WHEN Ian reached Carlisle he secured himself a room at the old hostelry near the Cathedral, sent a message into Scotland that he had arrived, and then spent some days in general enquiries as to the possibility of getting work. In this he was not very successful, but was more so in the case of Wilfred Johnstone, whom on the fourth day of his arrival he met at the Market Cross.

Ian was sitting watching the people, when the boy came up. He had a stick over his shoulder with a small bundle containing his belongings.

“How long have you been in Carlisle?” asked Ian.

“I have only just arrived,” said the boy.

“Come along then; we must see what we can do for you. I suppose there is no likelihood of Farmer Harrington coming to look for you.”

“I do not know,” said the boy, “and I do not know whether he could compel me to come back, but he might. I am an orphan and all my folk are dead. I lived with my Aunt Louisa Johnstone until she died this winter; she had no children of her own.”

“Then she was really only your Uncle’s wife.”

“No, she was my mother’s sister. My name is not really Johnstone, but I was always called that because I lived with her.”

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“What was your father’s name then?”

“It was Ackroyd.”

“So your real name is Wilfred Ackroyd?”

“Yes.”

“Then we can call you Will Ackroyd or Willie Ackroyd, and if Farmer Harrington comes asking for Wilfred Johnstone, he won’t find him.”

“You are right, Master.”

“Come along then, Will. I have found a carpenter called Matthew Musgrave who is actually in need of a lad, so I think we can settle that difficulty.”

Matthew Musgrave was a good hearted fellow, who took kindly to the boy and the arrangement was concluded. The result was that he also began to take an interest in the stranger who had introduced him, with the final issue that James Mitchell, as we must now call Ian, who was remarkably clever with his hands, used to go round to help Matthew when he was extra busy; and gradually Matthew found him so useful that he gave him more or less regular employment.

He had decided to keep to the name of James Mitchell, which was the name he had used on the Continent when he fled from England not long after Mary’s accession. Even his friends in France did not know his real name. If ever he should return to his own country he would resume it; meanwhile James Mitchell did well enough. Moreover his recent captors knew him by his real name and it might be some slight safeguard. He smiled as he remembered how he had instinctively given the children his own name. It had seemed the natural thing to do.

After about a week Erskyne arrived and he was accompanied202 by Mortoun himself, who hoped to obtain further personal information by word of mouth, beyond that contained in the documents.

“I hear you have had some sore delays, James Mitchell,” he said.

“Yes, my Lord, I was imprisoned for some time in York and wounded and sick and in hiding for over two months.”

“You are a Scot I understand.”

“I am, my Lord.”

“And of the reformed faith?”

“That is so.”

“We shall need the services of all good Scots if there is any fighting to be done. Can we rely upon you?”

“By my troth, you may, my Lord; I shall be found here.”

Ian then put the shoes on the table and they ripped them open. The contents were practically uninjured and they talked till late into the night.

As they retired to rest, Erskyne remarked;—“Master Knox has found a good servant in you, James Mitchell. I am glad to have met an honest man with an honest heart, ay and an honest face,” he added. “Good night.”

The next morning they left early and Ian felt that an epoch in his life had closed. He also, not unnaturally thought that, having reached Carlisle in safety and found employment, his adventures were for the time at an end, but instead of that they were only just beginning.

Although Wilfred had obtained his wish, he was obviously restless and unhappy. On several occasions Ian203 had tried to get at the reason, but the boy was uncommunicative. At last he admitted that it was because he had left something behind at Master Harrington’s near Kirkoswald.

“I think I shall go over and get it,” he said.

“But that would hardly be safe,” Ian objected; “Master Harrington might not let you have it or let you go again.”

“It is not in a house,” said Wilfred; “it is hidden in a tree. I could find it easily in the dark.”

“How did you come to forget it?” asked Ian.

“I did not exactly forget it; but I had to slip away in a hurry and did not dare to go back; besides I thought I might have to return to Kirkoswald in any case and perhaps it was as safe there as anywhere. I knew it would be possible to go and fetch it and I must go now.”

“I cannot but think you are very unwise, Will.”

“But you do not know what it means to me,” said the boy.

Ian respected the child’s secret and asked no further. “Well, I shall be very anxious until you come back; you cannot do it in a day. Where will you sleep? It is getting late in the year.”

“Oh! I shall manage somehow,” said the boy. “I shall start to-morrow forenoon, Wednesday, and shall be back on Thursday soon after noon.”

“Then if you are not back, I shall be very nervous about you and shall come after you.”

“No, do not do that, Master; I shall be all right.”

Ian was not satisfied, but he let the boy set off early the following morning.

204

Wilfred trudged away along the road without mishap, resting now and then and taking it easily, as he did not want to arrive before dusk. A little after sunset he arrived at the outskirts of the farm and made his way cautiously to the hollow tree. He looked round carefully, but no one was about. He then crept into the tree and felt in the corner for a pile of stones. In this was concealed a small wooden box. He took out the box and drew from it a packet wrapped in oiled canvas; within this was another with the open edges thickly smeared with tallow.

He took that off also and within was another piece of oiled canvas, but the packet was now small enough to go into his pouch, where he put it without opening it. “It would be too dark to see it,” he said to himself.

“I think I shall sleep here, it is as good as anywhere.” He waited until he was certain that no one was about and came out from the tree to gather leaves with which to make a bed and then he lay down.

Excitement and cold, however, kept him awake for hours and it was not till far on in the night that he fell asleep. When he awoke it was broad day, although still early. “I have slept too long,” he thought; “it was a pity I did not fall asleep earlier.” He peeped out and there was nobody in sight, so he softly stole away toward the road.

But he had not gone fifty yards, before the thundering voice of the reeve, his particular enemy, called out,—“Hulloo there, I see you sneaking round, you young thief. But you will not hide from us again, I’ll warrant.”

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The reeve started running and Wilfred took to his heels. The reeve was a powerful athletic fellow, but Wilfred was light and nimble. He dodged under a fence that the reeve had some difficulty in surmounting, and in that way gained a little at the start.

For a time the distance between them did not alter, both were holding themselves in reserve; then it occurred to Wilfred to turn up hill; he might not be so strong, but his wind would be better. The reeve puffed and panted after the boy, who steadily increased his lead. When Wilfred reached the top of the slope he glanced round, the reeve was far behind; then he plunged down the hill where there was a burn at the bottom, and splashed through it with some difficulty, as the water was up to his waist and the bank on the other side was steep.

The reeve gained during the process and, being taller, made light work of the burn and was close behind. Terror lent wings to the boy’s feet but the reeve slowly overhauled him and could almost reach him with his arm. Wilfred could hear his loud breathing just behind him, when the reeve, tripping over a root, not only fell headlong but rolled into a ditch.

Wilfred laughed and fled like the wind; there was a thick wood not a hundred yards away and he would be safe.

His adversary picked himself up and was just in time to see Wilfred approaching the wood. He would easily have escaped, but another man appeared coming out of the wood at the same moment. “Catch him, Joseph,” yelled the reeve, and the exhausted boy fell an easy prey to the newcomer.

206

The reeve was considerably hurt by his fall and it greatly increased his anger. “Where have you been, you young rascal,” he roared, “and what have you done with the sheep you stole?”

“I never stole a sheep,” said Wilfred indignantly, “and it is no business of yours where I have been.”

“Oh, isn’t it; we’ll soon see about that. Do you know what happens to boys who steal sheep?” said the reeve vindictively.

Wilfred was silent.

“Come now, what happens to boys who steal sheep?” he went on with malicious glee.

Wilfred was still silent.

“You need not be so proud; come answer my question,” and taking the boy’s arm he twisted it round till the tears stood in his eyes, but he restrained himself from crying out. “What happens to boys who steal sheep?”

“They are hanged,” said Wilfred at last; “but I have not stolen sheep or anything,” he said doggedly.

“You can say what you like, but the sheep disappeared and you disappeared, and here you are sneaking round in the early morning. The case is as good as proved,” and the bullying ruffian kicked the boy brutally.

The two men led him along to the old grange and locked him up in a small room, high up near the roof.

Wilfred knew that the reeve had spoken truly. Young lads with no friends were not of much account, and nothing but a miracle could save him.

He sat there for hours, as it were dazed and stunned, and then toward evening he opened his pouch and took207 out the little packet and unfastened it. It contained half a groat and a long lock of hair. “Oh, Joan,” he said, “I wonder what will become of you when I am gone. I wonder if any one will ever tell you what happened to me. Master Mitchell was quite right. I should not have come back. No, even for your sake it was better not to come. For now I have lost everything, everything. And there was I going to become a carpenter and lay by a plenty of money and come and marry you when I was big. They say a boy can’t love,” he said bitterly; “they know nothing about it;—I do not suppose they know what love is. If only I were dying for you, Joan, I should be quite happy, but to die for what I have not done...!”

He threw himself on the floor and sobbed and sobbed until from the sheer physical exhaustion of the paroxysms of grief he fell asleep.

Meanwhile Ian was anxiously awaiting his return. The strange feeling that had possessed him ever since the day that Aline had talked about it in the secret room and that lately had been somewhat less intense, came back stronger than ever. He could not explain it, he could not reason about it, he only knew that something terrible was in the air and that it did not only affect Wilfred or himself. So strong was the feeling that he did not wait till the next morning. He merely lay down for a few hours and set off soon after midnight, so as to reach Kirkoswald at dawn. It was one of the last places where he wished to be seen, but he seemed to be drawn by fate.

He had grown a beard while at Holwick and he further disguised himself before starting by pulling out208 half his eyebrows, which were thick and bushy, and likewise the hair above his forehead for the space of half an inch.

“No one would be able to recognise me, who did not actually know me,” he said. “I certainly do not answer to any description of myself that can have been sent around.”

He went to the different hostels and gossiped with every one. He could not ask questions at all direct, as that would have raised suspicion. He began to despair, but at last his patience was rewarded. By good luck his informant was a young farm hand who had been friendly with Wilfred and whose sympathies were strongly on his side. Like every one else, so he told Ian, he was certain that Wilfred had committed the theft and equally certain that he would be hanged; but in a guarded way he let it be seen that he strongly disapproved of such extremities.

“Yes,” he said, “they will never ta............