NO MAN'S LAND. 205 



of the hills. The bells of the cottagers' own sheep 

 and cows tinkle musically on the slopes above, and 

 they themselves are quiet, decent folks obliging, 

 too, if a traveller needs any help that they can give, 

 or if he has lost his way. It was not always so. 

 At one time I remember this beautiful spot had so 

 evil a reputation, that unless people had urgent 

 business here, they gave a wide berth to the place. 

 In fact, the inhabitants were mostly the descendants 

 of lawless and bad men and women. When I first 

 knew it, the people were under constant and strict 

 surveillance until the worst of them were swept out. 

 It required a man of courage and great muscular 

 power, with full knowledge how to use both in the 

 application of the law, to stand in the shoes of the 

 forest-ranger of the lord of the manor in those days. 

 I remember as though it were only yesterday the 

 day the new ranger passed by the low beerhouse, 

 where all the evil of a lawless gang was planned 

 and worked out. They rushed to the open door 

 in a body and challenged him to fight. He was a 

 Scotchman, and like one of the deer-hounds of his 

 country, he walked gravely and apparently impas- 

 sively by without saying a word, and went into the 



