if he would wait
only a little behind the others he would show him proof of it. When they
were alone he showed him on the lid of the treasure-chest the words,
written in black letter:

"=Search--Number One="

Dousterswivel at once agreed to meet Edie at midnight within the ruins
of the Priory, and he kept his word. It was a stormy night, great clouds
being hurried across the face of the moon, and the woods were bending
and moaning in the fierce blast. Edie marched up and down while he
waited for the German, shouldering his pike-staff, and dreaming that he
was back again on the outposts with a dozen hostile riflemen hidden in
front of him.

After a little, Dousterswivel arrived, having brought with him a horse
and saddle-bags in which to carry away the expected treasure. Edie led
him once more to the place of the former search--to the grave of the
Armed Knight. On the way he told his companion the tale of that Malcolm
Misticot whose treasure was supposed to have been found and rifled that
day.

"There is a story that the Misticot walks," said Edie; "it's an awesome
nicht and an uncanny to be meeting the like of him here. Besides he
might not be best pleased to come upon us when we were trying to lift
his treasure!"

"For the love of Heaven," said Dousterswivel, "say nothing at all,
either about somebodies or nobodies!"

Edie leaped into the grave and began to strike; but he soon tired or
pretended to tire. So he called out to the German that turn and turn
about was fair play. Whereupon, fired with the desire for wealth,
Dousterswivel began to strike and shovel the earth with all his might,
while Edie encouraged him, standing very much at his ease by the side of
the hole.

"At it again," he cried; "strike--strike! What for are ye stopping,
man?"

"Stopping," cried the German, angrily, looking out of the grave at his
tormentor; "I am down at the bed-rock, I tell you!"

"And that's the likeliest place of any," said Edie; "it will just be a
big broad stone laid down to cover the treasure. Ah, that's it! There
was a Wallace stroke indeed! It's broken! Hurrah, boys, there goes
Ringan's pickaxe! It's a shame o' the Fairport folk to sell such frail
gear. Try the shovel; at it again, Maister Dousterdeevil!"

But this time the German, without replying, leaped out of the pit, and
shouted in a voice that trembled with anger, "Does you know, Mr. Edie
Ochiltree, who it is you are putting off your gibes and your j