"’Cause we at Bothwell did appear, Perjurious oaths refused to swear; ’Cause we Christ’s cause would not condemn, We were sentenc’d to death by men Who rag’d against us in such fury, Our dead bodies they did not bury, But upon poles did hing us high, Triumphs of Babel’s victory. Our lives we fear’d not to the death, But constant prov’d to the last breath." "And you say these men are buried in Magus Moor?" I inquired, while noting the inscription down in my pocket-book. "They lie in an adjacent field," replied the old woman; "and many’s the time I have stood by the stone when the winter’s wind was howling along the heath in such a wild key that I could almost have fancied the spirits of the dead were murmuring around me, and conversing——" "Probably with the murdered Archbishop!" I ventured to remark. "May be," said the lady in the scarlet mantle, quite seriously; "there is no saying what takes place in the unseen world!" I then inquired "if she was at all acquainted with any stories relating to the persecuting period?" "That I am," said the old woman in reply, then passing her hand thoughtfully across her brow, she exclaimed sadly, "No, no, I daurna trust to my memory—that too has deserted me. Come to Fifeshire," she added after a moment’s pause, "and you will gather much information about young Inchdarnie, that may chance to prove interesting!" On a subsequent occasion, I acted on the old woman’s suggestion, and the following story is the result of my gleanings. *THE MURDER OF INCHDARNIE.*