himself shone upon the assembly.  The strange Scotsman, whom no man knew and all men wondered at, attracted a hundred eyes to himself and his magnificent equipment.  But it was not his to be idle, and at the very moment whereat Mass was being sung, he contrived to lighten Richelieu’s pocket of a purse.  The king was a delighted witness of the theft; Gilderoy, assuming an air of facile intimacy, motioned him to silence; and he, deeming it a trick put upon Richelieu by a friend, hastened, at the service-end, to ask his minister if perchance he had a purse of gold upon him.  Richelieu instantly discovered the loss, to the king’s uncontrolled hilarity, which was mitigated when it was found that the thief, having emptied the king’s pocket at the unguarded moment of his merriment, had left them both the poorer.

Such were Gilderoy’s interludes of gaiety; and when you remember the cynical ferocity of his earlier performance, you cannot deny him the credit of versatility.  He stayed in France until his ominous reputation was too widely spread; whereupon he crossed the Pyrenees, travelling like a gentleman, in a brilliant carriage of his own.  From Spain he carried off a priceless collection of silver plate; and he returned to his own country, fatigued, yet unsoftened, by the grand tour.  Meanwhile, a forgetful generation had not kept his memory green.  The monster, who punished Scotland a year ago with fire and sword, had passed into oblivion, and Gilderoy was able to establish for himself a new reputation.  He departed as far as possible from his ancient custom, joined the many cavaliers, who were riding up and down the country, pistol in hand, and presently proved a dauntless highwayman.  He had not long ridden in the neighbourhood of Perth before he met the Earl of Linlithgow, from whom he took a gold watch, a diamond ring, and eighty guineas.  Being an outlaw, he naturally espoused the King’s cause, and would have given a year of his life to meet a Regicide.  Once upon a time, says rumour, he found himself face to face with Oliver Cromwell, whom he dragged from his coach, set ignominiously upon an ass, and so turned adrift with his feet tied under the beast’s belly.  The story is incredible, not only because the loyal historians of the time caused Oliver to be robbed daily on every road in Great Britain, but because our Gilderoy, had he ever confronted the Protector, most assuredly would not have allowed him to escape with his life.

Tired of scouring the highway, Gilderoy resolved upon another enterprise.  He collected a band of fearless ruffians, and placed himself at their head.  With this army to aid, he harried Sutherland and the North, lifting cattle, plundering homesteads, and stopping wayfarers with a humour and adroitness worthy of Robin Hood.  No longer a lawless adventurer, he made his own conditions of life, and forced the people to obey them.  He who would pay Gilderoy a fair contribution ran no risk of losing his sheep or oxen.  But evasion was impossible, and the smallest suspicion of falsehood was punished by death.  The peaceably inclined paid their toll with regret; the more daring opposed the raider to their miserable undoing; the timid satisfied the utmost exactions of Gilderoy, and deemed themselves fortunate if they left the country with their lives.