must be covered by not less than two of you, and if he refuses to come along, plugged instantly. As members of the Lynching party, you will be held blameless for any lives taken in this way, or in any other that I may direct. Remember that the town is in our hands until Cobbett and Grobe are hung. One thing more, as there will be no time for orders when we've nailed the cusses: Tom Hanson, Mike Alison, and myself, will bring out the prisoners. When they appear, three of you must stand by 'em with your knives, the rest holding revolvers pointed at their breasts; and if there's a shot fired by their friends, go through them. Now, boys, vamos."

It

We passed out into the street. was a bright, still, moonlight night: not a sound to be heard but the steady tramp of our feet, as we made our way up Grand Avenue to the new Railway Hotel. As we neared the place, figures were discernible, clustered in loose order round a large lumber waggon, behind the station. Most of these men were employed in various capacities by Hanson and others of our party, and all wore the ominous black badge. No word of greeting passed between us, however, and we marched steadily on to the door of the hotel. Cartright knocked smartly three times, and as he did so we covered every window in the place with our firearms, the judge pointing his weapon at the door, so that the first thing seen by the man who opened it was the muzzle of a revolver. He looked intensely scared, this unfortunate man, as he saw this grim array. I could scarcely recognise the complacent judge of the afternoon, in the trembling creature who tried to assure his Lynch-law brother that Cobbett and Grobe had gone East by the midnight train. Cartright's gruff answer, however, of, "Show us up to their room, Mr. Standard," followed by the brief order, "Plug him, Mike, if he says another word!" brought the apologies to a sudden conclusion; and with a despairing shrug of the shoul

ders, as he recognised the desperado, the man slowly led the way upstairs : Judge Lynch, Hanson, Mike Alison, and two of Hanson's men followed him closely.

:

The rest of us remained outside, and watched the waggon brought round to the door. Presently, there was a stir in the houses round about, and faces appeared at windows. They were promptly covered upon which their owners hastily dressed themselves, and joined the crowd stationed near the waggon. A little later, quickly-stepping figures began to come up in twos and threes from the outskirts of the town, as the news of what was on hand spread abroad; and it was not long before un-masked folk formed a large majority of the assembly. But close around the waggon, in a compact ring, stood the Lynching party, shoulder to shoulder, with gleaming firearms, in grim defiance of any protest or interference.

We were all silent as we waited for those inside to re-appear; but it was impossible not to be conscious of the fact that there was a section of the crowd, armed like ourselves and now considerably out-numbering us, that was sullenly opposed to what was going on. At first only a few muttered curses were to be heard, which died away as new men came up whose feelings were not known. But gradually these imprecations developed into a continuous and angry murmur, which it seemed only too probable would become an organised assault upon the appearance of the prisoners.

The prospect was not cheerful. There were twenty of us, all told; and fifty people stood apparently ready for a charge the moment there was a favourable opportunity. I cannot remember, however, feeling nervous or frightened. We were there for a purpose, and until that purpose was accomplished our lives were of no importance. That was our one thought. As the murmur rose higher, and became more menacing, a burly fellow standing next to me answered it by an order

to our men, short and to the point: "Boys, mark your men, now; and fire when I give the word." Every revolver was instantly pointed at some individual member of the unmasked. The effect was magical. The angry murmurs ceased, and there was a quick retrograde movement, causing a space of several yards to be made between the persons of the prisoners' friends and the revolvers of the Lynching party.

A light was now seen flickering in the hall of the hotel, and we could hear heavy steps descending the stairs. The two men stationed in the waggon to receive the prisoners stood up, placing their knives between their teeth to have their hands quite free. The crowd remained silent, straining their eyes to see Cobbett and Grobe brought out. Now four men, followed by the judge, came slowly along the passage, kept clear by our revolvers, with two forms bound hand and foot, which they hoisted into the waggon. At this sight the murmur of the crowd rose to a shriek, and we thought our time had come. Obeying the order of the judge, four of us turned our backs upon the crowd and stood over the prisoners, waiting for the first shot to be fired.

But as our fingers tightened round the locks of pistols and the handles of our knives, the voice of Mike Alison, deep and sonorous, rang out above the tumult, and silenced it.

"Boys, shut down on this. D'ye think I'd take a share in the business if there wern't good reason for it? If any man of ye can stand out and say Cobbett and Grobe ain't the blamedest curs in this country, and didn't kill Ed. Hanson, let him do it, and I'll put as many holes through him as there are balls in my sixshooters. There! Do you understand?"

As he spoke the desperado had sprung into the waggon, and stood in the full light of the moon, glaring defiantly at the crowd, a cocked revolver in either hand. This action had an immediate result of a most

wholesome kind. At least half our foes admired Mike Alison personally more than any man living, and the rest would as soon have thought of accepting his challenge as of driving knives between their own ribs. So the opposition to our movements collapsed as suddenly as it had begun. From this moment the crowd which surged around us was of a perfectly peaceful character.

The waggon was now put in motion, and we moved down Grand Avenue at a foot's pace towards Holt's Ranche, a deserted homestead on the outskirts of the town. The place was reached in fifteen minutes, and another detachment of masked men, who had just completed the construction of the gibbet— a rough framework of poles-joined the main body. The crowd now came to a standstill, as the waggon passed slowly on a few paces, and then stopped exactly under the cross-bar of the gibbet, from which hung two pieces of rope.

The end was close at hand. For the first time my flesh began to creep, and the hand that held my revolver trembled violently, in spite of every effort to keep it still. Disposed in a huge circle the crowd stood round us

calm, stolid, inactive-waiting to see the end. I looked in vain for a face that expressed any of the horror of which I knew my own was full. In the centre of a space of some twenty square yards, kept clear round the gibbet, stood the judge, Tom Hanson, and Mike Alison, watching the men in the waggon who were making the prisoners ready for their fate. So far the poor wretches had uttered no kind of protest or prayer for mercy. No one knew better than they the hopelessness of such a thing. But at this moment I heard the voice of one raised in urgent entreaty to the man adjusting the ropes, in response to which he was loosed for a moment. Leaping from the waggon, he threw himself at the feet of the judge, and gasped out some inaudible prayer in a hoarse whisper.

"I don't want mercy," interrupted the prisoner. "I deserve death-I

wish for it. But, judge! for God's sake shoot me, or cut me in pieces-I don't care which don't let me hang like a dog! I've a mother alive in Illinois she will hear of it, and the disgrace will break her heart." He stopped, choked by heavy convulsive sobs.

Cartright paused before he answered. "Jim Grobe, I have passed sentence upon you, and I could not commute it if I would. But in these cases an appeal may be made to the person most injured by the crime. Tom Hanson," turning to his friend, "it is in your hands. Shall Grobe's wish be granted?"

There was another pause. Hanson made a step forward, and laid his hand heavily on the shoulder of his brother's murderer, saying huskily: "Is this true about your mother?"

Before the man could reply, Mike Alison interposed in his quick, decided way-"Yes, I can vouch for it."

"Then," said the rancheman, slowly and heavily, while the silence of the crowd might be almost felt, "Youmay-be-shot."

"God bless you! God bless you!' cried Grobe joyfully, leaping to his feet and grasping Hanson's hand. Then he stood erect and turned to the desperado with a smile. "Goodbye, Mike. You've been a good friend to me. If I had taken your advicebut it's too late now. Judge, set your men. Steady there, boys, with your revolvers don't aim too high. Now, I'm ready. Fire!"

We must close this scene. When the sun rose, half an hour later, all was over. The murderers of Edward Hanson had gone before a higher tribunal than ours, and the work of Judge Lynch and his Court of Appeal was done.

A. H. PATERSON.

THE churchyard at Eton is a triangular piece of ground converging into a sharp remote angle, bordered on one side by the Long Walk and screened from it by heavy iron railings. On the second side skirted and overlooked by tall irregular houses, and on the third by the deep buttressed recesses of the chapel, venerable with ivy and mouldering grey stone.

It is a strangely quiet place in the midst of bustling life. The grumbling of wagons in the road, the hoarse calls of the jackdaws awkwardly fluttering about old red-tiled roofs, the cracked clanging of the college clock, the voices of boys from the fields, fall faintly on the ear. It has all the beauty of a deserted place, too, for many years have passed since it was used for a burial-ground: the grass is long and rank, the cypresses and yews grow luxuriantly out of unknown vaults, and push through broken rails: the gravestones slant and crumble: moss gathers in the letters of forgotten names, and creepers lay their spoiling hands upon monumental urns: heaps of old carven, crumbling stones litter the ground. On early summer mornings a resident thrush tells his rapture to the silence with flute notes marvellously clear; and on wet winter evenings boisterous winds roll steadily up, and the tall chapel windows flame, and the organ's voice is blown about the winding over-grown paths and the memorials of the dead.

Just inside the gate, visible from the road among the dark evergreens, stands a tall,conspicuous altar-tomb,-conspicuous more for the miserable way in which a stately monument has been handled than for its present glories. It has been patched and framed in grey stucco, and the inscription scratched on the surface is three

quarters obliterated. Let into the sides are the grey stone panels of the older tomb, sculptured with quaint emblems of life and death, a mattock and an uncouth heap of bones, an hour-glass and a skull, a pot of roses and lily flowers such is the monument of one of Eton's worthiest servants and sons.

"I ordain," runs the quaint conclusion of his will, "that at the time of the next evensong after my departure (if conveniently it may be), my body be laid in the churchyard of the town of Eton (if I chance to die there), as near as may be [a strangely pathetic touch of love from the celibate philosopher, the friend of courtiers and divines] to the body of my little godson, Jack Dickenson the elder; and this to be done in plain and simple manner, without any sermon or ringing the bell, or calling people together; without any unseasonable commessation or compotation or other solemnity on such occasions usual; for as in my life I have done the church no service, so I will not that in my death the church do me any honour."

And the prophecy is fulfilled to the letter. In such a tomb he rests; and by a strange irony of fate, the pompous title claiming so universal and peren

nial a fame the Ever-memorable-is the only single fact which we bear in our minds about him-he has even been identified with Sir Matthew Hale of just memory.

John Hales was neither an Etonian nor a Kingsman. He was of a Somersetshire family, and was educated at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, where he spent no less than seven years before taking his degree (in 1603), from the age of thirteen to the age of twenty.

The Warden of Merton at that time was Sir Henry Savile, Queen Elizabeth's Greek tutor, held to be the most learned scientist of the time, founder of the Savilian professorships for astronomy and geometry, a severe, clearheaded student. It is recorded of him