Sir Edgar straight the priest besought To tarry for awhile; Who, when the lady’s eye he caught, Assented with a smile. The “Fairies’ Cave,” on Humphrey Head, served for the nonce as a chapel, for The monk he had a mellow heart, And, scrambling to the spot, Full blithely there he played his part, And tied the nuptial knot. And hence that cave on Humphrey Hill, Where these fair deeds befel, Is called Sir Edgar’s chapel still, As hunters wot full well. And still the holy fount is there To which the prior came; And still it boasts its virtues rare, And bears its ancient name. And long on Wraysholme’s lattice light, A wolf’s head might be traced, In record of the Red Cross Knight, Who bore it for his crest. In Cartmel church his grave is shown, And o’er it, side by side, All graved in stone, lies brave Sir John And Adela his bride. Such is “The Legend of the Last Wolf.” The supposed monument, “all graved in stone,” still adorns the choir of Cartmel church. Beneath the ponderous canopy the recumbent figures of the knight and his lady, lying side by side, may still be seen, looking the very types of chivalrous honour and conjugal felicity; and there for certainty is the sculptured figure of the veritable wolf, reposing quietly at their feet—confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ, although prosaic antiquaries, disdaining the faint glimmerings of truth that only steal through the haze of tradition, tell us, with irreverent disregard for the poetry of romance, that the story is apocryphal; and further try to shake our faith by affirming that the figures are those of the valiant Harrington, who fell fighting for the White Rose at Wakefield, and his wife, a daughter of the lordly house of Dacre. But we will not discuss the identity of the departed knights, or the merits of their respective claims to the battered effigies that have failed to perpetuate their names—monuments that Themselves memorials need. High up on Humphrey Head the cave in which the nuptial knot was tied still remains; and there, at the foot, is the Holy Well, the waters of which flow as freely as they did in days of yore, though now only imbibed when a chance wayfarer finds his way to this lonely seaside nook, and quaffs a goblet to the memories of the Brave Sir John, And Adela his bride, and the holy friar who made them one. [Illustration] CHAPTER IV. AN AFTERNOON AT GAWSWORTH—THE FIGHTING FITTONS—THE CHESHIRE WILL CASE AND ITS TRAGIC SEQUEL—HENRY NEWCOME—“LORD FLAME.”