dame, whose corpse-like features yet show traces of passions unspent; of
solemn, hooded monk, with face concealed by his cowl, who passes down
the castle's winding stair, telling his beads; they whisper, it may be,
of a lady in white raiment, whose silken gown rustles as she walks. Or
the tale, perhaps, is one of pitiful moans that on the still night air
echo through some old building; or of the clank of chains, that comes
ringing from the damp and noisome dungeons, causing the flesh of the
listener to creep.

They are all to be found, or at least they _used_ all to be found,
somewhere or other in the Border, by those who love such legends. And,
perhaps, nowhere are they more common than amongst the crumbling,
grass-grown ruins of Northumberland.

Away, far up the South Tyne, and up its tributary the Tipalt Burn, close
to the boundary of Cumberland, there stands all that is left of an
ancient castle, centuries ago the home of an old and once powerful
family. The building dates probably from early in the fourteenth
century. In the year 1339 "Thomas de Blencansopp" received licence to
fortify his house on the Scottish Border, and it is supposed that he
then built this castle.

Truly that was a part of England where a man had need be careful in his
building if he desired to sleep securely and with a whole skin, for on
all sides of him were wild and turbulent neighbours. From the strenuous
day of the old Romans, who built across those hills that long line of
wall, which stands yet in parts solid and strong, for centuries the
countryside was lawless and unruly, the inhabitants "ill to tame," and
every man a freebooter. The Thirlwalls, the Ridleys, the Howards of
Naworth, the wild men of Bewcastle; the Armstrongs, Elliots, Scotts, and