It was growing late in the afternoon of their second day in Scotland, and while they were skirting the edge of a rock-tarn lying in gloomy seclusion in the middle of a desolate moor, that Sir Richard was murderously deprived of the services of his squire and brave attendant. There had been no hint of the approach of the tragedy; no clue as to the identity or purpose of the cowardly perpetrators following its occurrence. Mounted upon his mettlesome charger, which, though uncommonly powerful, was somewhat fatigued because of the many miles put behind him that day, the young knight was riding slowly along some two hundred yards in advance of Belwiggar. The sky was heavy, gray, and lowering; and the boulder-strewn, monotonously level expanse of moor affording no pleasant aspect or interesting contrasts to the eye, Sir Richard's gaze remained fixed upon the nodding head of his stallion. So near the brink was the narrow path winding along the waters of the tarn, and so unruffled was its surface, that steed and armored rider were mirrored faithfully, point for point, beneath. Hearing a sharp rattling of steel-shod hoofs behind him, and vaguely marveling as to the cause of this unexpected and unusual burst of energy upon the part of his squire, the young knight turned, with a smile upon his face, to greet Belwiggar's approach. To his horrified surprise he was but just in time to see the honest fellow writhing in an agony of death, while the horse that he had so lately bestrode in the prime vigor of rugged health whisked blindly ahead of the young knight along the road, till, crashing against a huge boulder upreared within its path, it stumbled, seemed to hang for an instant in mid-air, and then, neighing with wild affright, disappeared with a tremendous splash beneath the surface of the tarn. Apprehending some immediate danger to himself, Sir Richard, upon the instant, drew his visor close. Just as he had accomplished this move a bolt struck fair upon the joint of his neck-guard; and, though it did him no harm beyond causing his head to ring with the force of the impact, it was the cunning of his armorer alone that had saved him from a death similar to that of Belwiggar. Having no means of knowing the exact direction from whence the arrows had been sped, and the nature of the ground precluding the possibility of sending his horse over it, the young knight made no attempt to seek out and punish his assailant. He shot a glance of the keenest scrutiny from boulder to boulder, but there was no sign of a living being upon the moor. Satisfied that Belwiggar's death must go unavenged for the time, he rode back to where he lay with a feathered shaft, still quivering, protruding from his broad breast.