was there of that breathing being permanently stopped.  Policemen had not been invented in those days, and there was not much chance of his being arrested for duelling, for what was then called “the watch” was singularly inefficient, and seldom to be found when wanted.  Nevertheless, it was now no easy matter for Stokoe to shake off the little “tail” of admirers who insisted on following him; it was not every day that they had the chance of seeing a man killed in fair fight, and they were loth to lose sight of the man who had done it—­a hero in their eyes.  However, by dint of plunging down one narrow street and up some other unsavoury alley, and repeating the manoeuvre at intervals, blinding his trail as far as possible, he at length shook off the last persevering remnant of his admirers, and, without being tracked or shadowed, gained the shelter of the house where he lodged.  A few days saw him and his friends safely out of London, bearing with them the body of the Earl of Derwentwater, which was later buried at Dilston.

Frank Stokoe’s position was an unfortunate one from now on.  He was a proscribed man; his property had been seized, and those now in possession threatened if he put in an appearance, or made any attempt to regain the property, that they would give him up to Government.  Times consequently became hard for poor Stokoe; his affairs went from bad to worse, and though his name was included in the general pardon which Government issued some time later, he never got back his land nor any of his possessions.  Part of the land passed with the Derwentwater Estate to Greenwich Hospital, part, including the peel tower, where he and his ancestors had lived for generations, remained in the clutches of those who had seized it.  Old age came upon Frank and found him poverty-stricken; want came, “as an armed man,” and found him too weak to resist.  The spirit was there, but no longer the strength that should have helped the spirit.  He sank and died, leaving behind him no shred of worldly gear.

Another noted Northumbrian who was “out” in the ’15 was him whom men then called “Mad Jack Hall” of Otterburn.  Not that he was in any sense mad, or even of weak intellect—­far from it; the name merely arose from the fiery energy of the man, and from the reckless courage with which he would face any danger or any odds.  As a man, he was extremely popular, and no one could have been more beloved by his dependents.  His fine estate he managed himself, and managed well, though before he went “out” misfortunes fell on him which no management could have averted.  They were misfortunes so crushing, and following so immediately on each other’s heels, that amongst the simple country folk they were looked on, and spoken of, with awe, as manifestly judgments from Heaven for some fancied sin they supposed him to have committed.  He might, people said, have prevented, but did not prevent, a duel which took place in the streets of Newcastle, in which a very popular young man was killed.