, vaulted dry stone dykes, leapt ditches,
made somewhat heavy weather over the plough, but got away on rough turf
up the hillside. The morning wore on, and both hunters and hunted wished
that the sun had shone less warmly on that March day. On a steep part of
High Tofts Hill, however, the chase at last came to an end. The steep
face of the hill was more than the laird's good steed could manage,
though nobly, in response to his call, did it do its best. He had to
turn back and come round by a part where the ascent was less steep,
while Little, hot but undaunted, went on with the chase alone. The
robber's extra weight was telling on him, and he was not in the hard
training of the young Border farmer. The hill pumped him, he stumbled as
he ran, and, as Little gained on him yard by yard, he saw that he could
run no longer, but must come to bay. He turned round and faced his
pursuer, breathing hard, and with all his might tugging at a big
butcher's knife in his pocket. Ordinarily the knife came easily to his
hand, but he had forgotten that the pocket was stuffed with articles
stolen from the old pedlar. The knife was hopelessly jammed, and Little
was almost upon him. A large, sharp-pointed stone stuck out of the
ground at his feet. "_Keep off!_" he yelled to the ploughman. "Hands
off! or I'll scatter your brains!" And as he threatened, he stooped to
seize the stone and make good his threat. But the Fates that day had
signed the Irish villain's death-warrant. The good Border earth clung to
the stone, refusing to let it go. With all his force he tugged and
tugged, but ere the earth could give way, Little had thrown himself upon
him, and when Mr. Scott appeared over the brow of the hill, the sturdy
farmer was still holding his own with a kicking, biting, struggling,
cursing ruffian who would have had no compunction in adding another to
his list of victims that day. Between them, Little and the laird tied
their captive's hands behind his back with part of the bridle reins, and
walked him back to Kirkton. There help was sent to the old Highlander,
but no doctor could undo the ill that had been wrought him, and he died
a few days later. In one of the Kirkton farm-carts the old man's
murderer was conveyed to Hawick, and from thence to Jedburgh jail. It
was too much a case of "hot trod" for him to do anything but plead
guilty, and he hung on a gallows at Jedburgh, as many a worthier man had
done in earlier days. The laird lived for mo