On an eminence that overlooked the road and pass, the ruins of a square building were visible, now so much dilapidated, that it was impossible to determine whether it had been originally designed for the purposes of religion or of defence. In the centre of a green patch, scarcely a pistol-shot from the dismantled tower, the scathed stem of a solitary oak was standing. As it was, it would never have arrested the traveller’s eye, had not a huge cairn of stones beneath it intimated that this lonely tree had witnessed some scenes of bloodshed. I pulled up my horse and viewed the cairn and ruin with attention, for my curiosity was excited, and chance enabled me to gratify it. An elderly, wild-looking, half-clad peasant was loitering on the road-side, attending a score or two of sheep. Abandoning his charge, he joined me willingly; and in very excellent Irish replied to my questions, and communicated the traditional story of the place. “What was that building, friend; and what does yonder cairn commemorate?” “The story’s long,” replied the peasant. “And so is the mountain-road. Was it death by accident or treachery?” The peasant paused a moment, and then drily answered, “There was no accident in the business, though three men perished; one was murdered and two were hanged.” “Do you know the particulars?” “It would be strange if I did not. I was born in these hills.” “Indeed!” “Ay, and my fathers before. We have been for centuries herdsmen in these mountains. I have never been thirty miles from the spot where we stand; and every rock, and rill, and hillock, are familiar from early childhood, for on them my eyes first opened.” “What was the building?” “A barrack, for soldiers to protect travellers from plunder.” “And the cairn--” “Proves that their protection was sometimes unavailing.” “Could not an armed force restrain vagabonds from plundering?” “Wherefore, it is hard to say,” returned the herdsman. “Are you going to B------ to-morrow?” “I am.” “You are in haste thither?” “I must be there by noon.” “The special commission sits there the following day. They say it will go hard with the men who killed the gauger?” “‘Tis said so; and if the circumstances attendant on the murder be such as are generally believed, they will deserve their fate.” The peasant eyed me sharply, and then, with assumed indifference, observed, “The devil is painted always blacker than he is; and something may still come out in the prisoners’ favour. I fear, poor fellows, that they will be prosecuted hard.” “That you may be certain of.” “Well,” continued my companion, “no doubt Bradley’s death was sudden. But could it be otherwise? Many an aching heart he caused, and the curse of ruined men and houseless children pursued him.”