The walk to the top of Minto Crags was very pleasant, but in olden times no stranger dared venture there, as the Outlaw Brownhills was in possession, and had hewn himself out of the rock an almost inaccessible platform on one of the crags still known as “Brownhills’ Bed” from which he could see all the roads below.  Woe betide the unsuspecting traveller who happened to fall into his hands!

But we must not forget Deloraine, for after receiving instructions from the “Ladye of Branksome”—­

[Illustration:  “FATLIPS” CASTLE.]

  Soon in the saddle sate he fast,
  And soon the steep descent he past,
  Soon cross’d the sounding barbican. 
  And soon the Teviot side he won. 
  Eastward the wooded path he rode. 
  Green hazels o’er his basnet nod;
  He passed the Peel of Goldieland,
  And crossed old Borthwick’s roaring strand;
  Dimly he view’d the Moat-hill’s mound. 
  Where Druid shades still flitted round;
  In Hawick twinkled many a light;
  Behind him soon they set in night;
  And soon he spurr’d his courser keen
  Beneath the tower of Hazeldean.

* * * * *

The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark;—­
“Stand, ho! thou courier of the dark.”—­
“For Branksome, ho!” the knight rejoin’d. 
And left the friendly tower behind. 
He turn’d him now from Tiviotside,
And, guided by the tinkling rill,
Northward the dark ascent did ride. 
And gained the moor at Horsliehill;
Broad on the left before him lay,
For many a mile, the Roman Way.

* * * * *

A moment now he slacked his speed,
A moment breathed his panting steed;
Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band,
And loosen’d in the sheath his brand. 
On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint,
Where Barnhills hew’d his bed of flint;
Who flung his outlaw’d limbs to rest,
Where falcons hang their giddy nest
Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye
For many a league his prey could spy;
Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne,
The terrors of the robber’s horn!

We passed through a cultivated country on the verge of the moors, where we saw some good farms, one farmer telling us he had 900 acres of arable land with some moorland in addition.  He was superintending the gathering of a good crop of fine potatoes, which he told us were “Protestant Rocks.”  He was highly amused when one of us suggested to the other that they might just have suited a country parson we knew in England who would not have the best variety of potatoes, called “Radicals,” planted in his garden because he did not like the name.  He was further amused when we innocently asked him the best way to reach Hawick, pronouncing the name in two syllables which sounded like Hay-wick, while the local pronunciation was “Hoike.”  However, we soon reached that town and had a twelve-o’clock lunch at one of the inns, where we heard something