t of King's Grave.
He appeared to be covered with a long cloak, but above it his helmet
glittered like silver. Next moment a fringe of black cloud hid the face
of the moon, and when it passed away the man and horse were gone.

"What did that fellow there?" asked Sir John.

"Fellow?" answered Jeffrey in a shaken voice, "I saw none. That was the
Ghost of the Grave. My grandfather met him ere he came to his end in the
forest, none know how, for the wolves, of which there were plenty in
his day, picked his bones clean, and so have many others for hundreds of
years; always just before their doom. He is an ill fowl, that Ghost
of the Grave, and those who clap eyes on him do wisely to turn their
horses' heads homewards, as I would to-night if I had my way, master."

"What use, Jeffrey? If the sight of him means death, death will come.
Moreover, I believe nothing of the tale. Your ghost was some forest
reeve or herdsman."

"A forest reeve or herdsman who wanders about in a steel helm on a fine
horse in snow-time when there are no trees to cut or cattle to mind!
Well, have it as you will, master; only God save me from such reeves and
herdmen, for I think they hail from hell."

"Then he was a spy watching whither we go," answered Sir John angrily.

"If so, who sent him? The Abbot of Blossholme? In that case I would
sooner meet the devil, for this means mischief. I say that we had better
ride back to Shefton."

"Then do so, Jeffrey, if you are scared, and I will go on alone, who,
being on an honest business, fear not Satan or an abbot, either."

"Nay, master. Many a year ago, when we were younger, I stood by you on
Flodden Field when Sir Edward, Christopher Harflete's father, was killed
at our side, and those red-bearded Scotch bare-breeks pressed us hard,
yet I never itched to turn my back, even after that great fellow with an
axe got you down, and we thought that all was lost. Then shall I do
so now?--though it is true that I fear yon goblin more than all the
Highlanders beyond the Tweed. Ride on; man can die but once, and for my
part I care not when it comes, who have little to lose in an ill world."

So without more words they started forward, peering about them as they
went. Soon the forest thickened, and the track they followed wound its
way round great trunks of primeval oaks, or the edges of bog-holes, or
through brakes of thorns. Hard enough it was to find it at times, since
the snow made it one with the borderin