It is a yew-tree opposite the door by which you enter the ruins.

The year-rings of its trunk register all the centuries that the stones of the oldest wall have stood imbedded one upon the other.

The tree is still green, putting forth its leaf in its season.

But there is an immortelle hung to these dark, crumbling walls that shall outlive the greenest trees now growing on earth.

Here, in a little vaulted chapel, or rather a deep niche in the wall, lie the remains of Sir Walter Scott, his wife and the brilliant Lockhart.