An English form of the same tale has been preserved, and is worth notice as containing what may possibly be a reference to Michael Scot’s prediction regarding Frederick’s death ‘at the iron gates.’ The story says that ‘in the neighbourhood of Macclesfield, on Monk’s Heath, is a small inn known by the designation of ‘The Iron Gates,’ the sign representing a pair of ponderous gates of that metal opening at the bidding of a figure enveloped in a cowl, before whom kneels another, more resembling a modern yeoman than one of the twelfth or thirteenth century, to which period this legend is attributed. Behind this person is a white horse rearing, and in the background a view of Alderley Edge. The story is thus told of the tradition to which the sign relates: ‘A farmer from Mobberly was riding on a white horse over the heath which skirts Alderley Edge. Of the good qualities of his steed he was justly proud, and while stooping down to adjust its mane previously to his offering it for sale at Macclesfield, he was surprised by the sudden starting of the animal. On looking up he perceived a figure of more than common height, enveloped in a cowl, and extending a staff of black wood across his path. The figure addressed him in a commanding voice: told him that he would seek in vain to dispose of his steed for whom a nobler destiny was in store, and bade him meet him when the sun was set, with his horse, at the same place. The farmer, resolving to put the truth of this prediction to the test, hastened on to Macclesfield fair, but no purchaser could be obtained for his horse. In vain he reduced his price to half; many admired, but no one was willing to be the possessor of so promising a steed. Summoning, therefore, all his courage, he determined to brave the worst, and at sunset reached the appointed place. The monk was punctual to his appointment. “Follow me,” said he, and led the way by the _Golden Stone_, _Stormy Point_ to _Saddle Bole_. On their arrival at this last-named spot, the neigh of horses seemed to arise from beneath their feet. The stranger waved his wand, the earth opened and disclosed a pair of ponderous iron gates. Terrified at this, the horse plunged and threw his rider, who, kneeling at the feet of his fearful companion, prayed earnestly for mercy. The monk bade him fear nothing, but enter the cavern, on each side of which were horses resembling his own in size and colour. Near these lay soldiers accoutred in ancient armour, and in the chasms of the rock were arms and piles of gold and silver. From one of these the enchanter took the price of the horse in ancient coin, and on the farmer asking the meaning of these subterranean armies, exclaimed: “These are caverned warriors preserved by the good genius of England, until that eventful day when, distracted by intestine broils, England shall be thrice won and lost between sunrise and sunset. Then we, awakening from our sleep, shall rise to turn the fate of Britain. This