not noticed in ourselves and other Borderers an undeniable complacency, a boastful pride in a mask of apology that would not deceive an infant, when we say, “Oh yes; certainly a good many of my ancestors were hanged for lifting cattle.”  And, however “indifferent honest” we ourselves may be, which of us does not lay aside even that most futile mask and boast unashamedly when we can claim descent from one of those princes among reivers—­Wat o’ Harden, Johnnie Armstrong, or Kinmont Willie?

William Armstrong, better known as Kinmont Willie, lived in the palmiest days of the Border reivers.  The times of purely Scottish and purely English kings were drawing to a close, and with one monarch to rule over Britain the raider could no longer plead that he was a patriot who fought for king and country when he made an incursion over the Cheviots, burned a few barns and dwelling-houses, lifted some “kye and oxen,” horses, and goats, and what household gear and minted money he could lay hands on, slew a man or two, and joyously returned home.

But with Elizabeth still on the English throne, and with Queen Mary, and afterwards her son, reigning in Scotland, the dance could go merrily on, and when we look at those days in retrospect it seems to us that the last bars of the music, the last turns in the dance, went more rapidly than any that had gone before.

In Kinmont Willie’s lifetime the Wardens of the Marches had but little leisure.  It was necessary for them to be fighting men with a good head for figures, for on the days of truce when the Wardens of the Scottish and English Marches met to redd up accounts, not only had they to work out knotty arithmetical problems with regard to the value of every sort of live stock, of buildings, of “insight,” and the payment of such bills, but they had to have expert knowledge in fair exchange of a Scottish for an English life, an English for a Scotch.  Little wonder if their patience sometimes ran short, as did that of a Howard of Naworth upon one famous occasion.  He was deeply engrossed in studies that had no bearing upon Border affairs when an officer came to announce the capture of some Scottish moss-troopers, and to ask for the Warden’s commands with regard to them.  The interruption was untimely, and Lord Howard was exasperated.  “Hang them, in the devil’s name!” he said angrily, and went on with his studies.  A little later he felt he could better give his mind to the consideration of the case, and sent for his officer.  “Touching the prisoners,” said he, “what have you done with them?”

Proud of being one of those who did not let the grass grow beneath their feet, the officer beamingly responded:  “Everyone o’ them’s hangit, my lord!”