m as if it were original, with great effect; for by that time
_we_ had made a side dash to see lovely Kelso, where Sir Walter went to
the Grammar School, and met Ballantyne, who long afterward published his
novels and brought about his bankruptcy. I heard also, read out from the
same book, that the stone of Dryburgh was taken from the quarry that
built Melrose, and that the name Dryburgh meant "Druid." Even the boys,
I think, could hardly help feeling the mysterious, haunting charm of the
place, which was as strange and secret as if the dark yew trees and
Lebanon cedars guarding the ruins were enchanted Druid priests. There
was a Druid urn, too, which looked as if it knew all the secrets of the
ages, and had held sacrificial blood.

I could imagine Sir Walter Scott coming to Dryburgh again and again, and
loving the hidden spot so well that he wanted to sleep his last sleep
there. Such a peaceful sleep it must be with the Tweed singing out of
sight, and yews old as legend to play lullabies upon their own
harp-strings when the wind touches their dark, rustling sleeves.

The song of the Tweed at Abbotsford was the song of Inspiration,
changing to the song of Fulfilment in the master's passing hour. Now, at
Dryburgh, the river veils itself like a mourner, and its song is the
Sleep Music which has in it the secret of death and of life beyond. I
stood for a minute alone in front of the tomb where Sir Walter's body
lies with those he loved best, in the place he loved best, and
transparent green shadows like the spirits of shadow hid me from the
sunlight. While I shut my eyes, I could understand the message of the
song. And I knew that if my knight had been with me it would have come
to him in the same way, because we are both of the land where the old,
old secrets of wind and waves and rock are in the blood of the people,
and sung by their bards. It is perhaps the mysterious kinship of far-off
ancestry which draws me to him, and tells me that we two belong
together--that others stand outside as strangers.

Just then I felt that it would have been worth the bother of being born
only for the sake of that minute, if I had no other minutes worth
living; and it seemed that some knowledge was coming back to me which
souls forget as bodies grow up to manhood or womanhood. But suddenly
Basil's voice broke the Music. "You look as if you were conjuring up the
White Lady of Avenel, who will come to any one who knows how to call
her, he