kind whose villainies almost invariably escape detection, and who
burgles with a light and easy touch and the grace and humour of a Claude
Duval? Let us be honest with ourselves. How many of us really wish to be
corsairs? Which of us would _not_ have been a reiver in the old reiving
days? Have we not noticed in ourselves and other Borderers an undeniable
complacency, a boastful pride in a mask of apology that would not
deceive an infant, when we say, "Oh yes; certainly a good many of my
ancestors were hanged for lifting cattle." And, however "indifferent
honest" we ourselves may be, which of us does not lay aside even that
most futile mask and boast unashamedly when we can claim descent from
one of those princes among reivers--Wat o' Harden, Johnnie Armstrong, or
Kinmont Willie?

William Armstrong, better known as Kinmont Willie, lived in the palmiest
days of the Border reivers. The times of purely Scottish and purely
English kings were drawing to a close, and with one monarch to rule over
Britain the raider could no longer plead that he was a patriot who
fought for king and country when he made an incursion over the Cheviots,
burned a few barns and dwelling-houses, lifted some "kye and oxen,"
horses, and goats, and what household gear and minted money he could lay
hands on, slew a man or two, and joyously returned home.

But with Elizabeth still on the English throne, and with Queen Mary, and
afterwards her son, reigning in Scotland, the dance could go merrily on,
and when we look at those days in retrospect it seems to us that the
last bars of the music, the last turns in the dance, went more rapidly
than any that had gone before.

In Kinmont Willie's lifetime the Wardens of the Marches had but little
leisure. It was necessary for them to be fighting men with a good head