The October sun was setting as the train flew along the margin of the “New River,” as Sir Hugh Myddellen’s celebrated piece of water-engineering is called.

The October evening was chill, and the swift flight of the train drawing a strong draught that could not be kept out, increased the chilliness.

The duke leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

The valet attentively tucked the railway rug around his master’s knees.

The sun had set.  The long twilight of northern latitudes came on.

At the first station where the express stopped, the guard opened the door and offered to light the lamps, but the duke forbade him, saying that he preferred the darkness.

The guard closed the door and retired, and the train started again, and flew on northward through the deepening night.

It stopped only at the largest towns and cities on its route—­at Peterboro’, at York, at Newcastle, and Edinboro’.

It was sunrise when the train reached Lone, the only small station at which it stopped on the route.

The guard opened the door of the coupe, and the young duke got out, attended by his valet.

The train stopped but one minute, and then shot out of the station and flew on toward Aberdeen.

The distance between the railway station and the “Hereward Arms,” was very short, so the duke preferred to walk it, followed by his valet and a railway porter carrying his light luggage.

The sun had risen indeed, although it was nowhere visible.

A Scotch mist had risen from the lake, and settled over the mountains, vailing all the grand features of the landscape.

Early as the hour was, the hamlet, as they passed through it, seemed deserted by all its male inhabitants.  None but women and children were to be seen, and even they, instead of being at work, were loitering about their own doors or gossiping with each other.

Though the duke and his servant were the only passengers that got off the train at Lone, the whole force of the “Hereward Arms,”—­landlord, head-waiter, hostler, boots and stable boys—­turned out to meet them.

“Your grace is unco welcome to the ‘Hereward Arms,’” said Donald Duncan, the worthy host, bowing low before his distinguished guest.

And all his underlings followed his example by pulling their red forelocks and scraping their right feet backwards.

“Your hamlet seems to be deserted to-day, landlord.  What fair or what else is going on?” inquired the young duke, as he followed the bowing host to the neat little parlor of the inn.

“Ah! wae’s the day!  Dinna your grace ken!  It will be the trial at Banff—­the trial of yon grand villain, Johnnie Potts, for the murder of his master.”

“Oh, yes, I know the trial will be commenced to-day; but I did not think that the people here would take so much interest in it as to leave their work and go such a distance to see it,” remarked the duke.