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of either tale.

      ’Twas early morn

      When Hugh went forth, and all day Jamie rode

      With Henry’s men, while more and more the goad

      Of eager youth sore fretted him, and made

      The dusty progress of the cavalcade

      The journey of a snail flock to the moon;

      Until the shadow-weaving afternoon

      Turned many fingers nightward—then he fled,

      Pricking his horse, nor deigned to turn his head

      At any dwindling voice of reprimand;

      For somewhere in the breaks along the Grand

      Surely Hugh waited with a goodly kill.

      Hoofbeats of ghostly steeds on every hill,

      Mysterious, muffled hoofs on every bluff!

      Spurred echo horses clattering up the rough

      Confluent draws! These flying Jamie heard.

      The lagging air droned like the drowsy word

      Of one who tells weird stories late at night.

      Half headlong joy and half delicious fright,

      His day-dream’s pace outstripped the plunging steed’s.

      Lean galloper in a wind of splendid deeds,

      Like Hugh’s, he seemed unto himself, until,

      Snorting, a-haunch above a breakneck hill,

      The horse stopped short—then Jamie was aware

      Of lonesome flatlands fading skyward there

      Beneath him, and, zigzag on either hand,

      A purple haze denoted how the Grand

      Forked wide ’twixt sunset and the polar star.

      A-tiptoe in the stirrups, gazing far,

      He saw no Hugh nor any moving thing,

      Save for a welter of cawing crows, a-wing

      About some banquet in the further hush.

      One faint star, set above the fading blush

      Of sunset, saw the coming night, and grew.

      With hand for trumpet, Jamie gave halloo;

      And once again. For answer, the horse neighed.

      Some vague mistrust now made him half afraid—

      Some formless dread that stirred beneath the will

      As far as sleep from waking.

      Down the hill,

      Close-footed in the skitter of the shale,

      The spurred horse floundered to the solid vale

      And galloped to the northwest, whinnying.

      The outstripped air moaned like a wounded thing;

      But Jamie gave the lie unto his dread.

      “The old man’s camping out to-night,” he said,

      “Somewhere about the forks, as like as not;

      And there’ll be hunks of fresh meat steaming hot,

      And fighting stories by a dying fire!”

      The sunset reared a luminous phantom spire

      That, crumbling, sifted ashes down the sky.

      Now, pausing, Jamie sent a searching cry

      Into the twilit river-skirting brush,

      And in the vast denial of the hush

      The champing of the snaffled horse seemed loud.

      Then, startling as a voice beneath a shroud,

      A muffled boom woke somewhere up the stream

      And, like vague thunder hearkened in a dream,

      Drawled back to silence. Now, with heart abound,

      Keen for the quarter of the perished sound,

      The lad spurred gaily; for he doubted not

      His cry had brought Hugh’s answering rifle shot.

      The laggard air was like a voice that sang,

      And Jamie half believed he sniffed the tang

      Of woodsmoke and the smell of flesh a-roast;

      When presently before him, like a ghost,

      Upstanding, huge in twilight, arms flung wide,

      A gray form loomed. The wise horse reared and shied,

      Snorting his inborn terror of the bear!

      And in the whirlwind of a moment there,

      Betwixt the brute’s hoarse challenge and the charge,

      The lad beheld, upon the grassy marge

      Of a small spring that bullberries stooped to scan,

      A ragged heap that should have been a man,

      A huddled, broken thing—and it was Hugh!

      There was no need for any closer view.

      As, on the instant of a lightning flash

      Ere yet the split gloom closes with a crash,

      A landscape stares with every circumstance

      Of rock and shrub—just so the fatal chance

      Of Hugh’s one shot, made futile with surprise,

      Was clear to Jamie. Then before his eyes

      The light whirled in a giddy dance of red;

      And, doubting not the crumpled thing was dead

      That was a friend, with but a skinning knife

      He would have striven for the hated life

      That triumphed there: but with a shriek of fright

      The mad horse bolted through the falling night,

      And Jamie, fumbling at his rifle boot,

      Heard the brush crash behind him where the brute

      Came headlong, close upon the straining flanks.

      But when at length low-lying river banks—

      White rubble in the gloaming—glimmered near,

      A swift thought swept the mind of Jamie clear

      Of anger and of anguish for the dead.

      Scarce seemed the raging beast a thing to dread,

      But some foul-playing braggart to outwit.

      Now hurling all his strength upon the bit,

      He sank the spurs, and with a groan of pain

      The plunging horse, obedient to the rein,

      Swerved sharply streamward. Sliddering in the sand,

      The bear shot past. And suddenly the Grand

      Loomed up beneath and rose to meet the pair

      That rode a moment upon empty air,

      Then smote the water in a shower of spray.

      And when again the slowly ebbing day

      Came back to them, a-drip from nose to flank,

      The steed was scrambling up the further bank,

      And Jamie saw across the narrow stream,

      Like some vague shape of fury in a dream,

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