thaw. The light got red and angry as they dipped into the valley; the
firs on the hillcrest stood out black and sharp, and then melted into
the gray background. A river pool shone with a ruby gleam that
suddenly went out, and the dim water vanished into the shadow, brawling
among the stones.

There was smooth pasture in the valley, broken by dark squares of
turnip fields and pale stubble; but here and there the heath appeared
again and wild cotton showed faintly white above the black peat-soil.
By and by a cross, standing by itself on the lonely hillside, caught
Foster's eye, and he asked his companion about it.

"The Count's Cross, sir; a courtesy title they held in the next dale.
He was killed in a raid on a tower down the water, before the
Featherstones came."

"But did they bury him up there?"

"No, sir; they were all buried at night by the water of Langrigg, but
when they were carrying him home in the mist by the hill road the Scots
from the tower overtook them. The Count's men were wounded and their
horses foundered, but the Scots let them go when they found that he was
dead. About 1300, sir. Somebody put up the cross to commemorate it."

"They seem to have been a chivalrous lot," Foster remarked. "I wonder
if that kind of thing would happen nowadays!"

"I'm afraid one couldn't expect it, sir," the old fellow answered and
Foster smiled.