"Make much of your steed, Robert Shurland! Make much of your steed!" cried the hag, shaking at him her long and bony finger. "Groom to the hide, and corn to the manger! He has saved your life, Robert Shurland, for the nonce; but he shall yet be the means of your losing it, for all that!" The Baron started: "What's that you say, you old faggot?"--He ran round by his horse's tail;--the woman was gone! The Baron paused; his great soul was not to be shaken by trifles; he looked around him, and solemnly ejaculated the word "Humbug!"--then slinging the bridle across his arm, walked slowly on in the direction of the castle. The appearance, and still more the disappearance, of the crone, had however made an impression; every step he took he became more thoughtful. "'Twould be deuced provoking, though, if he _should_ break my neck after all."--He turned and gazed at Dolphin with the scrutinizing eye of a veterinary surgeon.--"I'll be shot if he is not groggy!" said the Baron. With his lordship, like another great Commander, "Once to be in doubt, was once to be resolved:" it would never do to go to the wars on a rickety prad. He dropped the rein, drew forth Tickletoby, and, as the enfranchised Dolphin, good easy horse, stretched out his ewe-neck to the herbage, struck off his head at a single blow. "There, you lying old beldame!" said the Baron, "now take him away to the knacker's." * * * * * Three years were come and gone. King Edward's French wars were over; both parties, having fought till they came to a standstill, shook hands; and the quarrel, as usual, was patched up by a royal marriage. This happy event gave his Majesty leisure to turn his attention to Scotland, where things, through the intervention of William Wallace, were looking rather queerish. As his reconciliation with Philip now allowed of his fighting the Scotch in peace and quietness, the monarch lost no time in marching his long legs across the border, and the short ones of the Baron followed him of course. At Falkirk, Tickletoby was in great request; and in the year following, we find a contemporary poet hinting at his master's prowess under the walls of Caerlaverock, Ovec eus fu achiminez Li beau Robert de Shurland Ki kant seoit sur le cheval Ne sembloit home ke someille. A quatrain which Mr. Simpkinson translates, "With them was marching The good Robert de Shurland, Who, when seated on horseback, Does not resemble a man asleep!" So thoroughly awake, indeed, does he seem to have proved himself, that the bard subsequently exclaims, in an ecstasy of admiration, Si ie estoie une pucelette Je li donrie ceur et cors Tant est de lu bons li recors. "If I were a young maiden, I would give my heart and person, So great is his fame!"