at Patrick Kerr, who hated the kirk and
all ministers, and had done away with the parish of Abbotrule, had died
in the darkening of that Sabbath evening and gone to his last account.

THE LAIDLEY WORM OF SPINDLESTON-HEUGH

In a land where fairy tales die hard, it is sometimes no easy task to
discriminate between what is solid historical fact, what is fact,
moss-grown and flower-covered, like an old, old tomb, and what is mere
fantasy, the innocent fancy of a nation in its childhood, turned at last
into stone--a lasting stalactite--from the countless droppings of belief
bestowed upon it by countless generations.

Scientists nowadays crushingly hold prehistoric beasts, or still
existent marsh gas, accountable for dragons and serpents and other fauna
of legendary history; but in certain country districts there are some
animals that no amount of Board School information, nor countless
Science Siftings from penny papers can ever destroy, and to this
invulnerable class belongs the Laidley Worm of Spindleston-Heugh.

High above the yellow sand that borders the fierce North Sea on the
extreme north of the Northumbrian coast still stands the castle of
Bamborough. Many a fierce invasion has it withstood during the thousand
odd years since first King Ida placed his stronghold there. Many a cruel
storm has it weathered, while lordly ships and little fishing cobles
have been driven to destruction by the lashing waves on the rocks down
below. And there it was that, once on a day, there lived a King who,
when his fair wife died and left to him the care of her handsome,
fearless boy, and her beautiful, gentle daughter, did, as is the fashion
of every King of fairy tale, wed again, and wed a wicked wife. To the
south land he went, while his son sailed the seas in search of high
adventure, and his daughter acted as chatelaine in the castle by the
sea, and there he met the woman who came to Bamborough all those many
years ago, and who, they say, remains there still.

As the dawn rose over the grey sea, making even the dark rocks of the
Farnes like a garden where only pink roses grew, the Princess Margaret
would be on the battlements looking out, always looking out, for her
father and brother to return. At sunset, when the sea was golden and the
plain stretched purple away to the south, landward and seaward her eyes
would still gaze. And at night, when the silver moon made a path on the
sea, the Princess would listen longingly