f them on their way, and that, as soon as
they were past, and out of earshot, and young Harden came on with the
main body of the stolen cattle, the Murrays would rise and set on him
with sudden fierceness, and after a sharp and bloody conflict would take
him prisoner, and kill many a brave man.

Nor would Will have heard of the fight at all, until he had arrived at
Oakwood, and his suspicions had been aroused by the fact that young
Harden did not follow him, had it not been for a trusty fellow called
Andrew o' Langhope, who was knocked down in the fight, and who thought
that he could serve his master best by lying still. So he pretended to
be dead, and lay motionless until the fray was over, and poor young
Scott bound hand and foot, and carried off in triumph by the Murrays;
then he sprang to his feet, and ran off in pursuit of Will of Fauldshope
as fast as his legs could carry him.

Now, if there was one man on earth whom the Wild Boar of Fauldshope and
his men loved, it was the young Knight of Harden. He was so handsome,
and brave, and debonair, a very leader among men, that I ween there was
dire confusion among them when they heard Andrew o' Langhope's tale. A
great oath fell from Will's lips as he threw off his jerkin and helmet,
to ease his horse, and turned and galloped over the hill again, followed
by all his company.

But in spite of their haste they were too late. The dawn was breaking as
they reined up on the green in front of Elibank, and the gray morning
light showed them that the stout oak door was closed, and the great iron
gates made fast. By now young Harden was safe in the lowest dungeon, and
right well they knew that only once again would he breathe the fresh air
of heaven, and that would be when he was led out to die under the great
dule-tree on the green.

Bitter tears of grief and rage filled the Boar of Fauldshope's eyes at
the thought, but no more could be done, except to ride over to Harden,
and tell old Sir Walter Scott of the fate that had befallen his eldest
son.

* * * * *

"Juden, Juden." It was the Lady of Elibank's voice, and it woke her
husband out of the only sound sleep he had had, for he had been terribly
troubled with bad dreams all night: dreams not, as one would have
imagined, of the fight which he had passed through, but of his eldest
daughter Meg, and her sad lack of wooers.

"What is it?" he asked drowsily, as he looked across the room to wh