One of the most important strongholds on the Borders was Hermitage, a well-built castle, placed near the watershed, on the banks of a swift-flowing mountain stream--the Hermitage water, which joins the Liddle a little above the village of Newcastleton. This famous Border tower was built and fortified by Walter, Earl of Menteith, in the beginning of the thirteenth century. It was a royal fortress, built and maintained for the defence of the Kingdom. Numerous interesting associations cluster around its mouldering walls. It has, unhappily, been the scene of many a blood-curdling tragedy. Could its massive walls only recount the deeds which have been done under their shadow, they would many a strange tale unfold. Hermitage was long associated with the name of Lord Soulis, a fiend in human form, whose crimes have been painted in blackest hues, and to whom tradition has ascribed almost every conceivable kind and degree of wickedness. He seems, at least, to have been utterly destitute of the divine quality of mercy. "The axe he bears, it hacks and tears; 'Tis form'd of an earth-fast flint; No armour of knight, tho' ever so wight, Can bear its deadly dint. No danger he fears, for a charm'd sword he wears, Of adderstone the hilt; No Tynedale knight had ever such might, But his heart-blood was spilt." He invited the young laird of Mangerton to a feast, and treacherously murdered him. The "Cout of Keeldar," also, was drowned by the retainers of Lord Soulis in a pool near the castle, being held down in the water by the spears of his murderers. "And now young Keeldar reach'd the stream, Above the foamy linn; The Border lances round him gleam, And force the warrior in. The holly floated to the side, And the leaf on the rowan pale; Alas! no spell could charm the tide, Nor the lance of Liddesdale. Swift was the Cout o' Keeldar's course Along the lily lee; But home came never hound nor horse, And never home came he. Where weeps the birch with branches green, Without the holy ground, Between two old gray stones is seen The warrior's ridgy mound. And the hunters bold, of Keeldar's train, Within yon castle's wall, In a deadly sleep must aye remain, Till the ruin'd towers down fall. Each in his hunter's garb array'd, Each holds his bugle horn; Their keen hounds at their feet are laid That ne'er shall wake the morn." Tradition says that, when the people complained to the King of the atrocities committed by Lord Soulis, he said to them in a fit of irritation--"Go, boil Lord Soulis and ye list, but let me hear no more of him." No sooner said than done-- "On a circle of stones they placed the pot, On a circle of stones but barely nine; They heated it red and fiery hot, Till the burnish'd brass did glimmer and shine.