e upon their possessions, to do them all the injury they could.

There was another version of the story, as Ralph well knew, and it was
precisely the same, saving for the following exception: that in the
beginning it was a Darley who did the deadly wrong to an Eden. But one
thing was certain--the two families had carried on their petty warfare
in the most determined way. Edens had fallen by the sword; so had
Darleys. There was a grim legend, too, of an Eden having been taken
prisoner, and starved to death in one of the dungeons of Cliffe Castle,
in Queen Mary's time; and Ralph had often gone down below to look at the
place, and the staple ring and chain in the gloomy place, shuddering at
the horror of the prisoner's fate.

For this the Edens had waited their time, and surprised the castle one
night, driving the occupants from place to place, till they took refuge
in the central tower, from which they could not be dislodged; so the
Edens contented themselves by the following reprisal: they set fire to
the castle in a dozen places before they retired, the flames raging till
there was no more woodwork to destroy, and nothing was left but the
strong central tower and the sturdy walls. The place was restored,
though, soon after, and the Sir Ralph Darley of Elizabeth's time made an
expedition one night to give tit-for-tat, but only to find out that it
was impossible to get across the stoutly-defended natural bridge at
Black Tor, and that it was waste of time to keep on shooting arrows,
bearing burning rags soaked in pitch, on to the roofs of the towers and
in at the loopholes. So he retreated, with a very sore head, caused by
a stone thrown from above, dinting in his helmet, and with half his men
carrying the other half, wounded or dead.

His successor had tried again and again to master the Edens and seize
their possessions. Amongst these was the Black Tor lead-mine,
approached by steps in the side of the cliff; its galleries honeycombed
the place, running right under the earth, and into natural caverns of
the large opposite cliffs of limestone, where the jackdaws built their
nests.

Ralph Darley, living as he did that day in the days of King James,
pondered on all those old legends as he descended to give his father the
information he had acquired; and as he stepped down, he knit his brows
and began to think that it was quite time this feud had an end, and that
it must be his duty to finish it all off, in spite of