This is the legend of the planting of Kildhurm's Oak. It has, indeed, been affirmed that the child's words were literally true, and that Lady Kildhurm died actually and not figuratively by her husband's hand. But there is no trustworthy evidence in support of such a charge, and it may therefore be discredited. The fact remains that father and son were never reconciled; not because the latter held to his childish threat, but because Sir Brian conceived an unconquerable dread of him, and would never willingly have him in his presence. All accounts agree in representing this hitherto fearless man as having become a victim to superstitious terrors, and as having lapsed into an altogether morbid state of mind. In his sleep he was often heard to shriek out unintelligible words in a choking voice, and sometimes, in the midst of company, he would have the air of suddenly being confronted with sights and sounds to which none but he were sensible. He would point to the ground with his finger, it is said, muttering and staring, and occasionally drawing back his feet, as if to avoid treading upon some imaginary horror. This latter peculiarity was first noticed in him on the day of his wife's funeral. All the chief personages in the neighbourhood had been invited to the ceremony, and a large concourse of people had assembled out of curiosity. The darksome procession had entered the churchyard of the Gothic church that stood in the midst of the village about a mile from Kildhurm Tower. The coffin was being carried in beneath the arched portal, when Sir Brian set his foot on the first of the seven stone steps which led up thither. All at once, to the surprise and discomfiture of the beholders, he halted abruptly, and then gave back a pace or two. His eyes, meanwhile, were observed to be rigidly fixed on the clean and smooth-worn steps before him. Sir Brian slowly extended his arm, with finger outstretched, and seemed to trace therewith the course of some sluggishly-moving thing that crept towards him along the flags, and which, assuredly, nobody except himself could perceive. 'Look, look! 'tis running down the steps! Merciful God! where should so much come from?' he whispered between his chattering teeth. Whispered though the words were, they were caught up by those nearest him, and by them communicated to others. An awkward and irresolute pause followed; the funeral _cortège_ wavered, and forsook its narrow regularity, and a group of curious, startled, and questioning faces grouped themselves around the knight, who still glared downward, shivering and distraught. At length the clergyman of the parish, an elderly, stern-visaged man, made his way through the press, and laid his hand upon the stricken man's shoulder.