er men. The thought put Marion
out of his head again. He set his mind on tending his horse and
keeping up with his fellows.

Suddenly a whistle from Harden halted the company. A man came running
back from the crown of the rig. A whisper went about that Bewcastle
was on the far side, in the little glen called the Brunt Burn. The men
held their breath, and in the stillness they heard far off the sound of
hooves on stones and the heavy breathing of cattle.

It was a noble spot for an ambuscade. The Borderers scattered over the
hillside, some riding south to hold the convoy as it came down the
glen. Sim's weariness lightened. His blood ran quicker; he remembered
that the cow, his child's one hope, was there before him. He found
himself next his cousin Wat, who chewed curses in his great beard.
When they topped the rig they saw a quarter of a mile below them the
men they sought. The cattle were driven in the centre, with horsemen
in front and rear and flankers on the braeside.

"Hae at them, lads," cried Wat o' the Ninemileburn, as he dug spurs
into his grey horse. From farther down the glen he was answered with a
great shout of "Branksome".

Somehow or other Sim and his shelty got down the steep braeface. The
next he knew was that the raiders had turned to meet him--to meet him
alone, it seemed; the moon had come out again, and their faces showed
white in it. The cattle, as the driving ceased, sank down wearily in
the moss. A man with an iron ged turned, cursing to receive Wat's
sword on his shoulder-bone. A light began to blaze from down the
burn--Sim saw the glitter of it out of the corner of an eye--but the
men in front were dark figures with white faces.

The Bewcastle lads were stout fellows, well used to hold as well as
take. They closed up in line around the beasts, and the moon lit the
tops of their spears. Sim brandished his ash-shaft, which had weighed
heavily these last hours, and to his surprise found it light. He found
his voice, too, and fell a-roaring like Wat.

Before he knew he was among the cattle. Wat had broken the ring, and
men were hacking and slipping among the slab sides of the wearied
beasts. The shelty came down over the rump of a red bullock, and Sim
was sprawling on his face in the trampled grass. He struggled to rise,
and some one had him by the throat.

Anger fired his slow brain. He reached out his long arms and grappled
a leather jerkin. His nails found a seam