class="smcap">A.D., took possession of Cheshire, and occupied the county with his own legion. He is supposed to have either led or sent a strong force of soldiers to overcome the inhabitants of Longdendale, and one outcome of this expedition was the series of incidents narrated in the following legend.

It would be about the year 80 A.D. when the Romans advanced up the north-east Horn of Cheshire to attack the people of Longdendale. Agricola heralded his coming by a summons to surrender, which was met by a defiant refusal from the haughty Britons. Proud of their country and her great traditions, the local Britons determined to fight for their freedom to the last, preferring death in battle to slavery beneath the yoke of Rome.

“Tell thy proud chief that the sons of Britain are warriors and free men. Free men will they live, and free men die. Never will they submit their necks to the yoke of the Eagle. Rather will they perish on the spears of the legionaires.”

Thus spoke Edas the son of Atli, the brave hill warrior, who was chief of the Britons in Longdendale. The Roman heard, and, proud and haughty though he was, could not help admiring the heroic audacity of the white, half naked savage who stood before him. Edas, son of Atli, was a finely built man, six feet and more in height, broad of chest and stout of limb, and standing thus, with no garment save a covering of wolf-skin about his loins, the beautiful proportions of his frame stood out with the clearness of a statue. His long hair hung loose about his shoulders, shining golden in the sunlight, and truly was it said of him that no hero of the old time was more glorious to look upon.

For a moment the Roman paused. Then at length he spake.

“Why battle with the legions? Why fight against fate? Why not live as free men? To be a citizen of Rome is to be a free man indeed—a citizen of an empire which rules the world. Welcome the Eagles and live. But resist the legions, and—what then?”

“Then,” replied Edas, “we shall at least preserve our honour; we shall at least remain free as our fathers were; we shall have the chance to emulate the deeds, and die deaths as glorious as those of the heroes of whom the bards sing, and we shall not live to see our wives and daughters dishonoured by the ruthless soldiers of Rome.”

He looked the Roman full in the face, and the emissary of Agricola flushed with anger at the implication contained in the chief’s concluding words.

“Is that all?” he asked. “Is that thy message to Agricola? Not peace but war?”

“War,” answered the chief fiercely. “War to the death against the Romans.”

“So be it. The legions will surely come. Farewell.”

A short time only elapsed after the dispatch of this defiant declaration ere the British outposts brought news of the Roman advance. Perfect master of the art of war, Agricola left nothing to the last moment, and the same day which brought the message from the Britons, saw the Roman army in motion. The troops marched along the course of the Mersey, and halted for a space at Stockport, where they afterwards built a strong station. Then they moved on, still following the stream, and passed up the banks of the river Etherow, until the great basin of the Coombs Valley lay before them.

Meanwhile the Britons had vigorously prepared themselves for the great struggle. Over the heathery wastes of the hills—into what are now the counties of Lancashire, Yorkshire, and Derbyshire—through the thick forests where the wolves, bears, and other wild beasts of prey lurked—went the war message of Edas the chief, rallying the warriors to battle. For once the tribal jealousies were forgotten, feuds vanished in face of the common danger, and Brigantines joined with Cornavii to offer a united front to the common enemy. For days succeeding the arrival of the Roman herald there was a great massing of warriors, fleet-footed graceful men from the Cheshire plains, big wild men from the mountains which lie to the north and east of Longdendale. Day and night the forest altars and the stone circles of the Druids, which stood amid the heather on the summit of the Coombs, were constantly the scenes of sacrifices and other savage rites of Druid worship. Young men and maidens were slain by the golden knife of the Arch Druid, and their spirits passed, with the strains of weird singing, to intercede with God for the cause of Britain. All day the bards sang the songs of old, and at night the ghosts of buried heroes sailed past on the wings of the wind. Thus were the hearts of the British warriors strengthened for the battle which was to come.

Night fell, and the forests of Longdendale were full of the white, fierce warriors, who moved silently yet swiftly in the direction of the Coombs. It was the last night of peace; on the morrow the songs of war would arise, and brave men would die. Also, it was the night of sacrifices, and the Druid altar—that strange group of stones now known as the Robin Hood’s Picking Rods—would witness the supreme sacrifice—the offering to the Gods of that which was most dear to the hearts of the Britons. That day, just before the setting of the sun, Arwary, the fleet-footed, had bounded into the camp with the lightness of the deer, bringing tidings of the Roman advance. The legions would attack on the morrow, and so that night must be a night of sacrifice—the greatest sacrifice of all. Caledon, the ancient Druid, had summoned the Druid priests to the sacred groves of oak, and the warriors were bidden to gather about the altar shortly before the rising of the moon.

In the wood, near the dwelling of Edas, stood the chief. By his side was a maid—Nesta the fair—the beloved of Edas, son of Atli. Soon, if the gods willed, she would become his bride. Meanwhile she was the fairest maid in all Britain, and even the voluptuous Romans sang her praises about the camp fires at night.

Edas, son of Atli, spoke of love, and Nesta the fair drew close to his breast. Her arms were about his neck, and the lovers kissed. Edas, son of Atli, and Nesta the Fair, were happy.

Presently a voice was heard, and the maiden started. It was the voice of Caledon, ancient Druid and he called for Nesta the Fair.

“The gods have need of thee,” he cried. “They have sent to me their message, and they ask as a sacrifice the beloved of Edas—the bride of the chief.”

The voice of the Druid was stern and terrible. Edas the chief stood like one bereft of reason. Only Nesta the Fair remained calm.

“It is the will of the All-Giver,” she said, and sighed. “Yet—I had dreamed of happiness and love.”

Again the voice of Caledon cried—

“What greater happiness can a maiden have than to be the chosen of the gods?”

But Edas flung his arms about the maid.

“She is too young, too fair to die,” said he, his voice breaking with agony. “Druid, it shall not be.”

For a moment the priest stood silent. Then the words fell from his lips in an angry torrent.

“Art thou a coward, Edas, son of Atli? Must the daughters of the poor be offered for sacrifices, and shall the mighty ones of the earth escape? Shall the gods ask the consent of Edas before they select themselves a holy bride?”

“And thou, Nesta, art thou not a daughter of a race of kings? Is not the blood of Hu the Mighty in thy veins, the blood of heroes who feared nought, death least of all. Maiden, I tell thee the gods demand it. Only by thy death can the Romans be overthrown, and Britain remain free. And behold the moon is even now in the sky, the hour of sacrifice is come.”

Nesta the Fair flung her arms about her lover and kissed him.

“Farewell, my heart,” she cried. “The gods prosper thee, and give thee a hero’s death at last.”

In another moment she was gone, and Edas, who knew the power of the