Situated amid the wild and high moorlands, at whose feet hath stood for ages the royal and ducal capital of the county palatine of Lancaster, once rose a strong border defence called Raven Castle.  Its site only remains.  This noble and castellated fortress now lies an almost undistinguishable heap on the barren moor; the sheep browse above it, and the herdsman makes his pillow where warriors and dames once met in chivalric pomp, and the chieftain held his feudal and barbaric court.

The point on which it stood is nearly on the line of separation between the counties of York and Lancaster.  From the southern declivity of the hill on the Yorkshire side springs one of the rills which fall into the Hodder, a well-known stream, held in great respect by those ambulatory gentlemen whose love of society and amusing recreations leads them to lay in a stock of patience for life in the pursuit of piscatory delights.

This mountainous tract forms part of the forest of Bowland, once ranged by numerous herds of deer, and is still under the jurisdiction of a master-forester, or bow-bearer, called Parker, which office has been held for centuries by a family of that name.

It was in the broad and still moonlight of a spring morning, in the year 16—­, that two horsemen were ascending by a steep and difficult pass through the Trough of Bolland, along the hills and almost pathless wilds of the forest.  They were apparently of that dubious class called “Knights of the Post,”—­highway-men, deer-stealers, or cattle-harriers; all and every of which occupations they occasionally followed.

As they passed by the edge of a steep ravine, from which hung a few stunted oaks projecting over the gulf, the foremost rider—­for the path admitted them not abreast—­turned sharply round on his saddle.

“Again!—­Didst thou not see it, Michael?” inquired he, in great alarm.

“Nothing, Anthony, as I do follow thee in this honest trade;—­nothing, I tell thee, save thine ugly face in this clear moonshine.  Prythee, make more speed, and thou wilt have the fewer wry mouths to answer for.  Thou art fool enough to make a man forswear honesty, and rid him of his conscience for life.  Beshrew me! thou hast got a troublesome tenant; either less roguery, or fewer qualms; depend on ’t, thou canst not keep friends with both.”

“I’ll go no farther.  Old Hildebrand finds some foul business on his hands, that he would fain thrust into our fingers.  A bad business quits best at the beginning; if once we get to the middle, we might as well go on, or we may be like old Dick, who swam half-way through the mill-pond, and then, being faint-hearted, swam back again.”

“Look thee now, thou art a precious ass:—­thou wouldst be a wit without brains, and a rogue, ay, a very wicked and unconditional rogue, without courage.  Tut, that same cowardly rogue, of all unparalleled villains, is verily the worst.  Your liquorish cat, skulking and scared with a windle-straw, is always the biggest thief, and has the cruellest paws, for all her demure looks and her plausible condescensions.”