BY THE SHRINE OF SAINT CUTHBERT

'"Who loves not woman, wine and song,He is a fool his whole life long."'Which of the two is in the right?''Luther!' replied the Minor Canon, somewhat unexpectedly, flushed withvol-au-ventand generous claret, who was now beginning to look upon himself as a gay Lothario. 'Asceticism for its own sake is mere vanity.''Here's then to Luther!' cried the 'Golden Canon,' with enthusiasm. 'Fill and drink a bumper to his memory!''Not but what I regret the Reformation myself, since had it not been for Anne Boleyn, the bishopric might still be a Palatinate and the estates of the canons inviolate.'Curiously enough the Minor Canon had noton this especial occasion filled up his glass; on the contrary he was now staring in dismay towards the window recess opposite, which was suffused with a pale light. On the right hand there hung a crucifix, and the moonbeams gently illuminated the cross with its burden.The two cousins continued their gay converse, but the Minor Canon was completely absorbed in his contemplation of a vision which was being unfolded before his affrighted eyes in the recess opposite. A figure took shape in the misty light—the form of an old man rugged of aspect, with grizzled locks like a fisherman's, appeared before his eyes; he held forth his hand and pointed menacingly to the crucifix with fiercely gleaming eyes.At that very moment there rose up from far away to the ears of the stricken gazer the sound of a cock-crow. The gazer wilted back in his seat; turning white, he held his hands to his eyes, his whole frame trembling. His two companions, who had now been aroused by his movement, looked upon him with astonishment.'What's the matter, my dear fellow?' inquired the 'Golden Canon.' 'You look as if you had seen a ghost.''I thought,' stammered the gazer—'Ithought I saw St. Cuthbert—I mean some apparition—in the recess there.''It's only the moon,' the 'Golden Canon' replied, after a cursory glance in that direction. 'If you don't like it just draw the curtains.'But the Minor Canon had already risen from his seat, and, with unsteady footsteps, passed to the door murmuring brokenly to himself, 'Peccavi, peccavi' as he withdrew from the dining-room.'A nice fellow,' commented the 'Golden Canon,' 'but he has, I fear, a rotten digestion.'Help yourself to that white port, cousin; then we'll finish our talk over a pipe of tobacco.'BY THE SHRINE OF SAINT CUTHBERTBY THE SHRINE OF SAINT CUTHBERTThe bells were ringing to evensong in the great cathedral dedicated to Saint Cuthbert, that stands like a fortress on its rock above the murmuring Wear—'Half house of God, half castle 'gainst the Scot'—in the windy dusk of a November evening.The people of the saint, however—the 'Haliwer folc,' the 'folk of the Holy Man'—were few in attendance that afternoon, and the great nave seemed very empty as I sat down in a seat in front of the 'Galilee' beside the north door of entry.I looked about me and admired the mighty Norman pillars diapered and fluted with exceeding skill by the great master builders of old, who built to, even as their great duke swore by, the 'Splendour of God.' My eye wandered upward and rested upon the great chevrons resembling sword-cuts that seemed deep-hacked within the rounded arches of the Triforium. Thence onward my gaze fluttered like a butterfly, and rested upon a leering corbel, whichseemed to scoff at priest and priest-craft with protruding tongue. The mighty stone roof soaring aloft—a ship's keel upturned—drew my eye eastward to the choir; there on the great east window, rose-shaped and many-coloured, the invading dusk gathered like water-drops upon the panes, and wove its dun mantle over them. The anthem now pealed along the roof, lapping capitals, corbels, and pillars in a tide of sound that swept unresisted through the wide spaces of the cathedral.As the echoing song grew fainter, and ebbed away into the twilight shadows, my gaze returned to my immediate surroundings, and rested unconcernedly upon a man sitting a seat or two in front of me, beside one of the massive piers. He seemed to be in a most distressed and nervous condition, for he peered about him with an evident alarm, which was pitiful to witness. As he turned his face about I saw it was haggard with fear and sorrow, or remorse; his hair was matted, and beads of sweat were thick upon his brow.It was as if he were terrified of impending danger. Yet what could he be afraid of in the great calm of the solemn cathedral? The benediction had been given, and the sparse congregation had now risen and was slowlydeparting, yet he rose not, but seemed to be hiding from view as he crouched behind the form in front of him, and edged his way slowly within the shadow of the heavy pier to his left hand.I sat on listening to the voluntary, and it held me by its strangeness. I knew that the Dean and Chapter's organist was away on holiday, and I wondered who the strange player might be who was setting forth his own soul in the notes of the pealing organ. He sang of fellowship, of comradeship in ancient days through stress of adventure and deadly combat; then with organ sobs that shook the heart, of death and the infinite loneliness of death, and of the inappeasable sorrow of the survivor lamenting his Jonathan. A pause of black silence. Then brokenly a little sough of life began to re-arise—a growth of hope—the fierce determination of revenge—quickening with flame—breaking into triumph.And now as the lights were being turned out, and gloom came rushing in upon the empty spaces of the cathedral I saw the unhappy figure shift indecisively as he rose from his seat in front of me, glance hurriedly about as if for a way of escape, then moving unsteadily round the pier, to my surprise he shuffled off in thedirection of the organ. The music seemed to fascinate him, to paralyse his will, even as the sphex paralyses its victim with its sting.The organist was now engaged upon the coda of his fugue; the former motifs were rehearsed—love, sorrow, and revenge. Triumph resounded from the loft when I heard above the quickening notes a sudden patter of heels across the nave; then a pitiful drumming of fists upon the barred door that led into the east corner of the cloisters. Knowing that escape that way was now impossible for the distracted man, and feeling pity for him, I crossed the nave and followed after him in the gloom. As I drew near I heard him flee again—down the south aisle to the other door of the cloisters. Here once more he shook unavailingly upon the latch, and drummed pitifully with his fists. There was a scrabbling with nails on the oaken door—then a cry of anguish smote on my ear. An awful terror evidently had him in grip.He rushed wildly on again—on—on to the only remaining door of escape into the northern close. Suddenly the music stopped on a throb of joy. The shock caused me to halt. As I started again to walk towards the door I heard no longer the miserable patter of feet in front of me. I was just about to reach out a handto feel for the latch in the darkness when I stumbled over an obstacle on the pavement. I knelt down and felt about with my hands: I found a man's body lying inert at my feet.God in Heaven! The darkness seemed to buffet me upon the ears. I heard a vague cry escape my lips, for the fugitive's hand had dropped from mine with a thud upon the stone.The man was dead.'MEENISTER' MACHIAVELLI'MEENISTER' MACHIAVELLIThe soul of the Minister of Bleakhope was disquieted within him, for he had just been 'up the water' and seen the new stained-glass windows which had recently been put in and dedicated to Saint Cuthbert in the English church 'beside the Knowe.'The Reverend Alexander Macgregor was tall and spare, oval-faced, eyed like a hawk, yet with a humorous twinkle behind his keen glances that were equally alert whether for the rising of a 'troot' or a sinner.A bequest from a wealthy parishioner, who had died, as the result of a motor-car accident, had enabled his 'brother'—the Episcopalian 'priest'—to decorate his church with three single lights, illustrative of Saint Cuthbert's life, and the Minister grieved as he thought of his own little grey kirk on the bare hill which badly wanted a 'bit colour' in its wee apsidal east window.He regarded his frayed sleeves and his wrinkled black trousers unhopefully.If he were to save every penny till the end of his days he could never achieve his desire. He had no wealthy parishioner whom he might persuade into buying a motor-car after seeing that 'the Kirk' had been duly remembered in his will.His flock consisted chiefly of small farmers and herd laddies, and unless one of them emigrated and made a fortune in Canada he saw no prospect of achievement in the parish itself.As he walked up the road towards the manse on this particular October evening after his return from the Knowe he came nigh to breaking the tenth Commandment into pieces, for the three light windows seemed to flaunt themselves before his eyes in the gathering mist, and to ask tauntingly, 'What wull ye gie for us? What wull ye gie for us?'As he plodded onward he was suddenly hailed by a voice from behind. Turning about, he recognised one of his flock—a small fellside farmer—who, coming up with him, informed him that an old acquaintance was staying at the little inn close by who had been inquiring about him.'Wha is't?' inquired the Minister.'Ye'll mind Tam Elliot,' replied the elder, 'him that was nevvy to auld Sandy o' the Ratten Raa farm that died and left him part money. Aff he went when he got the siller, and a bit lateran auld great-aunt left him a bit mair, sae he took a muckle big farm doon sooth, and noo he's at the inn cracking crouse aboot his pedigree beasts and sheep, and swankin' awa as to what he's done syne he left these parts, just as if we didna ken the sort o' man he was, and aye will be. Howsoever, he's askin' after ye, and maybe ye'd like a crack wi' him.'The Minister was on his way home, but he liked his 'crack' as well as another, so he turned eastwards to the little wayside hostelry some quarter of a mile back to forgather with Elliot, who used to attend the kirk 'whiles' in company with his deceased uncle. The 'Sign of the Wool Pack' was a very quiet country inn; in the little 'snug' there would not be above half a dozen customers—the landlord, probably, presiding over them—so the Minister thought no harm in joining them for a glass, a pipe, and a 'crack.''Hoo's aal wi' ye?' he inquired, as he entered the door of the 'snug,' and, having nodded to the company, held out his hand to Tam Elliot. 'We hae heard that ye are increasing your flocks like Abraham, doon sooth i' the land o' Canaan!''You are welcome, Minister,' cried Tam in reply, as he rose up and took him by the hand; '"wag a paw," as we used to say, and take something for a sore throat. Yes,' he continued, ashe sat himself down again and took a pull at his own long glass, 'I'm building up a pedigree stock at my new place—gave £500 for a bull t'other day, and that's a fact.''Dod, man!' said the Minister, bethinking him of the stained-glass window, 'why, that's a small fortune.'''Tis that,' replied Tam complacently, stretching a leg to the hearth, 'but pedigree blood's worth the money.' He caressed a little imperial he had grown since he left the north, stretched out his other leg to the fire, and with a smile of satisfaction that seemed to ooze from his vintage cheeks, continued to talk of his own pedigree.'Yes, blood's the thing,' he said, 'for beasts and humans alike. Why, take my family—every one knows the clan of Elliot's been on the Border for centuries, and one of my forebears was married on a Stuart lass, so likely enough I may have a bit royal blood i' my veins, even though it comes from the wrong side o' the blanket.'Here an ancient, bearded shepherd—an elder of the kirk—with a tongue of caustic, Ringan by name, who was sitting behind the Minister, winked derisively at the company and mutteredsotto voce, 'He's forgot aal the little yins. I mind fine his granddam—the merry-begot of apitman's lass doon the water.' The Minister himself could not resist a smile at this, and the visitor added somewhat hastily, 'Yet I say wi' Robbie Burns—"a man's a man for a' that." Have another touch o' this mountain dew,' he cried magnanimously to the scornful herd.'Na, na, I'm awa,' replied the ancient herd, rising as he spoke; 'it's gettin' late, an' I dinna want to run the risk o' meetin' wi' "Parcy" on my way hame.'[1]'Parcy!' exclaimed the visitor, raising himself in surprise from his arm-chair. 'Parcy, the ghost o' the murdered mosstrooper, d'ye mean, that the old wives talked of? D'ye mean to tell me ye still believe in ghosts up here?''Why not?' said the Minister. ''Tis good Christian doctrine to believe in departed spirits.''We don't believe in 'em in the towns,' retorted Elliot scornfully, 'so why should we in the country?''Will ye put your faith, or lack o't, tae the proof?' here inquired the caustic ancient herd. 'I'se haud ye a wager ye winna walk doon the burn the morrow nicht at the deid hour, past the stane where "Parcy" was slain, and up onbeyond the kirkyaird, and on tae the manse. Maybe it's a mile, an' to-morrow's the nicht o' Hallow E'en when the deid walk. Here's my shilling against whatever ye like to lay doon,' and as the ancient spoke he drew a long, thin leathern purse from his trouser pocket, plucked forth a shilling, and set it down with a bang on the table.'And there's my sovereign alongside it,' cried the visitor vaingloriously.'Aweel,' the ancient continued, 'the Meenister can be the stake-holder, an' the landlord can set ye awa as the clock strikes twalve the morrow nicht. If ye win through to the manse your lane ye'll hae won my shillin'; if no', the Meenister will hae a sovereign i' the ladle next Sawbath.'The landlord assented, the others all approved the suggestion, the Minister placed the stakes carefully into his waistcoat pocket, and the aged shepherd departed, chuckling to himself over his wager.The Minister continued to converse about ghosts for a minute or more, then he too rose, saying that 'the wife' would be getting nervous if she 'wanted' him much longer.As soon as he was out upon the road he sped on after the retreating footsteps of the shepherd,and he hailed him through the gloom. As he came up with him he said quietly, 'Come awa to the manse and we'll hae a bit crack.'Hallow E'en drew on stormy and dark, and Elliot at the inn began to regret that he had ever accepted the wager, though for very shame he could not now withdraw from his forbidding task. At a quarter to twelve then precisely, having fortified himself with a final dram and lighted a cigar, he set forth upon his mission. He knew the path quite well, and could make no pretence at missing his way, but when he had crossed the burn by the shaking little wire suspension bridge sudden fear assailed him. There was a gusty wind sweeping drumly clouds athwart the sky—faintly illuminated by the dying moon; now a few stars appeared momentarily, then a swathe of darkness enveloped all. The old kirkyard, with its tottering headstones grouped around the black kirk, had an eldritch look in the murky night, and Elliot's heart sank into his boots as he drew nigh.The clouds had lifted as he walked swiftly but unsteadily onward. What was that? He heard something move, and looked about him fearfully. Suddenly from beside the little kirkyard gate a monstrous form rose up—soot-black, horned, andthreatening. It advanced upon him, tossing its horrid horns, but without speaking.Could it be 'Auld Clootie' himself?Elliot's knees became as water; he staggered on, but at that very moment a terrible bray resounded from the hollow on his left, and Elliot, overcome with terror, fell to the earth. 'Minister Macgregor,' he yelled; 'O Minister, come help me! All the devils i' Hell are loosed about me.' The horned figure drew closer, brandishing his horns, and Elliot believing his last hour was come wailed forth his confession of sin.'I hae done wrang,' he moaned aloud; 'I promised Jeannie to mak her an honest woman, but I haena done it. But I will, I swear it, by Heaven above. Minister Macgregor,' he yelled again, 'come, help me, or I'll gang clean daft.' Shaking like an aspen leaf he lay upon the ground and covered his eyes with his hands, whilst he endeavoured to say a prayer.Then he felt something touch him on the shoulder, and he broke into an agonised yell.'Whisht, then, whisht!' said a kindly voice in his ear. A friendly hand gripped him below the oxter, and, peering up, he discerned the Minister.'Eh, Minister,' cried Elliot in a paroxysm of joy, 'ye hae saved me—saved me,' then he burst into tears.'Come awa, come awa,' said the Reverend Alexander Macgregor gently, 'come awa up wi' me to the manse.'Clinging to his benefactor, Elliot rose to his feet and stumbled forward as swiftly as his shaking limbs permitted.'Whaur is he?' he inquired tremulously, keeking about fearfully.'Wha d' ye mean?' replied the Minister. 'Is't "Parcy" ye hae seen?''Waur nor that; waur nor that,' replied the other. 'I believe 'twashim.''Anither fifty yards an' we'll be hame,' said the Minister. 'See, there's the licht i' the windie showing fine.'As soon as they were within doors the Minister placed his trembling companion in the old leathern chair in his little sanctum, made up the fire, and poured him out a glass of whisky with hot water from the kettle that was opportunely ready on the hob.'And now, Minister,' said the rescued one, after imbibing the goodly contents of his glass, 'what can I do for ye by way o' recompense for saving me the night?''Did I hear ye confessin' that ye had wranged a lass—by name Jeannie?' asked the minister, seriously, by way of answer.'Ay, ye did that,' replied the penitent fervently, 'and I swore to right her. I'll mak her my wife at aince; I swear it again—before ye.''I'll haud ye to it, mind,' said the Minister gravely; then he inquired thoughtfully, 'What wull ye do by way o' further recompense for being saved the nicht?' He paused. 'Weel,' he continued, 'there's some that had sinned like ye i' the auld times that desired to prove their repentance and their gratitude to Heaven for timeous rescue by some outward an' visible symbol, sic, for example, as building a kirk or foundin' an orphanage.''Eh, but, Minister,' ejaculated the penitent, turning white again, 'yon's a work for kings and suchlike, no' for a poor farmer like me.''A puir farmer,' commented his mentor, 'is no' ane that gives £500 for a pedigree bull.' There was silence for a while. The penitent groaned within himself as he regarded the implacable face in front of him. Then he said suddenly, 'No akirk, Minister,' and further ventured wheedlingly, ''tis impossible, but somethin'forthe kirk—a new pulpit, for instance, or a bit organ, or some heating for the winter.' The Minister shook his head.'The kirk disna care aboot organs, and the folkhereawa are hardy and winna want ony heatin',' he replied slowly; then with the twinkle in his eye he explained further, 'No, that is forpleesure purposes.' He reflected a moment or two profoundly, then with a happy inspiration suggested an alternative. 'A stained-glass windie micht be a guid an' righteous gift, I'm thinkin'.''That's mair like it,' responded the penitent, almost with joy, finishing off his glass and holding it out suggestively for replenishment.'Hoo muckle would it come to, think ye—£100 belike?'The Minister replenished his guest's glass hospitably before replying.'We'd best mak it guineas,' he said thoughtfully.'Right!' cried the other, his spirits visibly rising. 'I've got a cheque-book on me, an' I'll write it out for ye this instant moment.'The Minister took the cheque silently, dried it carefully on his blotting-pad, then tucked it safely away in his Bible.'An' noo,' he said to his penitent, 'noo I'll set ye awa for the inn.''Ye'll never be for turning me out into the darkness again?' wailed Elliot, his face paling perceptibly.'I'll gang wi' ye,' replied the Minister, 'I'llguide ye; and wi' this,' he took up his heavy 'crook,' 'I'll fettle "Auld Hornie."''I don't care about the wager,' continued the other, desirous of putting off the evil moment; 'here's the sovereign—for yourself or the old shepherd.'Serious as before, the Minister took the sovereign and laid it on the Bible as he said:'If ye dinna gang back to the inn the landlord an' his lassies will be up a' nicht seekin' ye, an' ye'll be the talk o' the hail countryside.'His visitor sighed heavily and looked wistfully at the whisky bottle, but the Minister was adamant. 'No' anither sup till the windie's in,' he thought to himself.'Well, Minister,' said his guest with resignation, as he rose slowly up from his chair, 'I'll go back, but keep a close tongue, ye ken.''I'm used to daein' that,' replied the other, as he ushered his guest out into the darkness, and led him back to the 'Wool Pack' without mishap.On his return the Minister paused by the kirk yett, and thus soliloquised:'I never cared muckle for that camsterie goat o' Ringan's, but he wis gey useful the nicht there's no denyin', whilst as for auld cuddy, dod! but he was in fell voice, an' cam in punctual as the precentor.'The Reverend Alexander Macgregor thrust out an arm on high, turned about on heel and toe, as though to secret piping. Then he resumed his way to the manse, pondering now what should be the subject of the stained-glass window. Suddenly he stood stock still. He had it! 'It wull represent Palm Sunday—the entry of our Lord intil the Holy Ceety—ridin' in on an ass.'[1]'Parcy Reed,' the hero of the well-known ballad, was foully slain in Bakinghope above Catcleugh Lough, but his wraith is said to haunt the Rede and to be visible about Rochester.ELDER 'MACHIAVELLI-ER'ELDER 'MACHIAVELLI-ER'IOn the evening after the stained-glass 'windie' had been set up in the new kirk and dedicated to the memory of Saint Cuthbert, the Reverend Alexander Macgregor and his elder, Ringan Telfer, the ancient 'herd,' sat together in the manse's little 'sanctum' or library, enjoying a 'crack,' a glass of whisky, and a pipe of tobacco.'It's a gey an' useful thing a ghaist,' said Ringan meditatively. 'It fleys folk fine an' stirs up their conscience graund. I aince thocht I caught a keek o' "Parcy" mysel', but I wasna muckle gliffed, for though I ken fine I'm a sinner, I've naethin' particular on my conscience.'Mind ye, I dinna ken whether 'twas a wraith I saw or no—for I'd been first footin', ye ken, an' maybe I had a wee drappie i' my e'e.''Gey an' likely,' assented the Minister, nodding his head sympathetically, and drawing deep upon his pipe.'Onnyway, naethin' came o't,' continued Ringan, imbibing thoughtfully from his glass,'but what I'm thinkin' the noo is that aiblins anither ghaist-gliff micht do a body I ken o' a guid turn.''There's many a body that micht be the better of a bit "gliff," but it disna always last, and it's a daungerous game to play at. But wha is the body?' inquired the Minister.'It's a lang story,' replied the other, as he extracted a document from his pocket, 'but gey easy to understand. Weel, this document is a bit codicil to the will of a far-off cousin o' mine, but it wasna signed, as ye'll note, and i' the eye o' the law, as they call it, o' nae value. Noo the testator, Mistress Wallace, was a widow wi' a bit heritable property the whilk she'd but a life interest in, but she had a bit siller i' the bank, an' 'twas this she was leavin' awa different frae her will by this bit codicil.'The siller was twa hundred pounds, an' it was lyin' at the bank, and the bank manager got it for various advice—ceevility an' attention paid to Mistress Wallace.'Weel, there was anither puir widdie—a far-off cousin o' hers, that had a bairn born till her after her man died, and the puir widdie juist askit Mistress Wallace to be its godmither.'Noo Mistress Wallace had nae bairns o' her ain, ye ken, an' it pleasured her fine to be a godmither to the fatherless bairn, but bein' verra frail i' body, she didna get the codicil signed an' witnessed before her "stroke."'Weel, the doctor, he kenned aal about the hail matter, an' he gied the puir widdie the bit paper, since he was managin' her bit affairs. He thocht aiblins if the bank manager saw it he micht "pairt "—but deevil a bodle wull he hand ower, though the doctor saw him himsel'.'The Minister nodded his apprehension, then taking the pipe out of his mouth, inquired, 'Wha was the puir widdie woman?''Ye'll ken my sister?' replied Ringan, gazing fixedly at the fire, 'Effie that was marrit on puir Jock Ord—a fine laddie he was—verra knowledgeable wi' sheep, wha perished in a snowstorm, mindin' his hirsel.'She was left gey ill aff, an' noo wi' a bairn to provide for, hard pit till 't. Twa hundred punds wull provide for his upbringin', an' aiblins turn him into a meenister at the finish.''Ay,' replied the Minister,' I mind Effie well, puir decent body, for didna I marry them? An' I heard tell o' her man's death, but I hadna seen nither since they went herdin' ower the Carter Bar. But whaur does the "ghaist" come intil the story?' inquired the speaker in conclusion.Ringan continued to contemplate the fire with fixed attention, then slowly delivered himself as follows:'I'm hearin' that the Burnside Field Club wull be comin' up the water to hold their meetin' here shortly, an' to view the Roman Camp. I mind they were here ten years before, an' this year the president is the bank manager doon at the auld toon, wha has gruppit the siller I've tell't ye aboot. Weel, ye'll ken him, an' aiblins,' here the speaker took up the bellows and thoughtfully assisted the fire's respiration, 'aiblins it wud be a ceevil matter to offer to gie him a night's lodgin', for it's a gey lang way up frae the auld toon, an' the manager's gettin' gey white aboot the pow.'Here the speaker laid down the bellows, then took up his glass thoughtfully, drained it off slowly, and resumed his contemplation of the fire.The Minister also refreshed himself, then, keenly watching his companion from the tail of his eye, admitted an acquaintanceship with the bank manager.'Ay, I ken him. He's a verra decent body—a bit near maybe, an' terribly superfeecial i' antiquarian knowledge. I mind I had a bit differ wi' him the time he was last up at the Camp.'But supposin' I was inclined to be ceevil till him—what then?''Then aiblins,' replied the elder, stooping and knocking the ashes from his pipe against the fender, 'there micht be a bit gliff, an' this bit paper micht come in gey useful by way o' stirrin' up his conscience the whilk, I'm thinkin', has been growin' stiff i' his auld age. If it disna there's nae harm dune.'The Minister thrust out his legs, and gazed up at the ceiling.'Was it Dr. Thomson that tended Effie, an' that saw the manager?''Ay, 'twas him,' replied his companion.There was a pause of silence after this response, the elder gazing abstractedly into the fire, the Minister surveying his ceiling, yet all the while out of the tail of his eye keeping watch on his elder.Ultra sardonic he was, reflected the watcher affectionately, intolerant,plus Calviniste que Calvin même—sceptical of the world, with up-twisted eyebrows that seemed to signify a perpetual interrogation, yet faithful unto death to his duty and his own ideals. He minded well assisting to dig Ringan out of a snowdrift wherein he was seated, calmly tending a ewe and her two tiny lambs.'Aweel,' said the Minister, breaking the silence, 'I micht—be offerin' hospitality to Macmanus, the banker; 'twould be the ceevil thing to do, but if he comes he's my guest, ye ken—I maunna hae ony "frightfulness"; an' the cuddy wull be locked up.''Ay,' responded the other, 'an' sae wull the goat be.''I ken naethin' aboot that,' retorted the other, bringing his gaze down from the ceiling to rest upon the swag-bellied green bottle on the table beside him.'It's gettin' on intil the "wee sma' hours ayont the twal,"' he added; 'ye mun hae a "deoch-an-doruis" afore startin' "aff."''Deed, an' I wull,' replied Ringan, as he rose up and held out his glass, whilst wrapping his plaid about his shoulders.IIFergus Macmanus, bank manager, amateur antiquary, and President of the Burnside Field Club, accepted the invitation from the Reverend Alexander Macgregor, and returned with him from the Roman Camp to the manse for the night after a successful meeting, whereat he had given an address on Castrametation and theRoman Wall, which had abundantly satisfied himself, if not his host.Macmanus was a short, thick-set, well-preserved man of some seventy years of age, with a complexion reminiscent of Harvest Festival. His Pauline motto of 'All things to all men' was a little impeded by an assurance of infallibility which he founded upon his 'common-sense view of things.' Hence after supper he proceeded to demonstrate to his host that all the theorists were wrong; that he had walked along the line of the wall and satisfied himself that wall and vallum were not contemporaneous, and that if Hadrian had made any use of the vallum—an early dyke orlimes—it was merely for the screening of his troops whilst the wall was building.'Common sense,' retorted the Minister, 'willna tak ye verra far. Common sense assures me the world is flat, an' stands stock still in the centre o' things.''Common sense,' echoed his companion; 'man alive! why it includes the use of all the rational faculties. What I mean is that folk get wedded to a theory and disregard the practical side o' things. Noo the Romans were first and foremost a practical people, as a'body kens. They made sure o' their conquest, an' then built theirwall, sae that the popular theory that the vallum was a protection against the south is a' stuff an' nonsense.''Isna the result,' queried the Minister, 'that ye haud ane theory, ither folks anither?''If a thorough excavation were carried out many secrets micht be discovered, but noo folks prefer to travel an' dig i' the remotest pairts o' the earth, an' no' at home.''Aweel,' the Minister continued, with a sudden deft twist to the conversation, 'it's no excavation o' the earth that's interestin' me the noo—it'sthe excavation o' the mind. I have been readin' o' what a clever doctor chield has accomplished i' Edinbro' by the pooer o' mind uponmind——''Ye mean Christian Science—Faith-Healing?' queried his companion scornfully.'Na, na,' returned the Minister, 'he ca's it Psycho-therapeutics—an' has worked miracles by it. For an instance, he actually operated wi' the knife on a puir body withoot any chloroform, ether, or anæsthetic whatever—an' the patient ne'er had a wink o' pain under it. His consciousness was under control, ye ken, directed clean awa from thocht o'pain——''I'd like to see the man that could mak me believe he'd gien me security for his overdraft when he hadna,' interrupted his companion satirically.'I think I hae heard o' the thing haein' been accomplished, natheless,' returned the Minister with a twinkle in his eye.'Man!' acknowledged the banker with a smile, 'but ye're gleg.'The two men surveyed each other silently, like fencers awaiting feint or lunge, when suddenly a peal of thunder echoed on the air and shook the windows of the sanctum.'A thunderstorm,' said the banker, 'i' the distance. Well, there's ane thing I'd be glad to hear o' frae your new doctor, an' that is no' to be gliffed by thunner an' lightin'. I was verra nigh struck by a flash when I was a bairn oot fishin' for troots—an' I canna get the better o't.'''Tis a lang way off,' replied the Minister, rising and looking out o' window; 'weel, it's bedtime, I'm thinkin'. Ye mun juist have a night-cap before retiring.'Nothing loath, his guest fortified himself handsomely, and was escorted to his bedroom by his host.Entering his own room, which was opposite the other, the Minister proceeded to undress, leaving the door ajar advisedly, in the event of any strategy of Ringan's contriving.He lay awake some while in watchful expectation, but as the thunderstorm had passed over and no other sound was audible, he shortly fell sound asleep.Suddenly he was roused by the most extraordinary noise. The manse seemed to be shaken to its foundation.He started up in bed. Could a flash of lightning have hit the chimney?Then he saw a light without on the landing, heard footsteps, and a voice calling him by name.'Minister Macgregor,' it called. 'The house has been struck wi' lightnin', I'm certain.'The Minister hurried out on to the landing, and seeing his guest, by the light of the candle which he held in his shaking hand, to be much perturbed, endeavoured to comfort him.'It was a fearfu' noise yon; it wakened me up oot o' the sleep o' the just,' he said. 'I thocht the chimney mun have been stricken, but if sae, stanes wud hae come through the roof. Maist likely the auld ash-tree by the door has been stricken. Hark!' he added, 'I think the storm's past, for it's rainin' hard enoo.'Somewhat reassured, his guest was induced to return to bed, and after the Minister left him he heard the door bolted behind him.The Minister went back to his own bed, but this time he refused to lie down, for he feltassured that Ringan was up to some fresh cantrip or other, and he wished to forestall him.The rain shortly ceased, and a faint moonlight showed itself through the window. Almost at the same time the Minister was aware of stealthy soft footings on the stairs without. Noiselessly he approached his open door, and there he saw by the dim skylight a tall figure moving on stockinged feet at the stair-head. Was it a burglar? he thought fearfully. 'No, it was Ringan. But what on earth was he carrying?Before he could interfere the tall figure set a dark object rolling down the stairs with infernal reverberation, then sat himself down on what seemed a tea-tray, and shot clattering into the gloomy deep.The Minister turned and leaped into his bed, annoyed, yet shaken with laughter.Another moment and he heard the door opposite unbolted, and a perturbed but angry voice rose outside his door:'What the devil are ye up to? Are ye playing a trick on me, Minister? What was that fearfu' noise?''I'm playin' nae tricks on ye,' replied the Minister, as he opened the door and stood face to face with his guest, whose face was plainlyagitated by fear and anger. 'It's either the storm, or aiblins a ghaist, or else some one's playin' tricks on baith o' us.''Did ye no place this bit paper i' my room?' inquired his guest wrathfully, holding up a document with his hand accusingly.'What bit paper is 't?' inquired the Minister. 'I hae pit nae bit paper i' your room.''Did Dr. Thomson o' the auld toon no' send ye this bit waste-paper—codicil he called it, or come to see ye aboot it?''No, he didna,' replied the Minister, 'neither he nor any ither doctor has been i' my manse yet, an' I hope never wull.''On yourhon——'began the other. Then catching his host's gleaming eye, said brokenly, 'It'sthe——Well—it's the most extraordinary thing that ever happened to me i' my life. The ghastly noise—then to find this bit paper lyin' i' my room.''What is the paper?' inquired the Minister. 'Can ye no hae brocht it wi' ye yoursel'?'Macmanus looked about him stricken and unnerved, the anger had died down in his face, and he seemed to be seeking consolation.'I'll tell ye the hail matter,' he decided impulsively, 'and what's mair, I'll abide by your advice.'Thereon very briefly he set forth the tale of the codicil, justified himself on all legal grounds, and awaited the Minister's decision.'Aweel, Macmanus,' replied the Minister slowly but decisively, 'as ye ask my opeenion, aal I can say is that if I was i' your shoes I'd juist forego my legal rights an' let the puir woman hae the twa hundred punds.''I believe you're richt,' replied the other; 'but if that ghastly noise happens again I'll come and spend the rest o' the night i' your bedchamber.''Come your ways in noo,' responded his host, 'and I'll get ye a drop whisky.''Aweel,' murmured the listener with pricked ears, who sat beside gong and tea-tray at the stair-foot, 'I'm thinkin if the Meenister's Macchiavelli, the elder's Machiavelli-er.'REPENTANCE TOWERREPENTANCE TOWERScene I. TemptationLate one spring evening not long after the disaster of Solway Moss, Sir Robert Maxwell was walking to and fro within the Tower of Lochmaben—a heavy frown upon his brow—cogitating his reply to a letter from my Lord Arran—now governor of Scotland under the regency of the widowed Queen, Mary of Lorraine.Amongst other matters touched upon Arran made mention of his purpose to find the right suitor for the hand of Agnes Herries—daughter and heiress of the Lord Herries of Hoddam Castle. A hint was delicately conveyed that possibly Maxwell himself might be eligible—if he gave up his 'assurance with England.'Now Sir Robert's late father—the Lord Maxwell—had been made prisoner at Solway Moss, but had been set free on 'taking assurance' with England and giving twelve hostages of his own name to the opposite warden—Lord Wharton at Carlisle.In addition there was a suggestive allusion tothe Scots Wardenry of the Western march, which was vacant at the moment.The offer was most tempting, but—there were the twelve Maxwell hostages, his cousins, in Wharton's hands.Sir Robert grew wroth as he read and re-read the letter. 'Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?' he questioned angrily, as he sat down to indite a peremptory refusal.He found his task very difficult, for he had little skill in writing. Shortly, he determined to send over to Dumfries first thing in the morning for the notary public to come and write the letter for him, and be a witness to his signature.This he did, but the messenger brought word back that the notary was ill with the spotted fever and could not come.Sir Robert's anger increased, for the temptation beckoned insistently. He had already had thoughts of the fair and well-dowered Agnes, but he knew 'twas hopeless unless he was reconciled to Arran.He determined to ride out and rid himself of black care by a gallop. Mounting, he let the horse choose his ain gait, and shortly found himself in the airt of Hoddam, whence he rode up to the grassy fells above Solway. Then he let hishorse out on a gallop, and away he sped like a curlew—sweeping over the short grass, and drinking in the breeze like wine.Maxwell rode till his horse was white with sweat, and the rubies in his nostrils red as fire.Then he turned and came back at a slow trot to the point of starting. Pausing here, Maxwell gazed down on the one hand to the rich fields and well-timbered lands of Hoddam; on the other hand across Solway to where below the deep-piled, purple masses of Helvellyn and Skiddaw lay 'merry Carlisle'—the abode of my Lord Wharton.Maxwell shook his fist across Solway, as though in defiance. Then he turned about and rode slowly home.Scene II. The RaidAs soon as he was back again at Lochmaben he dispatched a special messenger to Arran in Edinburgh with the brief assurance that he himself would follow on the morrow and explain in person the difficulty of accepting the Governor's proposals.On the evening of the day that Sir Robert Maxwell arrived in Edinburgh a ball was held in Holyrood—the first ball since Solway Moss had overwhelmed Scotland with gloom. TheQueen-Dowager was to be present, and Arran insisted on Maxwell's attendance, though against his will. A gay and brilliant assembly filled the great galleries of Holyrood that night.After a minuet had been paced to the gentle music of the lute and clavichord, a schottische succeeded to the martial skirl of the pipes.For this dance Arran had craftily arranged that Maxwell should have as partner the fair Agnes Herries, and as he watched them his brow relaxed its tension. His policy was to strengthen and consolidate Scotland, and to this end he would break Maxwell's assurance with England. 'The lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life,' he muttered to himself as he watched the couple dancing with animation, 'are gey guid baits.' As the company departed in the early dawn Arran took the opportunity of walking back with Maxwell to his lodging. 'Ye partnered ilk ither fine,' said the Governor; 'time and step suited ye bonny. Weel,' he added slowly, 'ye hae to decide. Wull ye tak her?' Maxwell hesitated a moment, then impulsively, 'I will. Here's my hand on 't.''Dune!' cried the Governor triumphantly. Then he added by way of an evasion from any difficulty with Wharton. 'I'm thinking yemicht emulate Douglas in his raid on the eastern march:

'"Who loves not woman, wine and song,He is a fool his whole life long."

'Which of the two is in the right?'

'Luther!' replied the Minor Canon, somewhat unexpectedly, flushed withvol-au-ventand generous claret, who was now beginning to look upon himself as a gay Lothario. 'Asceticism for its own sake is mere vanity.'

'Here's then to Luther!' cried the 'Golden Canon,' with enthusiasm. 'Fill and drink a bumper to his memory!'

'Not but what I regret the Reformation myself, since had it not been for Anne Boleyn, the bishopric might still be a Palatinate and the estates of the canons inviolate.'

Curiously enough the Minor Canon had noton this especial occasion filled up his glass; on the contrary he was now staring in dismay towards the window recess opposite, which was suffused with a pale light. On the right hand there hung a crucifix, and the moonbeams gently illuminated the cross with its burden.

The two cousins continued their gay converse, but the Minor Canon was completely absorbed in his contemplation of a vision which was being unfolded before his affrighted eyes in the recess opposite. A figure took shape in the misty light—the form of an old man rugged of aspect, with grizzled locks like a fisherman's, appeared before his eyes; he held forth his hand and pointed menacingly to the crucifix with fiercely gleaming eyes.

At that very moment there rose up from far away to the ears of the stricken gazer the sound of a cock-crow. The gazer wilted back in his seat; turning white, he held his hands to his eyes, his whole frame trembling. His two companions, who had now been aroused by his movement, looked upon him with astonishment.

'What's the matter, my dear fellow?' inquired the 'Golden Canon.' 'You look as if you had seen a ghost.'

'I thought,' stammered the gazer—'Ithought I saw St. Cuthbert—I mean some apparition—in the recess there.'

'It's only the moon,' the 'Golden Canon' replied, after a cursory glance in that direction. 'If you don't like it just draw the curtains.'

But the Minor Canon had already risen from his seat, and, with unsteady footsteps, passed to the door murmuring brokenly to himself, 'Peccavi, peccavi' as he withdrew from the dining-room.

'A nice fellow,' commented the 'Golden Canon,' 'but he has, I fear, a rotten digestion.

'Help yourself to that white port, cousin; then we'll finish our talk over a pipe of tobacco.'

The bells were ringing to evensong in the great cathedral dedicated to Saint Cuthbert, that stands like a fortress on its rock above the murmuring Wear—

in the windy dusk of a November evening.

The people of the saint, however—the 'Haliwer folc,' the 'folk of the Holy Man'—were few in attendance that afternoon, and the great nave seemed very empty as I sat down in a seat in front of the 'Galilee' beside the north door of entry.

I looked about me and admired the mighty Norman pillars diapered and fluted with exceeding skill by the great master builders of old, who built to, even as their great duke swore by, the 'Splendour of God.' My eye wandered upward and rested upon the great chevrons resembling sword-cuts that seemed deep-hacked within the rounded arches of the Triforium. Thence onward my gaze fluttered like a butterfly, and rested upon a leering corbel, whichseemed to scoff at priest and priest-craft with protruding tongue. The mighty stone roof soaring aloft—a ship's keel upturned—drew my eye eastward to the choir; there on the great east window, rose-shaped and many-coloured, the invading dusk gathered like water-drops upon the panes, and wove its dun mantle over them. The anthem now pealed along the roof, lapping capitals, corbels, and pillars in a tide of sound that swept unresisted through the wide spaces of the cathedral.

As the echoing song grew fainter, and ebbed away into the twilight shadows, my gaze returned to my immediate surroundings, and rested unconcernedly upon a man sitting a seat or two in front of me, beside one of the massive piers. He seemed to be in a most distressed and nervous condition, for he peered about him with an evident alarm, which was pitiful to witness. As he turned his face about I saw it was haggard with fear and sorrow, or remorse; his hair was matted, and beads of sweat were thick upon his brow.

It was as if he were terrified of impending danger. Yet what could he be afraid of in the great calm of the solemn cathedral? The benediction had been given, and the sparse congregation had now risen and was slowlydeparting, yet he rose not, but seemed to be hiding from view as he crouched behind the form in front of him, and edged his way slowly within the shadow of the heavy pier to his left hand.

I sat on listening to the voluntary, and it held me by its strangeness. I knew that the Dean and Chapter's organist was away on holiday, and I wondered who the strange player might be who was setting forth his own soul in the notes of the pealing organ. He sang of fellowship, of comradeship in ancient days through stress of adventure and deadly combat; then with organ sobs that shook the heart, of death and the infinite loneliness of death, and of the inappeasable sorrow of the survivor lamenting his Jonathan. A pause of black silence. Then brokenly a little sough of life began to re-arise—a growth of hope—the fierce determination of revenge—quickening with flame—breaking into triumph.

And now as the lights were being turned out, and gloom came rushing in upon the empty spaces of the cathedral I saw the unhappy figure shift indecisively as he rose from his seat in front of me, glance hurriedly about as if for a way of escape, then moving unsteadily round the pier, to my surprise he shuffled off in thedirection of the organ. The music seemed to fascinate him, to paralyse his will, even as the sphex paralyses its victim with its sting.

The organist was now engaged upon the coda of his fugue; the former motifs were rehearsed—love, sorrow, and revenge. Triumph resounded from the loft when I heard above the quickening notes a sudden patter of heels across the nave; then a pitiful drumming of fists upon the barred door that led into the east corner of the cloisters. Knowing that escape that way was now impossible for the distracted man, and feeling pity for him, I crossed the nave and followed after him in the gloom. As I drew near I heard him flee again—down the south aisle to the other door of the cloisters. Here once more he shook unavailingly upon the latch, and drummed pitifully with his fists. There was a scrabbling with nails on the oaken door—then a cry of anguish smote on my ear. An awful terror evidently had him in grip.

He rushed wildly on again—on—on to the only remaining door of escape into the northern close. Suddenly the music stopped on a throb of joy. The shock caused me to halt. As I started again to walk towards the door I heard no longer the miserable patter of feet in front of me. I was just about to reach out a handto feel for the latch in the darkness when I stumbled over an obstacle on the pavement. I knelt down and felt about with my hands: I found a man's body lying inert at my feet.

God in Heaven! The darkness seemed to buffet me upon the ears. I heard a vague cry escape my lips, for the fugitive's hand had dropped from mine with a thud upon the stone.The man was dead.

The soul of the Minister of Bleakhope was disquieted within him, for he had just been 'up the water' and seen the new stained-glass windows which had recently been put in and dedicated to Saint Cuthbert in the English church 'beside the Knowe.'

The Reverend Alexander Macgregor was tall and spare, oval-faced, eyed like a hawk, yet with a humorous twinkle behind his keen glances that were equally alert whether for the rising of a 'troot' or a sinner.

A bequest from a wealthy parishioner, who had died, as the result of a motor-car accident, had enabled his 'brother'—the Episcopalian 'priest'—to decorate his church with three single lights, illustrative of Saint Cuthbert's life, and the Minister grieved as he thought of his own little grey kirk on the bare hill which badly wanted a 'bit colour' in its wee apsidal east window.

He regarded his frayed sleeves and his wrinkled black trousers unhopefully.

If he were to save every penny till the end of his days he could never achieve his desire. He had no wealthy parishioner whom he might persuade into buying a motor-car after seeing that 'the Kirk' had been duly remembered in his will.

His flock consisted chiefly of small farmers and herd laddies, and unless one of them emigrated and made a fortune in Canada he saw no prospect of achievement in the parish itself.

As he walked up the road towards the manse on this particular October evening after his return from the Knowe he came nigh to breaking the tenth Commandment into pieces, for the three light windows seemed to flaunt themselves before his eyes in the gathering mist, and to ask tauntingly, 'What wull ye gie for us? What wull ye gie for us?'

As he plodded onward he was suddenly hailed by a voice from behind. Turning about, he recognised one of his flock—a small fellside farmer—who, coming up with him, informed him that an old acquaintance was staying at the little inn close by who had been inquiring about him.

'Wha is't?' inquired the Minister.

'Ye'll mind Tam Elliot,' replied the elder, 'him that was nevvy to auld Sandy o' the Ratten Raa farm that died and left him part money. Aff he went when he got the siller, and a bit lateran auld great-aunt left him a bit mair, sae he took a muckle big farm doon sooth, and noo he's at the inn cracking crouse aboot his pedigree beasts and sheep, and swankin' awa as to what he's done syne he left these parts, just as if we didna ken the sort o' man he was, and aye will be. Howsoever, he's askin' after ye, and maybe ye'd like a crack wi' him.'

The Minister was on his way home, but he liked his 'crack' as well as another, so he turned eastwards to the little wayside hostelry some quarter of a mile back to forgather with Elliot, who used to attend the kirk 'whiles' in company with his deceased uncle. The 'Sign of the Wool Pack' was a very quiet country inn; in the little 'snug' there would not be above half a dozen customers—the landlord, probably, presiding over them—so the Minister thought no harm in joining them for a glass, a pipe, and a 'crack.'

'Hoo's aal wi' ye?' he inquired, as he entered the door of the 'snug,' and, having nodded to the company, held out his hand to Tam Elliot. 'We hae heard that ye are increasing your flocks like Abraham, doon sooth i' the land o' Canaan!'

'You are welcome, Minister,' cried Tam in reply, as he rose up and took him by the hand; '"wag a paw," as we used to say, and take something for a sore throat. Yes,' he continued, ashe sat himself down again and took a pull at his own long glass, 'I'm building up a pedigree stock at my new place—gave £500 for a bull t'other day, and that's a fact.'

'Dod, man!' said the Minister, bethinking him of the stained-glass window, 'why, that's a small fortune.'

''Tis that,' replied Tam complacently, stretching a leg to the hearth, 'but pedigree blood's worth the money.' He caressed a little imperial he had grown since he left the north, stretched out his other leg to the fire, and with a smile of satisfaction that seemed to ooze from his vintage cheeks, continued to talk of his own pedigree.

'Yes, blood's the thing,' he said, 'for beasts and humans alike. Why, take my family—every one knows the clan of Elliot's been on the Border for centuries, and one of my forebears was married on a Stuart lass, so likely enough I may have a bit royal blood i' my veins, even though it comes from the wrong side o' the blanket.'

Here an ancient, bearded shepherd—an elder of the kirk—with a tongue of caustic, Ringan by name, who was sitting behind the Minister, winked derisively at the company and mutteredsotto voce, 'He's forgot aal the little yins. I mind fine his granddam—the merry-begot of apitman's lass doon the water.' The Minister himself could not resist a smile at this, and the visitor added somewhat hastily, 'Yet I say wi' Robbie Burns—"a man's a man for a' that." Have another touch o' this mountain dew,' he cried magnanimously to the scornful herd.

'Na, na, I'm awa,' replied the ancient herd, rising as he spoke; 'it's gettin' late, an' I dinna want to run the risk o' meetin' wi' "Parcy" on my way hame.'[1]

'Parcy!' exclaimed the visitor, raising himself in surprise from his arm-chair. 'Parcy, the ghost o' the murdered mosstrooper, d'ye mean, that the old wives talked of? D'ye mean to tell me ye still believe in ghosts up here?'

'Why not?' said the Minister. ''Tis good Christian doctrine to believe in departed spirits.'

'We don't believe in 'em in the towns,' retorted Elliot scornfully, 'so why should we in the country?'

'Will ye put your faith, or lack o't, tae the proof?' here inquired the caustic ancient herd. 'I'se haud ye a wager ye winna walk doon the burn the morrow nicht at the deid hour, past the stane where "Parcy" was slain, and up onbeyond the kirkyaird, and on tae the manse. Maybe it's a mile, an' to-morrow's the nicht o' Hallow E'en when the deid walk. Here's my shilling against whatever ye like to lay doon,' and as the ancient spoke he drew a long, thin leathern purse from his trouser pocket, plucked forth a shilling, and set it down with a bang on the table.

'And there's my sovereign alongside it,' cried the visitor vaingloriously.

'Aweel,' the ancient continued, 'the Meenister can be the stake-holder, an' the landlord can set ye awa as the clock strikes twalve the morrow nicht. If ye win through to the manse your lane ye'll hae won my shillin'; if no', the Meenister will hae a sovereign i' the ladle next Sawbath.'

The landlord assented, the others all approved the suggestion, the Minister placed the stakes carefully into his waistcoat pocket, and the aged shepherd departed, chuckling to himself over his wager.

The Minister continued to converse about ghosts for a minute or more, then he too rose, saying that 'the wife' would be getting nervous if she 'wanted' him much longer.

As soon as he was out upon the road he sped on after the retreating footsteps of the shepherd,and he hailed him through the gloom. As he came up with him he said quietly, 'Come awa to the manse and we'll hae a bit crack.'

Hallow E'en drew on stormy and dark, and Elliot at the inn began to regret that he had ever accepted the wager, though for very shame he could not now withdraw from his forbidding task. At a quarter to twelve then precisely, having fortified himself with a final dram and lighted a cigar, he set forth upon his mission. He knew the path quite well, and could make no pretence at missing his way, but when he had crossed the burn by the shaking little wire suspension bridge sudden fear assailed him. There was a gusty wind sweeping drumly clouds athwart the sky—faintly illuminated by the dying moon; now a few stars appeared momentarily, then a swathe of darkness enveloped all. The old kirkyard, with its tottering headstones grouped around the black kirk, had an eldritch look in the murky night, and Elliot's heart sank into his boots as he drew nigh.

The clouds had lifted as he walked swiftly but unsteadily onward. What was that? He heard something move, and looked about him fearfully. Suddenly from beside the little kirkyard gate a monstrous form rose up—soot-black, horned, andthreatening. It advanced upon him, tossing its horrid horns, but without speaking.Could it be 'Auld Clootie' himself?

Elliot's knees became as water; he staggered on, but at that very moment a terrible bray resounded from the hollow on his left, and Elliot, overcome with terror, fell to the earth. 'Minister Macgregor,' he yelled; 'O Minister, come help me! All the devils i' Hell are loosed about me.' The horned figure drew closer, brandishing his horns, and Elliot believing his last hour was come wailed forth his confession of sin.

'I hae done wrang,' he moaned aloud; 'I promised Jeannie to mak her an honest woman, but I haena done it. But I will, I swear it, by Heaven above. Minister Macgregor,' he yelled again, 'come, help me, or I'll gang clean daft.' Shaking like an aspen leaf he lay upon the ground and covered his eyes with his hands, whilst he endeavoured to say a prayer.

Then he felt something touch him on the shoulder, and he broke into an agonised yell.

'Whisht, then, whisht!' said a kindly voice in his ear. A friendly hand gripped him below the oxter, and, peering up, he discerned the Minister.

'Eh, Minister,' cried Elliot in a paroxysm of joy, 'ye hae saved me—saved me,' then he burst into tears.

'Come awa, come awa,' said the Reverend Alexander Macgregor gently, 'come awa up wi' me to the manse.'

Clinging to his benefactor, Elliot rose to his feet and stumbled forward as swiftly as his shaking limbs permitted.

'Whaur is he?' he inquired tremulously, keeking about fearfully.

'Wha d' ye mean?' replied the Minister. 'Is't "Parcy" ye hae seen?'

'Waur nor that; waur nor that,' replied the other. 'I believe 'twashim.'

'Anither fifty yards an' we'll be hame,' said the Minister. 'See, there's the licht i' the windie showing fine.'

As soon as they were within doors the Minister placed his trembling companion in the old leathern chair in his little sanctum, made up the fire, and poured him out a glass of whisky with hot water from the kettle that was opportunely ready on the hob.

'And now, Minister,' said the rescued one, after imbibing the goodly contents of his glass, 'what can I do for ye by way o' recompense for saving me the night?'

'Did I hear ye confessin' that ye had wranged a lass—by name Jeannie?' asked the minister, seriously, by way of answer.

'Ay, ye did that,' replied the penitent fervently, 'and I swore to right her. I'll mak her my wife at aince; I swear it again—before ye.'

'I'll haud ye to it, mind,' said the Minister gravely; then he inquired thoughtfully, 'What wull ye do by way o' further recompense for being saved the nicht?' He paused. 'Weel,' he continued, 'there's some that had sinned like ye i' the auld times that desired to prove their repentance and their gratitude to Heaven for timeous rescue by some outward an' visible symbol, sic, for example, as building a kirk or foundin' an orphanage.'

'Eh, but, Minister,' ejaculated the penitent, turning white again, 'yon's a work for kings and suchlike, no' for a poor farmer like me.'

'A puir farmer,' commented his mentor, 'is no' ane that gives £500 for a pedigree bull.' There was silence for a while. The penitent groaned within himself as he regarded the implacable face in front of him. Then he said suddenly, 'No akirk, Minister,' and further ventured wheedlingly, ''tis impossible, but somethin'forthe kirk—a new pulpit, for instance, or a bit organ, or some heating for the winter.' The Minister shook his head.

'The kirk disna care aboot organs, and the folkhereawa are hardy and winna want ony heatin',' he replied slowly; then with the twinkle in his eye he explained further, 'No, that is forpleesure purposes.' He reflected a moment or two profoundly, then with a happy inspiration suggested an alternative. 'A stained-glass windie micht be a guid an' righteous gift, I'm thinkin'.'

'That's mair like it,' responded the penitent, almost with joy, finishing off his glass and holding it out suggestively for replenishment.

'Hoo muckle would it come to, think ye—£100 belike?'

The Minister replenished his guest's glass hospitably before replying.

'We'd best mak it guineas,' he said thoughtfully.

'Right!' cried the other, his spirits visibly rising. 'I've got a cheque-book on me, an' I'll write it out for ye this instant moment.'

The Minister took the cheque silently, dried it carefully on his blotting-pad, then tucked it safely away in his Bible.

'An' noo,' he said to his penitent, 'noo I'll set ye awa for the inn.'

'Ye'll never be for turning me out into the darkness again?' wailed Elliot, his face paling perceptibly.

'I'll gang wi' ye,' replied the Minister, 'I'llguide ye; and wi' this,' he took up his heavy 'crook,' 'I'll fettle "Auld Hornie."'

'I don't care about the wager,' continued the other, desirous of putting off the evil moment; 'here's the sovereign—for yourself or the old shepherd.'

Serious as before, the Minister took the sovereign and laid it on the Bible as he said:

'If ye dinna gang back to the inn the landlord an' his lassies will be up a' nicht seekin' ye, an' ye'll be the talk o' the hail countryside.'

His visitor sighed heavily and looked wistfully at the whisky bottle, but the Minister was adamant. 'No' anither sup till the windie's in,' he thought to himself.

'Well, Minister,' said his guest with resignation, as he rose slowly up from his chair, 'I'll go back, but keep a close tongue, ye ken.'

'I'm used to daein' that,' replied the other, as he ushered his guest out into the darkness, and led him back to the 'Wool Pack' without mishap.

On his return the Minister paused by the kirk yett, and thus soliloquised:

'I never cared muckle for that camsterie goat o' Ringan's, but he wis gey useful the nicht there's no denyin', whilst as for auld cuddy, dod! but he was in fell voice, an' cam in punctual as the precentor.'The Reverend Alexander Macgregor thrust out an arm on high, turned about on heel and toe, as though to secret piping. Then he resumed his way to the manse, pondering now what should be the subject of the stained-glass window. Suddenly he stood stock still. He had it! 'It wull represent Palm Sunday—the entry of our Lord intil the Holy Ceety—ridin' in on an ass.'

[1]'Parcy Reed,' the hero of the well-known ballad, was foully slain in Bakinghope above Catcleugh Lough, but his wraith is said to haunt the Rede and to be visible about Rochester.

On the evening after the stained-glass 'windie' had been set up in the new kirk and dedicated to the memory of Saint Cuthbert, the Reverend Alexander Macgregor and his elder, Ringan Telfer, the ancient 'herd,' sat together in the manse's little 'sanctum' or library, enjoying a 'crack,' a glass of whisky, and a pipe of tobacco.

'It's a gey an' useful thing a ghaist,' said Ringan meditatively. 'It fleys folk fine an' stirs up their conscience graund. I aince thocht I caught a keek o' "Parcy" mysel', but I wasna muckle gliffed, for though I ken fine I'm a sinner, I've naethin' particular on my conscience.

'Mind ye, I dinna ken whether 'twas a wraith I saw or no—for I'd been first footin', ye ken, an' maybe I had a wee drappie i' my e'e.'

'Gey an' likely,' assented the Minister, nodding his head sympathetically, and drawing deep upon his pipe.

'Onnyway, naethin' came o't,' continued Ringan, imbibing thoughtfully from his glass,'but what I'm thinkin' the noo is that aiblins anither ghaist-gliff micht do a body I ken o' a guid turn.'

'There's many a body that micht be the better of a bit "gliff," but it disna always last, and it's a daungerous game to play at. But wha is the body?' inquired the Minister.

'It's a lang story,' replied the other, as he extracted a document from his pocket, 'but gey easy to understand. Weel, this document is a bit codicil to the will of a far-off cousin o' mine, but it wasna signed, as ye'll note, and i' the eye o' the law, as they call it, o' nae value. Noo the testator, Mistress Wallace, was a widow wi' a bit heritable property the whilk she'd but a life interest in, but she had a bit siller i' the bank, an' 'twas this she was leavin' awa different frae her will by this bit codicil.

'The siller was twa hundred pounds, an' it was lyin' at the bank, and the bank manager got it for various advice—ceevility an' attention paid to Mistress Wallace.

'Weel, there was anither puir widdie—a far-off cousin o' hers, that had a bairn born till her after her man died, and the puir widdie juist askit Mistress Wallace to be its godmither.

'Noo Mistress Wallace had nae bairns o' her ain, ye ken, an' it pleasured her fine to be a godmither to the fatherless bairn, but bein' verra frail i' body, she didna get the codicil signed an' witnessed before her "stroke."

'Weel, the doctor, he kenned aal about the hail matter, an' he gied the puir widdie the bit paper, since he was managin' her bit affairs. He thocht aiblins if the bank manager saw it he micht "pairt "—but deevil a bodle wull he hand ower, though the doctor saw him himsel'.'

The Minister nodded his apprehension, then taking the pipe out of his mouth, inquired, 'Wha was the puir widdie woman?'

'Ye'll ken my sister?' replied Ringan, gazing fixedly at the fire, 'Effie that was marrit on puir Jock Ord—a fine laddie he was—verra knowledgeable wi' sheep, wha perished in a snowstorm, mindin' his hirsel.

'She was left gey ill aff, an' noo wi' a bairn to provide for, hard pit till 't. Twa hundred punds wull provide for his upbringin', an' aiblins turn him into a meenister at the finish.'

'Ay,' replied the Minister,' I mind Effie well, puir decent body, for didna I marry them? An' I heard tell o' her man's death, but I hadna seen nither since they went herdin' ower the Carter Bar. But whaur does the "ghaist" come intil the story?' inquired the speaker in conclusion.

Ringan continued to contemplate the fire with fixed attention, then slowly delivered himself as follows:

'I'm hearin' that the Burnside Field Club wull be comin' up the water to hold their meetin' here shortly, an' to view the Roman Camp. I mind they were here ten years before, an' this year the president is the bank manager doon at the auld toon, wha has gruppit the siller I've tell't ye aboot. Weel, ye'll ken him, an' aiblins,' here the speaker took up the bellows and thoughtfully assisted the fire's respiration, 'aiblins it wud be a ceevil matter to offer to gie him a night's lodgin', for it's a gey lang way up frae the auld toon, an' the manager's gettin' gey white aboot the pow.'

Here the speaker laid down the bellows, then took up his glass thoughtfully, drained it off slowly, and resumed his contemplation of the fire.

The Minister also refreshed himself, then, keenly watching his companion from the tail of his eye, admitted an acquaintanceship with the bank manager.

'Ay, I ken him. He's a verra decent body—a bit near maybe, an' terribly superfeecial i' antiquarian knowledge. I mind I had a bit differ wi' him the time he was last up at the Camp.

'But supposin' I was inclined to be ceevil till him—what then?'

'Then aiblins,' replied the elder, stooping and knocking the ashes from his pipe against the fender, 'there micht be a bit gliff, an' this bit paper micht come in gey useful by way o' stirrin' up his conscience the whilk, I'm thinkin', has been growin' stiff i' his auld age. If it disna there's nae harm dune.'

The Minister thrust out his legs, and gazed up at the ceiling.

'Was it Dr. Thomson that tended Effie, an' that saw the manager?'

'Ay, 'twas him,' replied his companion.

There was a pause of silence after this response, the elder gazing abstractedly into the fire, the Minister surveying his ceiling, yet all the while out of the tail of his eye keeping watch on his elder.

Ultra sardonic he was, reflected the watcher affectionately, intolerant,plus Calviniste que Calvin même—sceptical of the world, with up-twisted eyebrows that seemed to signify a perpetual interrogation, yet faithful unto death to his duty and his own ideals. He minded well assisting to dig Ringan out of a snowdrift wherein he was seated, calmly tending a ewe and her two tiny lambs.

'Aweel,' said the Minister, breaking the silence, 'I micht—be offerin' hospitality to Macmanus, the banker; 'twould be the ceevil thing to do, but if he comes he's my guest, ye ken—I maunna hae ony "frightfulness"; an' the cuddy wull be locked up.'

'Ay,' responded the other, 'an' sae wull the goat be.'

'I ken naethin' aboot that,' retorted the other, bringing his gaze down from the ceiling to rest upon the swag-bellied green bottle on the table beside him.

'It's gettin' on intil the "wee sma' hours ayont the twal,"' he added; 'ye mun hae a "deoch-an-doruis" afore startin' "aff."'

'Deed, an' I wull,' replied Ringan, as he rose up and held out his glass, whilst wrapping his plaid about his shoulders.

Fergus Macmanus, bank manager, amateur antiquary, and President of the Burnside Field Club, accepted the invitation from the Reverend Alexander Macgregor, and returned with him from the Roman Camp to the manse for the night after a successful meeting, whereat he had given an address on Castrametation and theRoman Wall, which had abundantly satisfied himself, if not his host.

Macmanus was a short, thick-set, well-preserved man of some seventy years of age, with a complexion reminiscent of Harvest Festival. His Pauline motto of 'All things to all men' was a little impeded by an assurance of infallibility which he founded upon his 'common-sense view of things.' Hence after supper he proceeded to demonstrate to his host that all the theorists were wrong; that he had walked along the line of the wall and satisfied himself that wall and vallum were not contemporaneous, and that if Hadrian had made any use of the vallum—an early dyke orlimes—it was merely for the screening of his troops whilst the wall was building.

'Common sense,' retorted the Minister, 'willna tak ye verra far. Common sense assures me the world is flat, an' stands stock still in the centre o' things.'

'Common sense,' echoed his companion; 'man alive! why it includes the use of all the rational faculties. What I mean is that folk get wedded to a theory and disregard the practical side o' things. Noo the Romans were first and foremost a practical people, as a'body kens. They made sure o' their conquest, an' then built theirwall, sae that the popular theory that the vallum was a protection against the south is a' stuff an' nonsense.'

'Isna the result,' queried the Minister, 'that ye haud ane theory, ither folks anither?'

'If a thorough excavation were carried out many secrets micht be discovered, but noo folks prefer to travel an' dig i' the remotest pairts o' the earth, an' no' at home.'

'Aweel,' the Minister continued, with a sudden deft twist to the conversation, 'it's no excavation o' the earth that's interestin' me the noo—it'sthe excavation o' the mind. I have been readin' o' what a clever doctor chield has accomplished i' Edinbro' by the pooer o' mind uponmind——'

'Ye mean Christian Science—Faith-Healing?' queried his companion scornfully.

'Na, na,' returned the Minister, 'he ca's it Psycho-therapeutics—an' has worked miracles by it. For an instance, he actually operated wi' the knife on a puir body withoot any chloroform, ether, or anæsthetic whatever—an' the patient ne'er had a wink o' pain under it. His consciousness was under control, ye ken, directed clean awa from thocht o'pain——'

'I'd like to see the man that could mak me believe he'd gien me security for his overdraft when he hadna,' interrupted his companion satirically.

'I think I hae heard o' the thing haein' been accomplished, natheless,' returned the Minister with a twinkle in his eye.

'Man!' acknowledged the banker with a smile, 'but ye're gleg.'

The two men surveyed each other silently, like fencers awaiting feint or lunge, when suddenly a peal of thunder echoed on the air and shook the windows of the sanctum.

'A thunderstorm,' said the banker, 'i' the distance. Well, there's ane thing I'd be glad to hear o' frae your new doctor, an' that is no' to be gliffed by thunner an' lightin'. I was verra nigh struck by a flash when I was a bairn oot fishin' for troots—an' I canna get the better o't.'

''Tis a lang way off,' replied the Minister, rising and looking out o' window; 'weel, it's bedtime, I'm thinkin'. Ye mun juist have a night-cap before retiring.'

Nothing loath, his guest fortified himself handsomely, and was escorted to his bedroom by his host.

Entering his own room, which was opposite the other, the Minister proceeded to undress, leaving the door ajar advisedly, in the event of any strategy of Ringan's contriving.

He lay awake some while in watchful expectation, but as the thunderstorm had passed over and no other sound was audible, he shortly fell sound asleep.

Suddenly he was roused by the most extraordinary noise. The manse seemed to be shaken to its foundation.

He started up in bed. Could a flash of lightning have hit the chimney?

Then he saw a light without on the landing, heard footsteps, and a voice calling him by name.

'Minister Macgregor,' it called. 'The house has been struck wi' lightnin', I'm certain.'

The Minister hurried out on to the landing, and seeing his guest, by the light of the candle which he held in his shaking hand, to be much perturbed, endeavoured to comfort him.

'It was a fearfu' noise yon; it wakened me up oot o' the sleep o' the just,' he said. 'I thocht the chimney mun have been stricken, but if sae, stanes wud hae come through the roof. Maist likely the auld ash-tree by the door has been stricken. Hark!' he added, 'I think the storm's past, for it's rainin' hard enoo.'

Somewhat reassured, his guest was induced to return to bed, and after the Minister left him he heard the door bolted behind him.

The Minister went back to his own bed, but this time he refused to lie down, for he feltassured that Ringan was up to some fresh cantrip or other, and he wished to forestall him.

The rain shortly ceased, and a faint moonlight showed itself through the window. Almost at the same time the Minister was aware of stealthy soft footings on the stairs without. Noiselessly he approached his open door, and there he saw by the dim skylight a tall figure moving on stockinged feet at the stair-head. Was it a burglar? he thought fearfully. 'No, it was Ringan. But what on earth was he carrying?

Before he could interfere the tall figure set a dark object rolling down the stairs with infernal reverberation, then sat himself down on what seemed a tea-tray, and shot clattering into the gloomy deep.

The Minister turned and leaped into his bed, annoyed, yet shaken with laughter.

Another moment and he heard the door opposite unbolted, and a perturbed but angry voice rose outside his door:

'What the devil are ye up to? Are ye playing a trick on me, Minister? What was that fearfu' noise?'

'I'm playin' nae tricks on ye,' replied the Minister, as he opened the door and stood face to face with his guest, whose face was plainlyagitated by fear and anger. 'It's either the storm, or aiblins a ghaist, or else some one's playin' tricks on baith o' us.'

'Did ye no place this bit paper i' my room?' inquired his guest wrathfully, holding up a document with his hand accusingly.

'What bit paper is 't?' inquired the Minister. 'I hae pit nae bit paper i' your room.'

'Did Dr. Thomson o' the auld toon no' send ye this bit waste-paper—codicil he called it, or come to see ye aboot it?'

'No, he didna,' replied the Minister, 'neither he nor any ither doctor has been i' my manse yet, an' I hope never wull.'

'On yourhon——'began the other. Then catching his host's gleaming eye, said brokenly, 'It'sthe——Well—it's the most extraordinary thing that ever happened to me i' my life. The ghastly noise—then to find this bit paper lyin' i' my room.'

'What is the paper?' inquired the Minister. 'Can ye no hae brocht it wi' ye yoursel'?'

Macmanus looked about him stricken and unnerved, the anger had died down in his face, and he seemed to be seeking consolation.

'I'll tell ye the hail matter,' he decided impulsively, 'and what's mair, I'll abide by your advice.'

Thereon very briefly he set forth the tale of the codicil, justified himself on all legal grounds, and awaited the Minister's decision.

'Aweel, Macmanus,' replied the Minister slowly but decisively, 'as ye ask my opeenion, aal I can say is that if I was i' your shoes I'd juist forego my legal rights an' let the puir woman hae the twa hundred punds.'

'I believe you're richt,' replied the other; 'but if that ghastly noise happens again I'll come and spend the rest o' the night i' your bedchamber.'

'Come your ways in noo,' responded his host, 'and I'll get ye a drop whisky.'

'Aweel,' murmured the listener with pricked ears, who sat beside gong and tea-tray at the stair-foot, 'I'm thinkin if the Meenister's Macchiavelli, the elder's Machiavelli-er.'

Late one spring evening not long after the disaster of Solway Moss, Sir Robert Maxwell was walking to and fro within the Tower of Lochmaben—a heavy frown upon his brow—cogitating his reply to a letter from my Lord Arran—now governor of Scotland under the regency of the widowed Queen, Mary of Lorraine.

Amongst other matters touched upon Arran made mention of his purpose to find the right suitor for the hand of Agnes Herries—daughter and heiress of the Lord Herries of Hoddam Castle. A hint was delicately conveyed that possibly Maxwell himself might be eligible—if he gave up his 'assurance with England.'

Now Sir Robert's late father—the Lord Maxwell—had been made prisoner at Solway Moss, but had been set free on 'taking assurance' with England and giving twelve hostages of his own name to the opposite warden—Lord Wharton at Carlisle.

In addition there was a suggestive allusion tothe Scots Wardenry of the Western march, which was vacant at the moment.

The offer was most tempting, but—there were the twelve Maxwell hostages, his cousins, in Wharton's hands.

Sir Robert grew wroth as he read and re-read the letter. 'Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?' he questioned angrily, as he sat down to indite a peremptory refusal.

He found his task very difficult, for he had little skill in writing. Shortly, he determined to send over to Dumfries first thing in the morning for the notary public to come and write the letter for him, and be a witness to his signature.

This he did, but the messenger brought word back that the notary was ill with the spotted fever and could not come.

Sir Robert's anger increased, for the temptation beckoned insistently. He had already had thoughts of the fair and well-dowered Agnes, but he knew 'twas hopeless unless he was reconciled to Arran.

He determined to ride out and rid himself of black care by a gallop. Mounting, he let the horse choose his ain gait, and shortly found himself in the airt of Hoddam, whence he rode up to the grassy fells above Solway. Then he let hishorse out on a gallop, and away he sped like a curlew—sweeping over the short grass, and drinking in the breeze like wine.

Maxwell rode till his horse was white with sweat, and the rubies in his nostrils red as fire.

Then he turned and came back at a slow trot to the point of starting. Pausing here, Maxwell gazed down on the one hand to the rich fields and well-timbered lands of Hoddam; on the other hand across Solway to where below the deep-piled, purple masses of Helvellyn and Skiddaw lay 'merry Carlisle'—the abode of my Lord Wharton.

Maxwell shook his fist across Solway, as though in defiance. Then he turned about and rode slowly home.

As soon as he was back again at Lochmaben he dispatched a special messenger to Arran in Edinburgh with the brief assurance that he himself would follow on the morrow and explain in person the difficulty of accepting the Governor's proposals.

On the evening of the day that Sir Robert Maxwell arrived in Edinburgh a ball was held in Holyrood—the first ball since Solway Moss had overwhelmed Scotland with gloom. TheQueen-Dowager was to be present, and Arran insisted on Maxwell's attendance, though against his will. A gay and brilliant assembly filled the great galleries of Holyrood that night.

After a minuet had been paced to the gentle music of the lute and clavichord, a schottische succeeded to the martial skirl of the pipes.

For this dance Arran had craftily arranged that Maxwell should have as partner the fair Agnes Herries, and as he watched them his brow relaxed its tension. His policy was to strengthen and consolidate Scotland, and to this end he would break Maxwell's assurance with England. 'The lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life,' he muttered to himself as he watched the couple dancing with animation, 'are gey guid baits.' As the company departed in the early dawn Arran took the opportunity of walking back with Maxwell to his lodging. 'Ye partnered ilk ither fine,' said the Governor; 'time and step suited ye bonny. Weel,' he added slowly, 'ye hae to decide. Wull ye tak her?' Maxwell hesitated a moment, then impulsively, 'I will. Here's my hand on 't.'

'Dune!' cried the Governor triumphantly. Then he added by way of an evasion from any difficulty with Wharton. 'I'm thinking yemicht emulate Douglas in his raid on the eastern march:

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