d, "Here
is the story.

"Five hundred years ago--"

"Listen, Jean," said Christie; "we're gaun to get a boeny story. 'Five
hundre' years ago,'" added she, with interest and awe.

"Was a great battle," resumed the narrator, in cheerful tones, as one
larking with history, "between a king of England and his rebels. He was
in the thick of the fight--"

"That's the king, Jean, he was in the thick o't."

"My ancestor killed a fellow who was sneaking behind him, but the next
moment a man-at-arms prepared a thrust at his majesty, who had his hands
full with three assailants."

"Eh! that's no fair," said Christie, "as sure as deeth."

"My ancestor dashed forward, and, as the king's sword passed through one
of them, he clove another to the waist with a blow."

"Weel done! weel done!"

Lord Ipsden looked at the speaker, her eyes were glittering, and her
cheek flushing.

"Good Heavens!" thought he; "she believes it!" So he began to take more
pains with his legend.

"But for the spearsman," continued he, "he had nothing but his body;
he gave it, it was his duty, and received the death leveled at his
sovereign."

"Hech! puir mon." And the glowing eyes began to glisten.

"The battle flowed another way, and God gave victory to the right; but
the king came back to look for him, for it was no common service."

"Deed no!"

Here Lord Ipsden began to turn his eye inward, and call up the scene. He
lowered his voice.

"They found him lying on his back, looking death in the face.

"The nobles, by the king's side, uncovered as soon as he was found, for
they were brave men, too. There was a moment's silence; eyes met eyes,
and said, this is a stout soldier's last battle.

"The king could not bid him live."

"Na! lad, King Deeth has ower strong a grrip."

"But he did what kings can do, he gave him two blows with his royal
sword."

"Oh, the robber, and him a deeing mon."

"Two words from his royal mouth, and he and we were Barons of Ipsden and
Hawthorn Glen from that day to this."

"But the puir dying creature?"

"What poor dying creature?"

"Your forbear, lad."

"I don't know why you call him poor, madam; all the men of that day are
dust; they are the gold dust who died with honor.

"He looked round, uneasily, for his son--for he had but one--and when
that son knelt, unwounded, by him, he said, 'Goodnight, Baron Ipsden;'
and so he died, fire in his eye, a smile on his lip, and honor on his
name forever. I mea