The story of Fletcher has died away in Angus; but at one time it was in every mouth, and many a head was shaken as the Sunday loiterers from Dundee and Lochee passed by the Cradle in their walks on Balgay Hill.  I have heard that it was demolished as a disgrace to Scotland somewhere about 1810 or 1812.  The hollow where the ruins stood is quite visible yet, and the old circumambulating ghost, which, by-the-bye, has unfortunately a white face, is not yet laid.

THE DEATH OF THE CHEVALIER DE LA BEAUTE.

It was near midnight, on the 12th of October 1516, when a horseman, spurring his jaded steed, rode furiously down the path leading to the strong tower of Wedderburn.  He alighted at the gate, and knocked loudly for admission.

“What would ye?” inquired the warder from the turret.

“Conduct me to your chief,” was the laconic reply of the breathless messenger.

“Is your message so urgent that ye must deliver it to-night?” continued the warder, who feared to kindle the fiery temper of his master, by disturbing him with a trifling errand.

“Urgent, babbler!” replied the other, impatiently; “to-day the best blood of the Homes has been lapped by dogs upon the street; and I have seen it.”

The warder aroused the domestics in the tower, and the stranger entered.  He was conducted into a long, gloomy apartment, dimly lighted by a solitary lamp.  Around him hung rude portraits of the chiefs of Wedderburn, and on the walls were suspended their arms and the spoils of their victories.  The solitary apartment seemed like the tomb of war.  Every weapon around him had been rusted with the blood of Scotland’s enemies.  It was a fitting theatre for the recital of a tale of death.  He had gazed around for a few minutes, when heavy footsteps were heard treading along the dreary passages, and the next moment Sir David Home entered, armed as for the field.

“Your errand, stranger?” said the young chief of Wedderburn, fixing a searching glance upon him as he spoke.

The stranger bowed, and replied, “The Regent”------

“Ay!” interrupted Home, “the enemy of our house, the creature of our hands, whom we lifted from exile to sovereignty, and who now with his minions tracks our path like a bloodhound!  What of this gracious Regent?  Are ye, too, one of his myrmidons, and seek ye to strike the lion in his den?”

“Nay,” answered the other; “but from childhood the faithful retainer of your murdered kinsman.”

“My murdered kinsman!” exclaimed Wedderburn, grasping the arm of the other.  “What! more blood! more!  What mean ye, stranger?”

“That, to gratify the revenge of the Regent Albany,” replied the other, “my lord Home and your kinsman William have been betrayed and murdered.  Calumny has blasted their honour.  Twelve hours ago I beheld their heads tossed like footballs by the foot of the common executioner, and afterwards fixed over the porch of the Nether Bow, for the execration and indignities of the slaves of Albany.  All day the blood of the Homes has dropped upon the pavement, where the mechanic and the clown pass over and tread on it.”