ith a prayer each, Ludar in his way,
I in mine, we buried that dear relic. Then, beside the place, Ludar
drove his sword deep into the earth, till the hilt stood up like an iron
cross to mark the spot. We stood in silence while the pure snow fell
and laid its white shroud upon the grave. Then, when all was done, he
took my arm, and we walked sadly away.

As we passed down a street not far off, the glow of a tavern fire and
the sound of voices within brought us to a halt. For we were cold and
famished and weary, and the good cheer of the place tempted us. Within
was mine host, a merry Irishman, who loved every man that drank his ale.
Round his great fire sat half-a-dozen guests, two wayfarers like
ourselves, a soldier, a merchant, a sailor, and one who seemed by his
look a private gentleman.

They gave us little enough heed as we entered. Even when mine host,
catching sight of us, came to take our orders, they went on with their
carouse and pulled their benches closer round the fire, with scarcely a
blink our way.

As we sat apart, thawing our frozen limbs in the warmth of the room, and
reviving our inner man with food and drink--we had staked nearly all we
had on this meal--we could not forbear hearing some of the talk that
went on at the fireside.

"By my valour," said the soldier, "I was there and saw it with my own
eyes. The old dotard turned the colour of my teeth when he looked up
and spied it."

"Ay, ay," said the merchant, "I know it was he. I saw the lad in
Cantire once, and a fine lad he was."

"They tell me," said mine host, "a woman was at the bottom of it, as
usual. This Captain Merriman (who oweth me a pretty score for
entertainment in this house), and this lad had a quarrel over a wench,
and 'twas for that he pursued him as he did. Why, sirs, for six weeks
the lad lay hidden in a cave, and for a week more lay quick in a grave,
before Sir Captain, who had never ceased to hunt him, caught him, and
sent up his head to the Deputy here. And now, they say, the wench, who
is particular, not fancying a headless trunk, hath struck her colours
and said yea to the next best man. Poor lass! who's to blame her?"

"Not I," said the soldier, "albeit you are all wrong, mine host, about
this quarrel, for I heard of it from Tom Price, the Captain's man. It
was this headless chief's brother the lass doated on. But it's like
enough she thinks the head was her sweetheart's."

"There was a son of old Sor