Mrs. Chesters

fled; her cheek was burning, but her mind was made up.

She got out maps and discovered where 'The Bower'--ominous name--lay,

and what tracks led thereto. Thither she would ride on the next hunting

day and confront the girl, settle the matter with her husband, and put

an end to his shameful intrigue at once.

She had not very long to wait, for in the week after the Meet was

advertised at the Craig, which was, she knew, some few miles west of The

Bower, overlooking the Black Burn.

Early in the afternoon she rode out 'to meet her husband,' as she told

the groom, when she mounted, but in reality to catch him, if she could,

with the girl on his way back with her to her home.

She mounted up the fell to the southward on whose crest the track showed

like a wisp of hay left by the reaper. Gaining the top she paused and

looked athwart the mighty view outstretched before her. To her husband

she knew it was as Swinburne's 'great glad land that knows not bourne

nor bound,' but to herself it was a desert.

Below her the barren moorlands spread away--'harvestless as ocean'--till

they met the whitelands of the further fells, where wandering sheep

sought their living. On the sky's verge ran the line of Rome's great

barrier of wall. This seemed to increase the sense of infinity already

given by the landscape, for the mighty wall was now but a wreck upon

Time's shore.

In the mid way 'twixt moor and whiteland lay The Bower. Mrs. Chesters

rode on down towards the farmhouse, where it stood eminent upon a knoll

beyond the burn, covered with ivy, and sheltered by ash trees from the

blasts of the west wind.

She had marked a clump of rowans and geans a hundred yards or so from

the burn where she determined to stop her horse and reconnoitre before

going up to the farm itself.

Concealing herself as best she could within the small copse she noticed

that the track descended to where usually a ford was discoverable. She

could note horses' hoofs on the bank top, but the cart road to the farm

ran on the farther side of the burn, winding in and out of the rolling

pasture. To the right hand fifty yards away, a light wooden bridge with

hand-rail leapt from rock to rock above the foaming water.

Boiling amidst the rocky chasm it poured an amber flood across the ford

below.

A bold rider might have perhaps leaped his horse across; that might

possibly have been safer than to walk a horse through where a stumble

might mean doom to both.

No, Mrs. Chesters decided; if she went up to the farm she would have to

dismount and walk across the little bridge. As she reflected thus the

farm door opened, and a young girl came out and gazed steadily to the

west as though expecting some visitor. Then she moved onward, and came

slowly down towards the ford.

Mrs. Chesters crouched lower upon her horse's shoulder, waited till the

maiden had reached the water's edge, then turned her horse and trotted

swiftly down to battle with her rival across the water.

'And so it's you who dare to set your cap at my husband, Mr. Chesters of

Castle Chesters, is it? And you're waiting at the ford for his

returning, like a sweet, innocent, rustic maiden?'

Kitty's cheek had blanched a little when she saw who the rider was, but

her voice was unshaken as she replied quietly, 'I ne'er set my cap at

him, not I. The Todds hae lived and owned land here years before ever a

Chesters came to Chesters Castle.'

Mrs. Chesters had scrutinised with harsh eyes every detail of her

rival's face and figure. Those delicate lines of hip and waist were

surely no longer as fine as before. She felt her worst fears were

realised. Losing her temper she said roughly:

'You little fool! Don't you know you're making a scandal of yourself up

and down the whole countryside? Have you no sense of shame?'

'I can fend for myself,' said Kitty quietly, though a touch of colour

had showed on her cheeks.

'There's but one way for you to avoid further trouble for every one and

eventual ruin for yourself, and that is, to promise me never to see my

husband again.'

'I'll mak nae such promise,' retorted the other hotly. 'Maybe,' she

added quietly, '_it's your ain blame that ye canna keep your man at

hame_.'

Mrs. Chesters flamed. She was furious with rage. She struck out with the

thong of her hunting crop at her rival across the burn, but she was a

yard or more short of the hateful, delicate form confronting her so

steadily.

'Why don't ye ride through the ford?' asked Kitty unabashed, and even

smiling. She knew that her rival was afraid and despised her, while Mrs.

Chesters knew that Kitty knew, and hated her all the more therefore. She

would have cheerfully given a thousand pounds for one clean cut with the

whip across that oval cheek.

As Mrs. Chesters was trying to choke her wrath down and regain her

speech, she saw Kitty's eye turn westward with a swift look of delight.

Mrs. Chesters followed the line; she saw a black dot riding down the

'Slack' of the fell, and guessed instantly it was her husband returning

to The Bower after hunting.

In an instant she had made up her mind. Evidently the girl was expecting

him to come by the ford. Well, she, Mrs. Chesters would ride out to meet

him and intercept him before ever he won thither to his paramour.

She turned the horse's head with never a word and rode quickly up the

burn, keeping out of sight as far as possible. A few hundred yards on

there was an outcrop of rock with alder and scrub oak intermingling. The

track seemed to run through it, by the edge of the Blackburn Lynn.

Pressing onward, Mrs. Chesters determined to ensconce herself there

behind the rocks, or in the trees, and surprise her husband as he rode

through. On he came, gaily whistling, happy as a thrush in spring

rejoicing in his mate; on he came, his horse trotting swiftly, scenting

a 'feed' at The Bower's stable.

'So I've caught you, Eric!' cried his wife, as she thrust her horse

across his path from behind an adjacent rock.

Eric's mare shied violently, missed her footing on the narrow rocky

path, staggered, then rearing upward on a vain spring forward fell

backward over like some huge stone into the black belly of the lynn.

Mrs. Chesters followed with her eyes--she felt herself turned to marble;

then she was conscious that a horse had reappeared in the black eddies

below, but no rider was on its back. Was this some horrid nightmare she

could not awake from?

Then she saw the girl on the opposite bank who cried accusingly, 'What

hae ye done wi' him, ye wicked woman?'

Mrs. Chesters was now released from her spell.

'His horse shied,' she called across the waters, 'and fell into the lynn

with him. You search that side and I this.' So saying she got down from

her horse, tied the bridle to a tree, and sought as best she could for

any trace of her husband's body on her side of the black cauldron of

waters.

'Ye hae been his deid,' Kitty had shouted above the tumult of the lynn.

Not another word did the rival mourners address to each other.

Kitty had helped to lead the fallen horse out of the channel on her side

of the burn, then smitten with a sudden thought she jumped into the

saddle and rode off down the water thinking the corpse must have been

carried down steam by the heavy current.

Mrs. Chesters vainly wandered up and down the rocky edges of the lynn,

peered into the black, circling cauldron in the centre, but seeing

nothing emerge she made her way to the farm, promised a great reward to

any one who could bring her news of her husband's body being found, then

rode wearily home across the weary moors.

That night Kitty lay sleepless on her bed caught in a storm of sobbing;

she recalled all the sweet details of her love episode, all the charms

of her lover--which were now buried for ever in the black lynn. Then she

sang to herself softly,

'Nae living man I'll love again,

Now that my lovely knight is slain.

With ae lock of his gowden hair

I'll bind my heart for evermair.'

She had scarcely finished her lament when she saw a faint light show

beside her window. Formless and nebulous at first it seemed to be

growing quickly into particular shape and cognisance. Kitty had watched

the strange light, paralysed with terror, then, with a sudden

inspiration:

'Eric!' cried she, starting up on her bed, 'Eric! Is it thou? I knew

thou wouldest return to me.'

The apparition answered only by beckoning with a forefinger.

'Lead me to him,' she cried, as she rose and hastily flung on her

clothes.

The wraith led onward; Kitty let herself out of the window, and thence

to the ground by help of the ivy roots.

The night was still and thronged with stars, that seemed to watch her

tenderly and to be cognisant of her love. 'He is alive, he is alive,'

she cried to them, as she followed hot foot after the wraith that led to

the rocky lynn.

Onward with steady foot and without a trace of fear she followed--in

through a tangle of alder, thence through a cleft in a big rock, and

there below her, stretched on a ledge from which the ebbing waters had

just receded, lay her 'Man.'

'My man!' she murmured with a little cry between a laugh and a sob, 'my

man is alive.'

'Eric,' and she bent down over him, lifted the wet hair from his brow

and kissed him on the forehead.

'Kitty,' he replied faintly, trying to lift his head to hers, 'I knew

thou wouldst find me, beloved; my soul went forth to seek thee.

'I was badly stunned,' he went on presently, 'but it is nothing serious.

The flood lifted me upon this ledge, and so saved me.

'Well, there is but one thing now to do, my love. I am dead to my wife,

and she is dead to me. Let the dead bury their dead,' he added with a

smile.

'Now go fetch me dry clothes. I will change, and then we will ride away

to Heathdown junction, and thence away to a new life in a new land.'

Kitty drew in her breath. 'But are ye able? Are ye strong enough, Eric?

Art sure thou canst give up all for a life with me?'

'Faith of a Borderer!' he answered gaily, as he kissed her hand. 'Now go

and do as I bid. There's no time to be lost. See! I grow stronger every

minute,' and he rose up on his knee and crawled forth from his refuge

assisted by Kitty. Then she went swiftly back to the farm and brought

with her dry clothes and a plaid, a second time she returned for meat

and drink for her lover, and the third and last time for his horse,

which she had already stabled in the byre.

'And now,' said Eric in her ear, as he lifted her into the saddle,

'we'll ride westward where we'll buy another "Bower" in another land.'

* * * * *

Through the early mist that morning an old shepherd was making his way

home from a late mart, when he encountered what he swore was 'the wraith

o' a great muckle moss-trooper wi' his marrow ahint him ridin' the ae

black horse.'

Arrived at home, he roused his wife, and imparted his information.

'Whisht, man, hand your whisht,' retorted she. 'Noo get intil your ain

bed. Ye aye see _double_ after a mart day.'

THE TALE OF THE THREE ANTIQUARIES

Thomas Turnbull stood beside his spade and gazed rapturously at a small

portable Roman altar which he had just unearthed. Owing to a fortunate

legacy he had recently been enabled to retire from his business as a

ship's broker, and had bought a farm not far from the line of the Roman

Wall in mid Northumberland.

He prided himself on being a practical man in all he undertook--'Plain

Tom Turnbull' he styled himself, and in the pursuit of antiquities,

which was now his hobby, he sneered at all theorists, and relied upon

the spade. '_Magister Palae_' was his motto, and now he had justified

his belief in his farm's occupying the site of an early out-lying Roman

camp.

Squat in build, sanguine in complexion, and auburn-haired, he stood

'four-square to all the winds'; his bold, prominent eyes recalled the

muzzle of an ancient blunderbuss ready to loose off at a moment's

notice.

Now the Society of Antiquaries of Oldcastle, of which he was a member,

were making a pilgrimage along the Wall on the next day, and he had

offered to provide tea for their refreshment at the conclusion of their

excursion.

Thus his 'find' was twice fortunate. He would now be enabled to confound

Telfer, one of the most learned of the Society's members, by the

evidence of his spade work. Telfer was an antiquary of the

'well-documented' kind, an attorney by profession, thin and anaemic--'a

parchment browser,' Turnbull called him, as one founding himself upon

references in all discussions on antiquity. He had been indeed very

sceptical of the existence of Turnbull's 'early, out-lying camp' and had

annoyed 'Plain Tom' by his doubts.

Turnbull laid aside his spade, wiped the perspiration from his brow, and

took up his altar again reverently. Then he drew from his pocket a small

flask, poured a few drops into the tiny _focus_ on the top as a libation

to Bacchus, and himself toasted 'the spade.' Carefully handling his

precious possession he returned home with it in his arms and placed it

on the drawing-room mantelpiece, to the dismay of his wife, who

misdoubted the religion of the Romans. 'That's a settler for Telfer,' he

said triumphantly; 'he'll be up to-morrow, and he'll have to swallow

it.'

'Swallow it! Swallow it!' echoed his wife. 'My dear, what do you mean?'

'He'll have to swallow it first, then he can have his tea on the top of

it,' replied her husband with a grin. 'But do you give a look to it

before he goes, for he'd pinch it if he got the chance.'

'You don't mean to say that he would actually steal it?' queried his

wife, aghast.

'Wouldn't he, though? He'd lift anything that was not too heavy or too

hot,' retorted her husband.

The next day proved to be a lovely autumn morning, and the prospect

along the Wall perfect for the antiquary, who could see it crawling like

some great serpent on its belly, with many an undulation from east to

west, over many a mile beneath the racing clouds and sunshine.

Turnbull walked down to meet the party of excursionists beside a newly

excavated mile-castle where they were to eat their sandwiches and

discuss their theories. After that he was to conduct them to his house

'The Crag,' and show them his altar and give them refreshment.

Turnbull took the very earliest opportunity of informing them of his

'find,' and while his friends congratulated him Mr. Telfer opined that

its discovery proved nothing as to a camp, for a portable altar might

easily be discovered anywhere along the Wall, and there was no record of

any camp at that particular spot. 'The spade will show,' cried 'Plain

Tom,' triumphantly. 'It's just my first-fruits. Wait a few weeks and my

spade will prove it.' Almost at once the party moved onwards, for they

had an early train to catch, and as soon as they reached the house tea

was set before them, and their host handed round the altar for

inspection. 'Pity there's no record on it to show to what God it was

dedicated,' said one, 'and by whom.'

'It probably belonged to some pioneers along the Wall who built

themselves a temporary camp whilst prospecting,' said Turnbull.

Telfer, on the other hand, was of opinion that the altar was not of the

local freestone, had probably been brought from a neighbouring camp, and

eventually thrown away when the Picts and Scots overran the Wall.

'If you'll show me the place where you found it,' he added, 'I can prove

to you, I think, that the surrounding stone is different.'

'My pioneers probably imported it,' said the other boldly, 'but the kind

of stone is neither here nor there. However, I'll gladly show you the

identical spot where I howked it out.'

While the rest of the party made their way down the valley towards the

railway station, 'Plain Tom' went off with his sceptic to the place of

excavation.

'There,' said he, pointing to the spot, 'that's where it came from,' and

as he spoke he turned over with his spade some debris that had fallen

into the hole. His companion took up a fragment of stone, examined it,

shook his head, then proceeded to 'howk' out with his stick a stone of

some size lying half-bedded in the earth at the bottom of the hole. He

levered it away, and it rolled over on its side; something glittered

beneath. 'Ha! an aureus!' cried the attorney, and dashed upon it.

'I told you so, I told you so,' shouted his host in triumphant joy.

'This proves it!'

His joy was perhaps excessive; it seemed to eclipse at least his

surprise, but his companion paid no attention to him in his own

excitement.

'Ha! an aureus of Hadrian--and in excellent preservation,' rejoined the

other, after a careful examination. 'What an uncommonly lucky find!' and

without more ado he slid it into the palm of his left hand.

'A find!' echoed 'Plain Tom,' choking upon astonishment and rage. 'Here,

hand it over--I'm owner here,' for his own particular pet coin was

disappearing from his ken.

'Even if you were the Lord of the Manor you could not make your claim

good,' replied the attorney coolly. 'He who finds, keeps. Treasure trove

to be claimed must be hidden--_lucri aut metus causa_. This aureus was

evidently lost or cast away in flight. The finder retains it.'

'Cast away in flight' sounded ludicrously enough in the other's ears,

but he was incapable of speech. Indeed, 'Plain Tom' with difficulty

controlled the fires that were scorching him within. His hands trembled

convulsively on the handle of the spade; his enemy had turned about and

taken a step down the hillside as if to follow his companions. Now

beckoned Opportunity. 'Plain Tom' grasped his spade more tightly, lifted

it in air, and brought it down with a thud on the top of his enemy's

cloth cap. The attorney's knees gave way instantly; he sank in a heap,

then slowly rolled forward and onward down the slope. The aureus had

dropped from his limp hand. 'Plain Tom' was on to it like a knife--the

song of Deborah and Barak on his lips. Then he paused and looked upon

the motionless figure of the man below now lying half hidden amongst

some bracken. What was to be done? A shudder of dismay crept up the

observer's spine. Could he be dead? No, no, he was only stunned.

Well, 'Plain Tom' swiftly determined on his line of action. There was a

shepherd's cottage only a quarter of a mile away where he might get help

to lift and carry the fallen man; he would leave him there for the night

after explaining that he had found him lying unconscious from a faint in

the bracken. That done, he would himself go for the local doctor and

explain how he had found the attorney's body. Then he examined the spade

carefully. There was no sign of blood upon it, fortunately. He had

caught his enemy squarely with the flat of it; all was well, for none

had seen him--not even his victim--lift it and strike.

The shepherd was at home, and at once accompanied him to the spot. 'He's

deid,' said the herd, lifting up a limp arm. 'I'm doubtin' he's got

awa.'

'Nonsense,' said his companion with affected assurance. 'He'd a weak

heart, I know, and the long walk has been over much for him. His pulse

is all right,' he added, pretending to feel upon the wrist. 'Now we'll

carry him to your house, and I'll fetch the doctor. He'll be all right

in an hour or two, I'll bet a guinea.'

The attorney was of slim build, and the two men carried him easily to

the cottage. Leaving him there Turnbull strode off for the doctor, whom

he found at home. Explaining how he had found the body, he helped the

doctor saddle his pony and bade him ride with all speed, requesting him

to bring him word to 'The Crag' when he had recalled his patient to

consciousness.

Then 'Plain Tom' set off for his home, whistling to himself to keep up

his spirits, and ever and anon glancing at his recovered aureus with

joy. 'Magister Palae,' he muttered to himself, ''tis a fine weapon.'

The doctor did not arrive at The Crag till some two hours later, and

when he did he showed a long face. After he had seated himself in

Turnbull's little sanctum, sacred to his antiquities, he delivered

himself slowly of his professional opinion. 'He's bad,' he said

mournfully, 'verra bad,' for the doctor was Scotch; 'he's had an unco

shock'--he glanced keenly at his companion as he spoke--'and a verra bad

fall. His hairt is gey weak--and he says--if he disna recover he'll

haunt ye--for what ye've done.'

'For what I've done!' cried 'Plain Tom,' aghast. 'The poor man's brain's

affected. What on earth can he mean?'

'And he said also that if the worst should happen,' continued the other

with unmoved visage, 'that he would bequeath me the aureus. He's a

warrum-hearted body, an' he kens that I'm a bit of an antiquary mysel'.'

'_His_ aureus!' exclaimed 'Plain Tom' with re-aroused indignation, and

forgetful of secrecy, 'why, the damned fellow--no, I don't mean that--I

mean he's delirious; but he'll be all right again soon, doctor?' he

appealed earnestly.

'I'm nane so sure of that,' replied the other, shaking his head. 'I

thought as I came alang I had a sort of a feeling as of a wraith nigh

about me--a lang, eldritch sort o' a form i' the mist.'

His host shuddered, looked through the window apprehensively in the

gloaming, saw some vague, misty wraith approaching. Then he felt for the

aureus in his waistcoat pocket.

'Oot wi' it,' the doctor demanded, and 'oot' it came after a struggle.

The doctor rose and held out his hand. 'Aweel,' he said, 'it's safe wi'

me. I'll awa noo--back to my patient, for I'll no' can leave him just

yet.'

Then the door closed silently behind him. '_Vicisti, O Caledonia_,'

groaned 'Plain Tom,' and as he spoke he rose up in search of the whisky

bottle and consolation.

APUD CORSTOPITUM

(_per lineam murus._)

L. Sentius Castus--at one time an officer in the 'Domestici,' or

Emperor's Guards--had volunteered for active service, and was now a

'Vexillarius,' or Standard Bearer to the first squadron of horse

attached to the Sixth Legion--'the Victorious and Faithful,' that had

come over to Britain with the Emperor Hadrian. He was sitting one August

afternoon by the fountain in the Forum of Corstopitum, engaged upon

improving a system of fire signals for use on the great wall, which

Hadrian was building from the Tyne estuary to the Solway Firth.

As he reflected he glanced occasionally up at the tall figure of a

youthful Briton beside him--a noble of the tribe of the Brigantes--whom

the soldiers had nicknamed 'Rufus' on account of his auburn hair.

These two had become such close friends that the prefect of the camp had

likened them to Nisus and Euryalus, for they were inseparable. '_His

amor unus erat pariterque in bella ruebant._'

'Rufus' was employed as an 'explorator'--a pioneer, or scout, along the

wall, as he had an exact knowledge of the country, but he was at the

moment engaged upon a piece of sculpture--having a natural gift for the

chisel--and was putting a final touch to the figure of a lion standing

above a dead stag.

He stooped and drew a stopper of clay from the lion's mouth, and at once

a stream of water broke through and flashed into the trough.

'_Euge! Macte virtute, puer!_' cried Castus in delight; ''tis a superb

fountain head! And the carving is wondrous, for though thou hast seen

the stag thou hast not the lion; yet there he stands full of pride and

challenge on his kill, just as I have seen him in the Circus Maximus in

Rome.

'By the way,' he continued, 'I have ordered Scaevola, the camp's head

mason, to cut that altar which we promised to set up to Sylvanus when we

brought down the famous Grindon stag--that great hart o' grease--which

every officer in Corstopitum had hunted in vain.'

As he spoke he rose up and laid his tablet and style aside.

'How jealous they all were,' he continued. 'How the Prefect doubted its

weight and sneered at its tynes and the bay and tray!'

'I think,' replied his friend with a laugh, 'that he would willingly

himself have set up an altar to every god from Jupiter Optimus Maximus

to our local Mogon, had he had the luck to grass him.'

'The Forum would have been lined with them,' assented his friend,

smiling also. 'Well, this is the inscription I gave to Scaevola to cut

on the one altar we promised--he was cheap at one.

'Silvano invicto sacrum

L. Sentius Castus signifer Leg VI.

Et Tetricus explorator murus

Ob cervum eximiae formae captum

Quem multi antecessores eorum

Praedari non potuerunt.

'That is work for a mason, not for an artist like yourself, who have

embellished Caesar's town in Ultima Thule with a masterpiece.

'Mark this day with white chalk, for thou shalt behold Caesar himself,

since he hath just ridden in from Pons Aelii, and will shortly inspect

his new town of Corstopitum. Think on the immensa Romanae Pacis Majestas

when thou seest him here!'

'I wish greatly to see him,' replied the young Briton, 'yet I dread the

eagle eye of our Imperator.'

'Nay,' said his friend, 'he will never affright thee, for though he is

the ruler of the broad universe he hath a human heart that takes

interest in all things under the sky, being soldier, traveller,

administrator, builder, student, and poet at once.'

There came a sudden shrilling of the tuba at this moment.

'See!' cried the Vexillarius. 'There he goeth into the Praetorium.'

The twain stood watchful as sentinels, and very shortly they saw Caesar

proceeding to the steps leading into the Forum, accompanied by the Comes

Brittanorum and the Clarissimus and the Consularis, attended by his

guard, on whose shields were blazoned as insignia the forts upon the

mighty wall.

Caesar was clad, they noted, not in the long robe of Imperator, but in

the shorter tunic of the Consul, with heavy purple border.

The two young men stood stiff at the salute as Hadrian drew near. Then

the Emperor, recognising his former guardsman, spoke to him kindly by

name.

'Ha! Castus. Thou lookest right well. Art better employed here than in

trailing thy toga and neighing after the beautiful ladies in Rome? Thou

hast found soldiering on the confines of our Empire to thy liking?'

'Yes, indeed, sire,' replied the standard-bearer, ''tis the sole

profession for a man.'

Hadrian looked upon the erect figure, keen eye, and sun-tanned face of

the speaker with evident approval. Then as he was about to pass onward

his eye was struck by the newly carved fountain-head.

'Who hath carved this fountain?' he inquired. 'I did not know we had an

artist in the camp.'

''Twould scarce disgrace the garden of the Palatine,' replied Castus,

overjoyed at the opportunity of praising his comrade in Caesar's

presence; ''tis the handicraft of my friend here--a pioneer upon thy

wall--one who though born a Briton is now more Roman than myself, and

hath expended all his skill upon the carving in the hope of pleasing the

eye of Caesar.'

Hadrian, ever a patron of the arts, glanced quickly at the reddening

cheeks of the young Briton, then stepped forward to the fountain-head,

and scrutinised it with close attention. 'He hath the true eye of the

artist, this friend of thine,' he said, with evident appreciation, 'for

the stag is admirably depicted--the tongue hanging loose from the mouth

as I have noted myself when a beast is slain, and as for the lion,

though he can scarce ever have seen a lion in Britain, I suppose, 'tis

admirable in its decorative effect.' He turned to the blushing artist

and thanked him graciously for his accomplishment, adding that he would

send him a bronze ewer from his own table as a trifling recompense.

So saying he passed on, and the two comrades looked at each other

joyously.

'Now!' cried the Roman standard-bearer, 'thou hast seen, and been

addressed by, the Ruler of the world.

'Art thou not proud this day? Art not at least an inch taller? Is Caesar

not like to one of the immortal gods, thinkest thou?'

'He is, indeed,' replied the young Briton. 'I knew not such majesty and

kindness could dwell together in mortal man. To die for him would be no

virtue but a pleasure. I have never seen so noble a face; strength

therein is sustained by intelligence as columns uphold a mighty roof.

His mouth speaks even when he utters no words. He unites in himself the

charm of a woman to the power and dignity of a man.'

'Thou hast spoken it,' replied his companion; 'thou hast hit off his

strange and unique qualities. I had not thought of it before like that,

but thy observation, as Caesar himself said, is excellent, and thy

description is true. The one thing I like not,' he added, 'is the beard

he hath grown; that is a new thing in a Roman Emperor and, as I judge

it, somewhat barbaric.'

The next day Hadrian set forth again to ride _per lineam murus_ across

moor and fell to Luguvallum and the western sea.

Castus and Rufus accompanied him as guides, and the Prefect with his

guard escorted the Emperor to the wall that was being swiftly built on

the brow of the hill above Corstopitum.

There Castus pointed out to Hadrian the track of Dere Street--the road

of Agricola--that seemed to flutter like some white butterfly up the

distant and opposite fell-side crowned by the Wannys' heights--birthplace

of the river Wansbeck.

'That track, sire, leads to Habitancum, Bremenium, Ad Fines, and

Trimontium beside Tweed,' said Castus. 'I would it might be prolonged to

Mons Grampius, and even to the Cimmerian sea, where I would set up the

_Arae finium Imperii Romani_ on the very edge o' the world.'

Hadrian smiled at his officer's enthusiasm, then he said gravely: 'The

Empire's weight is heavy enough already--Atlas himself could scarce

sustain it. Buttresses are needed, and my wall and camps will furnish

them on this furthest frontier. Beyond is but a waste given over to

wolves, wild boars, and painted savages. But what a prospect is here!

'Tis like the sea stretching away for ever in harvestless waves.'

On and westward they rode and along the windy crest of the fell, then

dipped down to the north Tyne river and the camp of Chesters set

thereby, thence through the limestone crags to Boreovicus on the

moorland--established on the edge of the basaltic outcrop that frowns

upon Bromlea Lough.

This great camp was already finished and garrisoned by Tungrian

auxiliaries; the great wall that was to link together the various camps,

trailed its length like a serpent till it mounted to Winshields height.

Across the valley rose the purple fells of South Tyne, and in the

distant haze Skiddaw's crest soared like an eagle.

On Winshields height Caesar was met by the Prefect of Luguvallum and his

guard, and here Castus and Rufus bade him farewell, and turned back

towards Corstopitum.

As they rode eastward, and had gained the edge of a fir wood beyond

Boreovicus, a very beautiful girl stepped suddenly forward, and laid a

hand on the rein of Rufus's pony.

She is of an extraordinary beauty, thought Castus, as he noted the

wealth of hair, blue eyes, clear skin, and finely chiselled features.

Evidently of noble birth, for she wore a linen shirt under her robe of

fur, and carried a gold chain about her neck. There was a look of

arrogance about her--a disdain, as it were, that set off her beauty like

a jewel, and as she conversed with Rufus she seemed, so Castus thought,

to be eyeing himself not without interest.

'What dost thou think of me, O Roman?' she seemed to ask through her

disdainful eyes. 'Am I not more beautiful than all the women of Rome?

Wouldst like to possess me? I care for none that proves not himself to

be a conqueror.'

Castus moved his pony slowly onward, then pausing for his comrade looked

back upon this proud girl of the wood who had aroused sensations he

thought he had left behind him in Rome.

As she bade good-bye to Rufus she turned away, but her last glance was

not upon Rufus but upon Castus, as the latter delighted to note.

'Who is this moorland beauty?' he inquired of his comrade, as the two

rode on again together.

'She is a cousin of mine,' Rufus replied carelessly. 'My mother and her

father and mother desire us to wed, but there is no hurry for that. I

long for more hunting with thee, O Castus, and to be the complete

soldier before I give myself to marriage.'

'How is she named?' inquired his friend further, unable to subdue his

interest.

'Penchrysa,' said Rufus, 'but for short I call her Pen.'

'Penchrysa,' repeated Castus to himself; ''tis a fit and most romantic

name.' Then aloud he asked, 'Did she look upon Caesar as he passed by

this morning?'

'Yes,' replied Rufus, 'she heard he was to pass along the wall, and she

saw him from the shelter of the wood.'

'Does she then love Rome like yourself?' pursued Castus.

His companion hesitated a moment before he replied. 'She hath a proud

soul in her. She loves courage and prowess above all else, and so will,

I believe, love Rome even as I, at the last. The great wall,' continued

the young Briton, 'will prove to her Rome's might, and Corstopitum with

its stored granaries and streets of shops will show her its

civilisation. I have bid her come in to-morrow with her small brother

when the market is open and the country folk bring in their mead and

honey and fowls, and any grouse and salmon they may have netted.'

'Good,' replied Castus, 'we will show her the sights of Rome's newest

achievement.'

Then fearing he might be playing false with his friend he thrust away

all idea of this disdainful beauty of the moors from him and commenced

to explain to his comrade his simplification of the then method of

sending five signals from turret to turret, from mile castle to mile

castle along the length of the wall, so as to ensure greater accuracy.

Yet ever the challenge of the arrogant moorland princess assailed his

heart.

Proud as a stag she had stood regarding him; as graceful in all her

limbs--her breast curved like a breaking wave. She was infinitely more

fascinating than Lalage of Corinth, who had lately devastated the youths

of Rome. Her clear oval face, the bluebells of her eyes, her auburn hair

haunted him.

'_Iam matura viro plenis jam nubilis annis._'

He began to weave sophistries whereby he proved to his own satisfaction

that Rufus cared not for his cousin, that she disdained him, and

consequently was fair game for himself. By midday on the morrow the

forum of Corstopitum was crowded; there was a throng of British

country-folk come in to sell, and of Roman auxiliaries from diverse

camps come in to purchase.

Castus and Rufus were acting as interpreters between buyers and sellers

when they saw their invited guest approaching in company with a handsome

boy of some fifteen years, whose hand she held in hers.

'Welcome!' cried Rufus. 'Now what will you like best to see first? The

pottery shop with its wares--Samian and Castor and rustic, or the great

corn granaries, or the metal-worker's booth where you can buy a fibula

for yourself, or a boss for your horse's bridle?'

His cousin hesitating, Castus suggested the metal-worker's booth as

being closest, and thither they repaired.

Rufus explained with evident delight the use of the various articles set

forth, and Castus, discerning that the fair visitor had a little Latin,

joined in the conversation.

'Here is a fibula,' he said, 'skilfully ornamented with the head of

Minerva. Take it,' he said, as he gracefully presented it to her, 'as a

memento of Rome's most northern town.'

Quietly she accepted the gift with a word of thanks, then added, 'but

not from Rome,' with an enigmatic smile that strangely attracted the

Roman soldier. '_Not from Rome!_' repeated Castus to himself, with

throbbing heart, 'then _from me_ she must mean,' he conjectured, and the

passion in his breast flamed hotter than before.

He watched her closely as they fared through the town, and though she

was quick to perceive, she did not seem surprised at the novelties she

saw, whereby Castus found himself more attracted by her than ever.

Barbarian she might be held in Rome, but there was a beauty, pride, and

strength in her he had never met with on the Via Sacra.

When the time came for her to depart Castus eagerly suggested that she

should come again two days later when games for all comers were to be

held in the town.

'Yes,' added Rufus, 'you must come. The games will be superb.' Then with

a laugh, 'Castus and I are to box.'

Penchrysa's eye quickened; she shot one glance at Castus, then promising

to return she waved a hand and departed, leading her small brother with

the other. Castus waited long to see if she would not look back over her

shoulder, but no, she went steadily forward, and this only whetted his

appetite the more.

The afternoon set apart for the games was fair and gay with a west wind

that speeded like a greyhound over the wide fells.

The little arena--dug out in the hollow below the camp--was surrounded

by a vast throng of eager spectators drawn from along the wall and the

moor beyond.

There was a holiday in camp; the rumour of a fighting with cocks had

brought in the Britons; some Spaniards had come over from Chesters,

sundry Gauls from Vindolana, and there were the Tungrian auxiliaries

from Boreovicus itself.

So it was amid a motley throng of spectators that Castus and Rufus stood

up to box together with the _caestus_ that afternoon, and a murmur of

admiration rose up from the spectators as the two handsome, graceful

young men stepped lightly into the grassy arena. Their right arms and

fists were bound about with thongs of bull's hide; the balls of lead and

iron usually attached thereto in the case of professional _pugils_ were

absent, as the encounter was a friendly one, and meant to amuse and

instruct the soldiers. So, stripped for the match and smiling upon each

other, they took their places in the green arena, and, facing north and

south so as to avoid the sun, saluted the Prefect, after the manner of

gladiators, and at once began preluding to the attack.

Rufus had been carefully instructed by Castus for some little time past,

and was now almost as skilful as his instructor. In strength probably

the Roman was the superior, but the Briton was somewhat more alert and

active on his feet.

The first round was devoted to a display of their art; the second grew

somewhat more intent in purpose, the applause of the spectators

stimulating the two boxers to put forth their whole strength.

Castus had seen Penchrysa sitting in the amphitheatre to his right hand,

and had at once realised that she was really interested in the fight and

was applauding himself, not her cousin.

Inspired by this to renewed effort he deceived his friend by a clever

feint, then getting in a fine clean hit with his left on the forehead,

followed it up with a right-hander on the jaw. Rufus staggered backward,

swayed wildly on his feet, then fell unconscious to the ground.

Applause broke out over the whole amphitheatre, and Castus was proudly

conscious that the white hands of Penchrysa were clapping him

vigorously, even as he ran forward to raise his friend's head and assist

him to his feet as he recovered from his faint.

After this some cock-fighting followed, and many of the spectators left

or changed their seats. Castus marked Penchrysa rise and walk away with

her brother, and he followed them amid the crowd.

'I am victorious,' he said, as he came up with them, 'but the victory is

yours, for had you not applauded I had not won.'

Penchrysa looked upon him with a glowing eye that seemed to Castus to

have lost its first hostility, as she said simply she was pleased that

he had been victorious.

She said she must go, and bending down her head, added in a low, hurried

voice, '_If thou wishest further converse with me meet me as the moon

rises by the limestone crags above Chesters to-morrow night._' She laid

her finger on her lip, and moved away with her supple grace through the

straggling crowd.

Castus, enraptured by the thought that he had captured this proud

beauty, could scarce contain himself for joy. He had no difficulty in

keeping his assignation, for he had a good pretext in an old promise to

advise with the Commander of the Chesters Camp. Thus he rode out

joyously next afternoon from Corstopitum, and as dusk drew on and the

time for the moon's rising came near, he dismounted below the limestone

crags and led his horse slowly up to the highest point of the limestone

outcrop where a monolith stood dark and threatening. Tethering his

horse to a tree near by he advanced towards it, and the moon--now

risen--faintly touched it with light. Two figures moved from it as he

came up. The first was Penchrysa, the second an old, grey-bearded man.

'Welcome, O Roman!' said she gravely, then with more emotion, 'thy looks

and actions tell me thou lovest me. If so I have a proposal to make to

thee; and as I know your tongue but ill this old man, my friend, who has

served with your armies, will set it before thee, for I have no skill in

the Roman language.'

Castus, carried away by his passion, seized her hand and kissed it, and

was about to put his arms about her, but she put up her hand and bade

him wait for her proposal from the interpreter's lips.

'Thou art strong, O Roman,' said the old man earnestly, 'brave, and

canst command men, for my Princess has watched thee narrowly. She is of

royal birth, and royal amongst womankind. None surpasses her. She will

give thee herself if thou wilt command our hosts. The Caledonii will

avenge Mons Grampius and rise with the British race, fling off the hated

yoke of Rome, and make this island free as it was of old. There are ten

thousand within call of us now!' He whistled thrice like a golden

plover, and on all sides dark forms showed themselves in response to his

call. 'The rule of Rome approacheth its doom. This wall proves their

weakness. The Emperor is in the western land and can be dispatched with

ease. We want a leader, and our Princess chooseth thee. Take her and be

Emperor of Britain.'

As he spake thus, Penchrysa leaned forward and whispered in the ear of

the astounded Roman, 'Come, and we will rule together!' Her lovely face

showing lovelier in the soft moonlight, her breath honey-sweet upon his

cheek, the vision of rule together had almost intoxicated him. But then

the shame of betrayal rose in him like a flood. Lust dropped from him as

a garment. In one second he had drawn his sword and stabbed his

temptress to the heart. 'So perish!' he cried aloud, 'all enemies of

Rome!'

* * * * *

He bounded to his horse, leapt on its back, and at breakneck speed they

hurtled down the fell. He was wounded by darts in shoulder and right

arm, and his horse's loins were gashed by a spear, yet the camp at

Chesters was but two miles away, and, setting his teeth together, he

gave his horse the rein and leaned forward on its neck to take his

weight off the loins.

The yells of the pursuers became fainter as he sped onward. Soon he saw

the dark outline of the camp on the haugh below, and in a few minutes

arrived at the western port.

'Who are ye?' inquired the sentry of the port.

'Castus, Vexillarius of the first squadron, Sixth Legion,' he shouted

hoarsely, 'the Britons have risen!'

The stone gate jarred on its hinge; Castus, thrusting through,

dismounted and wiped the foam from his gallant steed.

'What a fool I have been!' he murmured. 'Never again will I traffic with

a woman. _Vale, O Femina--in eternum vale!_ Henceforth I dedicate my

life to Rome--

"_Romae matri meae--

Orbis Imperatrici._"'

And, ratifying his vow by the head of Caesar, he fell to the ground,

unconscious through loss of blood.

Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty

at the Edinburgh University Press

Transcriber's Notes.

Words have been hyphenated consistently within each story, and

punctuation has been corrected without notation.

Spaces in common contractions (whether in dialect or not) e.g. "there's"

"Aah'll" and "ye'd" have been closed up.

Dialect contractions, e.g. "o't" and "wi't", or "is 't" and "D' ye" are

given as generally printed.

Footnotes have been moved to the end of each story.

The following obvious typographical errors in the original have been

corrected:

On Page 158, "and swings away at a hand gallop" changed to "and

swings away at a hard gallop".

On Page 181 "for Ah'll stan' none" changed to "for Aah'll stan'

none" (consistent with spelling in same speech).

On Page 209, "went forward at a good trot an drecked" changed to

"went forward at a good trot and recked."

In Footnote 1 to "Muckle-Mouthed Meg" (i.e. Footnote to Page 205)

"Provost is really an anacronism" changed to "Provost is really an

anachronism."

The questionable spellings of "Chateau-Laffite" and "Vindolana" are as per

the original book.