Rob Roole, he handled rude. 
  And Willie left Newmill’s banks
  Red-wat wi’ Robin’s blude.

[Illustration:  HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL.]

At Teviothead our road parted company with the River Teviot, which forked away to the right, its source being only about six miles farther up the hills from that point.  In the churchyard at Teviothead, Henry Scott Riddell, the author of Scotland Yet, had only recently been buried.  Near here also was Caerlanrig, where the murder of Johnnie Armstrong of Gilnockie, a very powerful chief who levied blackmail along the Border from Esk to Tyne, or practically the whole length of Hadrian’s Wall, took place in 1530.  Johnnie was a notorious freebooter and Border raider, no one daring to go his way for fear of Johnnie or his followers.  But of him more anon.

The distance from Caerlanrig, where Armstrong was executed, to Gilnockie Tower, where he resided, was about seventeen miles, and we had to follow, though in the opposite direction and a better surfaced road, the same lonely and romantic track that he traversed on that occasion.  It formed a pass between the hills, and for the first seven miles the elevations in feet above sea-level on each side of the road were: 

   To our right:—­1193. 1286. 1687. 1950. 1714. 1317. 1446.  To our
   left:—­1156. 1595. 1620. 1761. 1741. 1242. 1209.

The distance between the summits as the crow flies was only about a mile, while the road maintained an altitude above the sea of from five to eight hundred feet, so that we had a most lonely walk of about thirteen miles before we reached Langholm.  The road was a good one, and we were in no danger of missing our way, hemmed in as it was on either side by the hills, which, although treeless, were covered with grass apparently right away to their tops, a novelty to us after the bare and rocky hills we had passed elsewhere.  We quite enjoyed our walk, and as we watched the daylight gradually fade away before the approaching shadows of the night, we realised that we were passing through the wildest solitudes.  We did not meet one human being until we reached Langholm, and the only habitation we noted before reaching a small village just outside that town was the “Halfway House” between Hawick and Langholm, known in stage-coach days as the “Mosspaul Inn.”  It was a large house near the entrance to a small glen, but apparently now closed, for we could not see a solitary light nor hear the sound of a human voice.

How different it must have appeared when the stage-coaches were passing up and down that valley, now deserted, for even the railway, which supplanted them, had passed it by on the other side!  In imagination we could hear the sound of the horn, echoing in the mountains, heralding the approach of the stage-coach, with its great lamp in front, and could see a light in almost every window in the hotel.  We could picture mine host and his wife standing at the open door ready to receive their visitors, expectant guests assembled behind them in the hall and expectant servants both indoors and out; then staying for the night, refreshing ourselves with the good things provided for supper, and afterwards relating our adventures to a friendly and appreciative audience, finally sinking our weary limbs in the good old-fashioned feather-beds!