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“Alas! it is a sad story, though a short one. Sir David had a son, and that son was a coward–the first, and we hope the last, coward who ever bore the name.”

Here all looked hard at the youth, who, not noticing their meaning glances, said–

“Amen, with all my heart! Go on.”

“Well, this son grew up, like you, in England, and it was not till he had reached man’s estate that he came here. His father, a proud man, and ambitious, rejoiced, as your father would have rejoiced this day, to see a son in his place, ready, as he hoped, to carry on the brave traditions of his name to a future generation. The youth was welcomed home with great pomp and rejoicing, and for aught men could see he was a worthy son of a worthy sire.

“But, alas! as the Bible says, `Pride comes before the fall.’ A few days after his home-coming, the news came that a party of English was advancing on Singleton Towers. The old laird, nothing doubting, ordered his son to take fifty men and meet the enemy, while he himself stayed behind to guard this place.

“The lad obeyed, and marched forth. They met, he and the English, under Brantor Hill yonder; and then appeared the real character of the boy. At the first onset, before ever a blow was struck, he turned and fled, no one knows whither.

“The old laird for long would not believe it; but when on all hands the story was confirmed, and no news came of the lad, he sickened and drooped. He shut himself up in the turret-room out there and never left it except at night, when his one walk was on the east terrace, over this very room.

“One night they missed the sound of his footsteps, and next morning he was found dead in his little chamber–dead of a broken heart. And they say that if ever again a coward should be the laird of Singleton, that that old man will walk out there where he walked four centuries ago.”

A dead silence followed the close of this story, and all eyes, by a sort of common instinct, were turned towards the head of the table. At that moment, apparently from the terrace outside, came a sound of footsteps; and as they listened, every cheek grew suddenly pale, and a shudder crept round the assembly. The silence, however, was broken by a laugh from the young laird himself, who had been the only unmoved hearer of this last mysterious sound.

“Why, there is my poor dog, Jupiter, out there! I had quite forgotten him. Let him in, some one!”

No one stirred. The young chief looked round perplexed, and then rose himself and went to the window and opened it. As he did so, a huge shaggy mastiff bounded into the apartment, barking and capering for glee at seeing once again his master and hearing his voice.

“Lie down, sir, quiet. Now, my men, what think you of this for a ghost? Thanks, Geordie, for your story. I remember now, I heard it when a child. Well, let’s hope it will be a long while yet before Sir David’s ghost is put to the trouble of a midnight walk.”

“Hist, my young master,” said Tam; “it’s ill jesting with the spirits.”

“What, Tam! one would think, now, by the way you speak, you would not dare to keep a solitary watch on the east terrace yourself.”

“I’d dare anything,” replied Tam, “but–“

“But you would rather not,” replied Singleton, laughing.

That laugh roused the spirit of Tam, who, though superstitious, was hardly a coward.

“I never said that,” he cried; “and if needs be I would do it, even to- night.”

“Even to-night!” repeated Singleton. “What does the man mean? Even to-night! I’ve a good mind to order you to the watch to-night for talking in riddles, sirrah!”