Chapter 12

⁠​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​​​​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​⁠Up rouse ye then,

My merry, merry men!

—JOANNA BAILLIE.

When the moon rose that night, there was one spot upon which she palely broke, about ten miles distant from Warlock, which the forewarned traveller would not have been eager to pass, but which might not have afforded a bad study to such artists as have caught from the savage painter of the Apennines a love for the wild and the adventurous. Dark