In October, 1566, Bothwell had gone to the Borders as Warden of the Marshes, to prepare for a court which Mary Queen of Scots was about to hold at Jedburgh for the trial of freebooters. He was wounded by Elliott of the Park, known as "Little Jock Elliott," and lay dangerously ill at Hermitage. The infatuated Mary, scantily attended, dashed over from Jedburgh through the wildest and most dangerous territory (what a prize for a freebooter!), spent two hours by Bothwell's bedside "to his great pleasure and content," and then dashed as madly back again. Who shall dare to guess the secret of that meeting? Seven months earlier was Rizzio's murder, four months later was Darnley's--the great tragedy of Mary's life. The question of her guilt is still open, but no one doubts Bothwell's. Some dark hint of his perhaps caused the torture of mind which men noted in her after the visit. She was immediately stricken down with a fever of ten days' duration, and for some time her life was despaired of. But let us away from this sad old ruin among those far-off gloomy mountains. * * * * * The Liddel is, after all, but a tributary of the /Esk/. There are several rivers of that name in Britain, which fact will not surprise you when you remember that Esk is Celtic for "water." Its scenery has the characteristic features of all these Border streams: wild hills, bare save for a fringe of heather at the source; then richly wooded meadows, with fertile fields in the lower reaches. The Esk and its tributaries are much praised of anglers; nowhere will you find better salmon-fishing. Three miles below Langholm, on the left bank, the Tarras falls into the Esk. Its narrow channel is broken by huge masses of rock over which the water foams and swirls in wild fury. A strange old rhyme ever rings in our ears when we think of its passionate rush-- "Was ne'er ane drowned in Tarras, nor yet in doubt, For e'er the head can win doun the harns are out,"-- which means that Tarras never drowned anybody who fell in, for the excellent reason that before his head touched the bottom, the current and the rocks, between them, knocked out his brains! Is there not a tragic power about this snarling couplet? Indeed, those pithy popular rhymes will well repay attention. Nowhere else is so much said in so few words; each is, in truth, the distilled essence of a poem.