They also had with them a captive whom they had surprised and seized, a man whose distinguished appearance and richly decorated armor proclaimed him of noble birth and station. The device on his shield was nine lions rampant on a silver field, and the motto, "Fortis atque fidelis." He was Walter Savage of Ardkeen Castle, member of a family that had been over two hundred years in the country, where, away southward in the Ardes and in Lecale, they had many castles and much land. The master of Ardkeen was the most valuable prize of the day.

"Whither are you taking me, MacGilmore, and what will you do with me?" he inquired of his chief captor, whom on account of his frequent maraudings he knew but too well.

"I am taking you to one of our woodland retreats for the present, and I am going to hold you to ransom."

"And my ransom shall be?" "Two thousand marks."

The captive shook his head. "It is too much. Would you plunge my wife and bairns in beggary? Not in horn or corn have I such wealth as you name."

"Fool not with me, Savage. Your kine graze by the thousand on the fat lands of the old MacGilmore country in the great Ardes, your kinsmen's many castles bristle across the water at Ardelly in Lecale. If your good lady at Ardkeen fails to send me the gold by our first messenger, then shall I send her your right ear as a first reminder.”

Grave and apprehensive grew the master of Ardkeen; he knew the ruthless raider fulfilled his threats. The The MacGilmore's crafty and cruel little eyes, covertly noting the sad demeanor of the prisoner, twinkled with satisfaction beneath their bushy red brows.

"If I were but free to see my kinsmen and friends I might be able to raise this money," suggested Savage.

"So you might, if you could give me for yourself a fair and even hostage."

"What say you, then, to my brother Raymond?"

The MacGilmore swiftly considered. He knew that there was a very deep affection between the two brothers, that Walter would not, even for his life, hazard the other's safety, and that therefore what he proposed was in all sincerity.

"Yes, Walter Savage," he said, “I will take your brother as hostage. This very day we will send a messenger to tell him of your condition and the terms of your ransom."

The marauder gloated. Into his treacherous brain had come a sinister idea, prompted by his rapacity; both brothers in his clutches, he would extort a larger ransom, increase his demand for gold.

That evening his envoy crossed Loch Lavigh and bore to Ardkeen Castle the dismaying message of threat and blackmail. Great was the consternation of the lady of the castle and deep her distress for the safety of her lord.

"But what of his escort?" she inquired. "He had with him a company of a score good men-at-arms."

"Without arms or armor their bodies lie in the fen near the river of Carrickfergus," explained the messenger.

"Sister mine, let us make the best of it and send this hungry robber the gold he seeks," said Raymond Savage.

There was much counting on two thousand marks, but the Savages were people of opulence and substance and dear to them all was the lord of Ardkeen. Next morning, with the gold packed in stout leather bags, brave young Raymond Savage started out, in company with the envoy, to effect his brother's release.

MacGilmore's retreat was a gloomy old castle in the depths of a dense forest. There he and his followers, with their prisoner, awaited the arrival of the ransom. When it duly arrived, loud was the rejoicing and grim was the MacGilmore's exultation at sight of Ray

"Here is the ransom you named," said Raymond; "take it, good sir, and let us go in peace."

"I have changed my mind," said their captor with a snarling laugh; "seeing that I have now two prisoners instead of one, I think I can make a much better bargain. It takes a wise carle to have money dealings with the MacGilmore."

"Vile and faithless robber," cried Raymond, drawing his sword and rushing upon the grinning chief, but a dozen strong arms seized him and he was immediately disarmed and bound.

Dark with sudden' and merciless wrath grew the visage of the MacGilmore. A man of furious passions and unbridled. impulse, his sanguinary resolve was taken on the moment. Fiercely he struck the table with his bony fist, causing the pile of gold-the root of evil-to leap and jingle as if in jubilation.

"You have spoken your doom, Walter Savage," he thundered, "the doom both of you and your brother. Strong as your clan is, they will not be strong enough to rejoin your heads and bodies; therefore they will lack two good swords

"MacGilmore, you have not the honor of a hungry, prowling wolf," hotly said the master of Ardkeen. "You are but a treacherous thief, with a black heart and a tongue slimy with lying. Trust me, you will yet regret your foul work of robbery and deceit. You deal not with members of a puny sept or family. The Clan Savage is strong in the Ardes and Lecale. Instead of more gold they will give you sharp steel. The sea breezes shall soon ruffle your red locks on the keep of Carrickfergus."

in the fighting of us. Not my locks but yours shall the wind blow on the lofty spike.

"To the lawn with them both. Wat of Antrim, your ax!"

The relentless mandate of MacGilmore was soon obeyed, and on the grass lay the severed and bleeding remains of what had late been two affectionate brothers and gallant and honorable gentlemen.

Months had passed since the sacrifice of the brothers Savage, and still the

land lay spoiled by partisan warfare, scarred and wasted with raid and rapine, until the famished wolves foraged wolves foraged through the snow right up to the town of Carrickfergus. More merciless than the wolves were the restless forayers of various parties and strolling bands of robbers, the light of whose burnings. often reddened the midnight sky.

On a wild winter evening in the church of St. Nicholas sat reading the venerable guardian of the Franciscan monastery of Carrickfergus. Vespers Vespers had been sung, one by one the brethren had arisen and departed to their cells, leaving their superior alone. Some torches and tapers flickered in sconces and candlesticks, but the nooks and arched recesses of the solemn interior were filled with gloom. The brooding silence of the sanctuary seemed deepened by the weird and fitful moaning of the fierce wind gusts that tore round the edifice and shook the windows.

Suddenly with the gale were mingled loud and angry shouts. The great oaken door of the church was thrown open, and as suddenly closed again, and the bolts. shot and the bar thrust into place. A man stood inside, pale, panting, bleeding, a fugitive in abject and urgent extremity..

"Sanctuary, good father guardian," he gasped, "sanctuary for the honor of God and St. Francis and St. Nicholas and of all the saints in heaven, for sorely do I need it this wild night."

The guardian started and crossed himself; he recognized the voice.

"You are Hugh MacGilmore!" "Ay, father, the MacGilmore, sore beset by his foes and hard at bay.”

"Why come you here, where your last visit was one of sacrilege and spoliation ?"

"Ay, I remember-I took your window bars. Pardon me their taking; a purse of red gold will I send to replace. them. Venturing alone into the town, I

"Go hence, my friends," cried the guardian through the closed door: "this man has sought and got the right of sanctuary; the Church protects him until such time as he gets fair and proper trial."

"No sanctuary for such vermin!" shouted those outside, and the stout door strained and cracked under their assault.

"The door will hold," said the guardian, "but, wretched man, in dismantling the windows I fear you have sealed your doom. I will do what I can to protect you; but on your knees, sinner, on your knees and pray!"

"Here they come," cried the MacGilmore, as one window after another was forced, and armed men came leaping in the church. With outstretched arms and raised crucifix the guardian sought to protect the refugee, but the latter, after fiercely defending himself for a time, was borne down and overpowered. He was dragged outside the church, by torchlight the head was hewn from his body, and next morning the cold breeze from the sea of Moyle was flapping the long, shaggy red hair of that head on its spike on the topmost battlement of Carrickfergus.

"Hugh MacGilmore fell into a trap of his own making," remarked those who viewed the grewsome spectacle. "Dear is the price he has paid for the stolen window bars of St. Nicholas.''

A

UNT MOLLY was excited no, that is entirely too weak— Aunt Molly was completely overwhelmed by the weight of existing circumstances.

One particular circumstance might be computed thus: Aunt Molly had a special weakness for fine clothes of brightest colors. A well-filled wardrobe was her one ideal dream, and with that end in view she labored indefatigably. The earnings of Uncle Silas might go toward maintaining the household, which consisted of the old man and woman, and a couple of grandchildren; but the fruit of her own labor must furnish fine apparel for Sundays and holidays. Ike, the younger boy, was about ten years old. Jeems Ed'ard, the elder, was twenty. Now, the said maintenance of the said household was most emphatically not a stupendous achievement; firstly, because Uncle Silas didn't earn much by doing chores and chopping wood for his white friends; secondly, because Jeems Ed'ard earned less than his grandfather, since he never did anything except "shoot craps," which exciting game was generally accompanied with what the players called "slick duck." The majority indulged in "slick ducking," therefore Jeems Ed'ard represented the losing contingent.

Negro boys in the city learn to shoot craps quite as early as they learn to eat watermelons. To those who may not be initiated in the mysteries of "crap shooting," I will just say that it is one form of throwing dice, and its strongest adherents are found among the Cubans and negroes of Florida.

Aunt Molly liked to have these grandchildren around, so that when she grew tired of quarreling with her old man she

could rest up by defaming the youngsters. The good old soul was never in her proper element unless she was mildly abusing some one.

There was a big cumbersome clothespress in one corner of Aunt Molly's cabin; this was her treasure trove, and no one else dared to lay a finger upon it.

Every Sunday morning she would gently, lovingly take out the contents of that press, and gaze upon them with almost religious awe, making some pious exclamation as she handled each treasured piece. "Dere's my pink muslin dress wid its purty blue rufflespraise de Lawd! Dis my w'ite lase oberskirt wid green ribbon bows down de side-bress Gawd! Dis hyear my red sating sack-do Lawd! Hyear my purple silk dress wid seben lase rufflesseben, Lawd!" All of this was chanted in a soft, loving tone, and then each garment was carefully folded and restored to its place. But all good things, and bad ones, also, must come to an end some day. Aunt Molly's treasures were no exceptions to this rule. One calm, bright Sunday morn in winter proved to be the fatal day. Uncle Silas had just piled the broad fireplace full of wood, and the blaze was leaping and cracking. up the big chimney.

The crispy coldness outside made everything seek a secluded place, except the lean, hungry pig which ran about the yard.

"Huh! gointer be plenty wind 'fore long, kase de shoat begin to tote straws in he mouf." Thus observed the old man, as he looked through the window. By the fire the two boys were quarreling over the ownership of a sugar cane.

"Dis my own sugar cane, kase granny done tole me I could hab it," insisted the