An hour later a stealthy figure creeps up the eastern turret stair. There is a single well-directed thrust, and deep sleep becomes the deeper sleep of death, so sure has been the stroke that sends Roger Kirkpatrick, son of "Mak' Siccar," to his doom. A bridled and a saddled steed stands beyond the confines of the castle walls, and Lindsay, leaping to his seat, terror at his heart, rides into the darkness of the night. Daybreak comes, the alarm is given, and almost red-handed the murderer is taken, not three miles from the castle gates, from which he had deemed himself many leagues away. Hurried to Dumfries, doom is pronounced, and the common place of execution claims him for its own. The ghostly call of the night, "How long?" echoing through the monastery walls, is fulfilled. With the history of the South-western district of Scotland the life story of Sir Robert Grierson of Lag, or "Aul' Lag," as he is to this day called, is intimately associated. In a previous chapter we have dealt with the superstitious happenings at his death and funeral. Mention must now be made of a legend which concerns the passing of his soul, and which is not yet forgotten in Dumfries and Galloway. The year of grace, 1733, was wearing fast towards Yule, when one stormy night a small vessel found herself overtaken, at the mouth of the Solway, by a gale of wind that was almost too much for her. Close-hauled and fighting for every foot of sea-way she was slowly forcing her way up-channel against the angry north-west blast when a strange adventure befel her. In a lull following a savage squall the moon broke through the black flying cloud, lighting up the storm-tossed sea and revealing to those aboard another struggling sail far astern. Curiously the seamen gazed, but searching glance gave place to wonder, and wonder to fear, when they saw what had at first seemed a craft like themselves, come rushing onwards in the very teeth of the wind, and with as much ease as if running "free" before it. The moon dipped, and again darkness descended on the face of the waters, but not for long. Once again the moonlight pierced the curtain of flying cloud. Then was seen what surely was the strangest craft that ever sailed the tossing Solway sea--a great State-coach, drawn by six jet-black horses, with out-riders, coachmen, and a great retinue of torch-bearers, footmen, and followers, furiously driving onwards over the foam-crested waves. As the phantom carriage plunged nearer, the skipper, regaining some little of his courage, ran forwards, hailing in sailor fashion--"Where bound? and where from?"--and the answer came back, clear and distinct across the raging waters--"To tryst with Lag! Dumfries! from--Hell!" [Illustration: "TO TRYST WITH LAG." Sketch by J. Copland, Dundrennan.]