the Earl, and
prayed that God's mischief might fall upon him in the first battle in
which he was engaged. Curious to relate, on the eve of the battle of
Edgcot Field, having marshalled his men in order to fight, the Earl of
Pembroke was surprised to find his brother, Sir Richard Herbert,
standing in the front of his company, and leaning upon his pole-axe
in a most dejected and pensive mood.

"What," cried the Earl, "doth thy great body" (for Sir Richard was
taller than anyone in the army) "apprehend anything, that thou art so
melancholy? or art thou weary with marching, that thou dost lean thus
upon thy pole-axe?"

"I am not weary with marching," replied Sir Richard, "nor do I
apprehend anything for myself; but I cannot but apprehend on your part
lest the curse of the woman fall upon you."

And the curse of the frantic mother of seven convicts seemed, we are
told, to have gained the authority of Heaven, for both the Earl and
his brother Sir Richard, were defeated at the battle of Edgcot, were
both taken prisoners and put to death.

Sir Walter Scott has made a similar legend the subject of one of his
ballads in the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," entitled "The
Curse of Moy," a tale founded on an ancient Highland tradition that
originated in a feud between the clans of Chattan and Grant. The
Castle of Moy, the early residence of Mackintosh, the chief of the
clan Chattan, is situated among the mountains of Inverness-shire, and
stands on the edge of a small gloomy lake called Loch Moy, in which is
still shown a rocky island as the spot where the dungeon stood in
which prisoners were confined by the former chiefs of Moy. On a
certain evening, in the annals of Moy, the scene is represented as
having been one of extreme merriment, for

In childbed lay the lady fair,
But now is come the appointed hour.
And vassals shout, "An heir, an heir!"

It is no ordinary occasion, for a wretched curse has long hung over
the Castle of Moy, but at last the spell seems broken, and, as the
well-spiced bowl goes round, shout after shout echoes and re-echoes
through the castle, "An heir, an heir!" Many a year had passed without
the prospect of such an event, and it had looked as if the ill-omened
words uttered in the past were to be realised. It was no wonder then
that "in the gloomy towers of Moy" there were feasting and revelry,
for a child is born who is to perpetuate the clan which hitherto had
seemed threatened wit