the young Dane lying
dead below him. 'Eric!' Then as he gazed he reeled backward, and only
escaped falling by reaching forth his hand to the wall.

Leaning back in the shadow of the gate-house he pressed his hand to his
heart and shrouded his face from oversight within his cowl.

Then slowly recovering self-possession he gave orders that the young man
should be buried without the cemetery garth, and walked with unsteady
footstep towards the chapel.

'Our saintly Prior,' said Brother Boniface, with awe, as he watched his
Superior's tall, bowed figure enter within the chapel, 'even in his
moment of triumph thinks of Heaven. He has gone to render thanks for the
death of this savage, red-haired Dane.'

Songs of thanksgiving were uplifted that night at Compline in the choir.
'Te Deum' was especially chanted with inspired ardour in honour of
victory.

'Look!' whispered the simple-hearted, tawny-faced, tousled-haired
Brother Boniface to his neighbour, a sharp-eyed Anglian Brother, the
artist and illuminator of the little community, 'Look upon the ascetic,
saintly face of our beloved Prior! what joy must be his in that his
prayers prevailed this day!'

'Thou jolter-head!' muttered the Anglian to himself; then with a jog to
Boniface's ribs, 'Didst not mark the exact resemblance'--here he
delineated a contour with swift movement of finger--''twixt Red Eric and
our Prior?' Then to himself again he muttered, 'I doubt he is not long
for this world, since I met his wraith as I entered into the choir.'

But Boniface heeded not his words: his eyes were still fixed upon his
beloved Prior, who moved not, though the rest of the monks having sung
the '_Deo Patri sit gloria_' were leaving the choir.

Boniface moved a-tiptoe and touched his Superior reverently on the
shoulder. 'Beloved Prior,' he said, 'thou art outworn with the care of
thy community. Arise and seek repose.'

He touched the Prior's hand, then started back, for it was quite cold;
the Prior had already sought and gained eternal repose.

THE HAUNTED ALE-HOUSE

'_An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth_,' so Donald Macgregor
muttered to himself as he strode cautiously down the water of Coquet,
halting at the many crooks of that wayward water to spy out the land as
he went forward.

He had already good suspicions of where his quarry was harboured, for he
had seen and interviewed drovers who had returned from the great
Stagshawbank Fair, and had gleaned