camp, to spare the rest. Has the wild wood no child," continued the old man gazing round, "who will brave the Roman knife? Has Scotland no son who will offer himself for our hearths and homes ?"

The old man ceased, and his grey eye rested a moment on his youngest son.

Then up sprung Alboin, who while his father spoke had been leaning on his spear, and gazing on his father's face. "My father," said the gallant youth, "I will go to the Romans, and, if need be, fall by the Roman sword, and shall gladly cease to live if my name is known through the ancient woods as he who died for our hearths and homes." Alboin stopped and gazed round on the listening tribe; none spoke, but a murmur passed round the circle. "My child shall go," said the old man, "My child shall go; and the gods of our land will reward him." His father shed no tear, and Alboin, full of hope and spirit, turned towards the west, and stretching out his hands gave himself to the gods that his fathers

served.

A few hours more, and the chiefs of his tribe were attending the young warrior to the border of the wood; at the border they left him, and alone Alboin leaped over the narrow stream which

swept round the wood and made his way to the Roman camp; the youth of his tribe envied him, and the old men uttered his praises, while the priests sung a lofty song of glory to the young warrior's devotion.

When Alboin entered the Roman encampment, the guard led him to their centurion, for Alboin knew not the Latin tongue, and could give no answer to the centinel; but proudly his blue eye flashed with fire, and his lip curled with disdain.

"Who are you?" said the Roman centurion through an interpreter, surprised at the youth's appearance.

"Alboin the Scot," said the youth, and he seemed reckless of the consequence; "I have come to die for my tribe; for they say you have offered on this condition to save their lives and draw off your legions from our golden corn." The centurion gazed on the heroic boy, and ordered him to another tent while he should consult with others on the matter.

Two days had passed away, and Alboin still remained in his tent a prisoner and a captive; none had come to him save one who daily brought his food and water, and Alboin did

not know whether his gallant act had saved his people or not.

At the end of the third day, as Alboin was leaning at the door of his tent, and gazing at the moon which rose above his native woods, a shadow was suddenly cast on the ground, and a figure appeared coming round in the moonlight to where Alboin stood. It was an old man, a very old man; his head was bowed down with age, and his few and thin hairs were silver grey. He stood before Alboin, and the moon shone on the figures of the young warrior and the aged pilgrim.

The old man spoke first; for Alboin eyed him with proud disdain, as if he were one who had come to taunt him in his captivity.

"Young man," said he, "I have heard of your courage and your noble act, and admire them; I have come to point you out a higher hope and a nobler aim." There was a pause. The old man continued, "Where do you hope to go when your proud spirit is freed from the chain of the body?"

To the land where the hunters ride for ever," said the youth scornfully.

"And what will you do there?" asked the old man.

Ride with them," said Alboin.

"And who will take you there?" said the pilgrim.

"The gods of the wood I was born in," said Alboin.

"And what must you do to please them ?" asked the other.

The old man paused; "True," said he presently; "suffer without complaining.—But are you satisfied the gods you serve will do this for you? what warrant have you?"

"I have seen their figures," said Alboin, “and heard their cry by night through yon woods." 'Do you admire sufferers?" said the old

man.

"Aye," said Alboin, "even as the mother loves her child, and the sun loves the green earth."

"Then if I can shew you sufferers more bold than your own warrior tribe,—who have died for a greater God,-will you admire them and copy them?"

"Even so," said Alboin, perplexed at the old man's speech.

"I can shew you greater heroes than your

tribes can boast of. Seest thou yon cross ?" said the old man, pointing to where two stakes had been fastened across each other, marking the shape of St. Andrew's cross.

"I see it," said Alboin.

"Thou hast heard the name of Andrew?” said the old man.

"I have," answered Alboin; "he brought false gods into Scotland.”

"The same," said the other. "Of his gods I will speak presently, of his life and death I would speak now; I would shew you he was a hero as great as any you can boast of."

"I will listen," said Alboin proudly; "it will pass away an hour of my captivity;" and sitting down on the grass which grew outside the tent door, the old man began.

"In the days of old," said the old man, "one came to this country to tell the people of the after-state, and the land to which their spirits went when they had died on the field of fight. He came from a distant place, far away in the east; his name was Andrew; and I would shew you that none excelled him in courage and painful bearing.

"He was a holy man, born in the village of Bethsaida in a far off land, a poor fisherman,