eem to have gone wrong in our inquiries
about the cattle."

Neither the poet nor the cobbler had any appetite for supper, but the
king was young and hungry, and did justice to the hospitality of the
Armstrongs.

"Have you been here long?" he asked of the prisoner in the corner.

"A good while," answered the latter despondently. "I don't know for
how long. They hanged my mate."

"I saw that. Do they hang many here about?"

"I think they do," replied the prisoner. "Some fling themselves down
on the rocks, and others are starved to death. You see, the Armstrongs
go off on a raid, and there's no one here to bring us food, for the
women folk don't like to tamper with that machine that comes to the
lower stair. I doubt if Johnny starves them intentionally, but he's
kept away sometimes longer than he expects."

"Bless me," cried the king, "think of this happening in Scotland. And
now, cobbler, what are we to do?"

"I'm wondering if this man would venture out to the end of the beam
and untie the rope," suggested Flemming.

"Oh, I'll do that, willingly," cried the prisoner. "But what is the
use of it; it's about ten times too short, as the Armstrongs well
know."

"Are we likely to be disturbed here through the night?" asked
Flemming.

"Oh no, nor till late in the day to-morrow; they'll be down there
eating and drinking till all hours, then they sleep long."

"Very well. Untie the other end of the rope, and see you crawl back
here without falling."

As the prisoner obeyed instructions, Flemming rose to his feet and
began feeling in his pockets, drawing forth, at last, a large brown
ball.

"What is your plan, cobbler?" asked the king, with interest.

"Well, you see," replied Flemming, "the rope's short, but it's very
thick."

"I don't see how that is to help us."

"There are nine or ten strands that have gone to the making of it, and
I'm thinking that each of those strands will bear a man. Luckily, I
have got a ball of my cobbler's wax here, and that will strengthen
the strands, keep the knots from slipping, and make it easier to climb
down."

"Cobbler!" cried the king, "if that lets us escape, I'll knight you."

"I care little for knighthood," returned the cobbler, "but I don't
want to be benighted here."

"After such a remark as that, your majesty," exclaimed the poet, "I
think you should have him beheaded, if he doesn't get us out of this
safely."

"Indeed, Sir David," said the cobbler, as he unwoun