who so contrived that her husband escaped from the Tower disguised in
woman's clothing. It was boldly schemed, and success followed her
attempt. Others could but pray to God and petition the King. She not
only prayed, but acted. Would that there might have been one so to act
for Derwentwater! More happy had it been, perhaps, for his Countess had
she never uttered the taunt that ended his hesitation to join in the
Rebellion: "It is not fitting that the Earl of Derwentwater should
continue to hide his head in hovels from the light of day, when the
gentry are up in arms for their lawful sovereign." They say that her
spirit mourns yet within the tower of Dilston.

Away up the valley of the Tyne, amongst the wild Northumberland hills,
news went with lagging gait, those leisurely days of the eighteenth
century; even news of battle or of disaster did not speed as it is the
wont of ill news to do: "For evil news rides fast, while good news
baits." Tidings, in those good old days, but trickled through from ear
to ear, slowly, as water filters through sand. Little news, therefore,
of Lord Derwentwater, or of the Rising, was heard in or around
Haltwhistle after the insurgent force left Brampton; no man knew for a
certainty what fortune, good or bad, had waited on the fortunes of his
friends.

Night was closing down on the desolate Border hills on a drear November
evening of 1715. Throughout a melancholy day, clinging mist had blurred
the outline of even the nearest hills; distance was blotted out. Thin
rain fell chillingly and persistently, drip, dripping with monotonous
plash from the old inn's thatched eaves; a light wind sobbed fitfully
around the building, moaning at every chink and cranny of the
ill-fitting window-frames. "A dismal night for any who must travel,"
thought the stableman of the inn, as he looked east and then west along