'_As I went down the water side None but my foe to be my guide._' Hereat his eyes flashed, and he responded with extended fist: '_I lighted down, my sword did draw-- I hackit him in pieces sma'._' Then turning swiftly upon me he said sternly: '_You mustn't quote the Border Ballads to me; I have them in my blood._' He looked so strange that at once I changed the conversation and suggested that we should ascend Wild Boar's Fell that afternoon, and return for supper at the inn where we proposed stopping the night. He assented, and we had a fine climb and a glorious view over the West Borderland; we could see Skiddaw and Helvellyn to the north-west, and even thought we saw Criffel looming in the haze beyond Solway; to the east the great hills beside Crossfell lifted their great rampire and gave a sense of security to the green vale below. Reinvigorated by our walk we returned in good heart to the inn. After supper I thought a pipe and Stevenson's essay on 'A Walking Tour' were appropriate to my mood, but Maxwell said he was for a stroll in the moonlight, and went out. As he had not returned by eleven I grew a little anxious, also a trifle annoyed at the thought that perhaps I ought to put on my boots again and go in search of him. At 11.15 I determined to sally forth, but when I was on the street and could see nobody about I was perplexed as to where to look for him. I turned to the church, and without definite aim went through the gate and walked around the church through the numerous headstones. By the side of the north transept, wherein was the Wharton recumbent figure, I noticed a new-made grave, and casually looking over it saw a dark figure lying therein. The grave was half in the shadow of the church, half lit by the moon, so that I could not see very distinctly, but as I bent over it I thought I recognised--with a sudden start of horror--the knickerbockers of my friend Maxwell. I looked about in hope of seeing some one, but all was silent; not a sound stirred in the village. I must make certain, I felt, for I could not leave the man there, whoever it might be, so gingerly enough I let myself down into the further end of the grave, and, taking a step forward, bent over the body. Yes, it was Maxwell; he was lying in a huddled lump with his head bent forward on his breast. I felt for his pulse, and found it beating regularly. Thank heaven, he was not dead! He must have fallen in by misadventure in the darkness before the moon rose, I conjectured. I determined to run back to the inn for the 'boots,' since with another man's help I could lift my friend out and carry him back, and get the doctor to attend him. 'Boots' was just going to bed, and while he was searching for a rope and a lantern I ran for the doctor, and thence back to the graveyard. 'Boots' was there awaiting me, and between us we raised Maxwell's limp body and then carried him slowly to the inn.