Tradition tells of his long ride to convey important papers from Lord Traquair to King Charles I, and of his perilous return journey, bearing a reply from his Majesty.  Tidings of his mission had come to the ears of the Parliamentarians, and orders were issued to seize him at Carlisle.  In that town, Will, unwitting of special danger, had halted an hour to refresh man and beast, and as he proceeded on his journey, and was midway over the high, narrow bridge across the Eden, the sudden clatter of horses’ feet and the jingle of accoutrements at either end of the bridge showed him that his way was effectually blocked by the Roundhead troopers.  Without a moment’s hesitation, Will faced his horse at the parapet, and with a touch of the spur and a wild cheer over went the pair into the flooded river, disappearing in the tawny, foaming water with a mighty splash.  Instead of hastening along the bank, Cromwell’s troopers crowded on to the bridge, gazing with astonishment into the raging torrent.  Thus, when Will and his horse, still unparted, came to the surface a considerable way down, there was time for them to reach the bank.  But the bank was steep and the landing bad, and the weight of Will’s saturated riding-cloak was the last straw that hindered the horse from scrambling up.  With a curse Will cut the fastening that held the cloak about his neck, and, relieved from the extra weight, the animal with a desperate struggle gained the top of the bank and got away well ahead of the pursuing troopers.  Had it not been for the speed and stamina of his horse, Will had surely been taken that night.  As it was, ere they reached the Esk, one trooper was already far in front of his comrades, and thundering on Will’s very heels.  But a pistol pointed at his head by Will, a pistol with priming saturated, and incapable of being fired—­had the man only thought of it—­caused the trooper to draw back out of danger, and Will gained Esk’s farther bank in safety, where, regardless of possible pistol shots, he waited to taunt his baffled pursuers.

THE WRAITH OF PATRICK KERR

This is a tale they tell at the darkening, and you who are Rulewater folk probably know it well.  But however well you may know it, you have to own that it is an eerie thing to listen to when the fire is dying down, and there are queer-shaped shadows playing on the walls, and outside in the wood the owls are beginning to hoot, or, from the far moor, there comes a curlew’s cry.

Not long after Prince Charlie’s day there lived at Abbotrule, in Rulewater, a laird named Patrick Kerr.  Patrick Kerr was a Writer to His Majesty’s Signet, a dour man, with a mischancy temper.  The kirk and kirkyard of Abbotrule, as still may be seen, lay near the laird’s house—­too near for the pleasure of one who had no love for the kirk and who could not thole ministers.  Most unfortunately, too, the laird took a scunner at the minister of the