ollowers named Dickson. It was a fearful sight as
they rushed through Dunse, their horses striking fire from their heels
in the light of the very sunbeams, and the sword of the pursuer within a
few feet of the fugitive. Still the Chevalier rode furiously, urging on
the gallant animal that bore him, which seemed conscious that the life
of its rider depended upon its speed. His flaxen locks waived behind him
in the wind, and the voice of his pursuers ever and anon fell upon his
ear, like a dagger of death thrust into his bosom. The horse upon which
Wedderburn rode had been wounded in the conflict, and, as they drew near
Broomhouse, its speed slackened, and his followers, Trotter and Dickson,
took the lead in the pursuit. The Chevalier had reached a spot on the
right bank of the Whitadder, which is now in a field of the farm of
Swallowdean, when his noble steed, becoming entangled with its cumbrous
trappings, stumbled, and hurled its rider to the earth. The next moment
the swords of Trotter and Dickson were through the body of the
unfortunate Chevalier.

"Off with his head!" exclaimed Wedderburn, who at the same instant
reached the spot. The bloody mandate was readily obeyed; and Home,
taking the bleeding head in his hand, cut off the flaxen tresses, and
tied them as a trophy to his saddle-bow. The body of the _Chevalier de
la Beaute_ was rudely buried on the spot where he fell. A humble stone
marks out the scene of the tragedy, and the people in the neighbourhood
yet call it "_Bawty's Grave_." The head of the Chevalier was carried to
Dunse, where it was fixed upon a spear at the cross, and Wedderburn
exclaimed, "Thus be exalted the enemies of the house of Home!"

The bloody relic was then borne in triumph to Home Castle, and placed
upon the battlements. "There," said Sir David, "let the Regent climb
when he returns from France for the head of his favourite; it is thus
that Home of Wedderburn revenges the murder of his kindred."

THE STORY OF THE PELICAN.

Though not so much a tradition as a memory still fresh probably in the
minds of some of the good old Edinburgh folks, we here offer, chiefly
for the benefit of our young female readers who are fond of a story
wherein little heroines figure, as in Beranger's _Sylphide_, an account
of a very famous adventure of a certain little Jeannie Deans in our
city--the more like the elder Jeannie, inasmuch as they both were
concerned in a loving effort to save the life of