"Yes," cried the old man, "I have seen him before--I have--I have." "Bertha?" said his son; but she raised her hands before her face and wept. "Sir," said the younger Forster, "I can be grateful. Though I am not acquainted with you, my sister is. Let me call my deliverer _brother_!" And he took the hand of his weeping sister and placed it in that of Robert Musgrave. The old man started; but his son soothed him. And Robert Musgrave stood with the hand of Bertha Forster locked in his; and within a few weeks he called that hand his own, and was happy--and the sufferings that the Poor Scholar had endured became as a tale that is told. THE LAIRD OF DARNICK TOWER.[12] "Red glared the beacon on Pownell-- On Eildon there were three; The bugle-horn on muir and fell Was heard continually."--JAMES HOGG. [Footnote 12: Darnick Tower is still in possession of the old family, and is at present the property of our respected townsman, John Heiton, Esq., the lineal descendant of the hero of the legend.--ED.] There is no country in the world that has so many legends, and legends of so remarkable a character, as Scotland. The fact is attributable to the peculiar mental form of the Saxon; always with a disposition to look back, to cull glorious memories of the past, and from these, again, to distil the spirit of a noble emulation for the present and the future. We are not now speaking of a _dilettante_ antiquarianism, which becomes _blasé_ over a household utensil, or learned on a relic from the cradle of art; but of that moral antiquarianism which courts examples of a grand courage, exercised for the sake of liberty or Christianity, or searches for traits of the domestic or social virtues, upon which the true greatness of a nation is founded. In this sense, every Scotsman is an antiquary--embracing his subject with enthusiasm, and inspiring his contemporaries with the patriotism he himself feels. He cannot see an old ruin, be it of a castle or a peel tower, but he must know what its possessors did in the days of the red Flodden or the desperate Drumclog--a good old grandam, but he must hear of a legend of foray, or tournay, or love: "A story old Of baron bold, Or trollëd lay Of lady gaye;" and laugh or weep over the details, as they come from lips trembling as if with inspiration.