*****
Then sleep descended like a brown hissing cloud upon the tortured soul and weary body of Wat Gordon, and deep, dreamless, billowy oblivion held him till the morrow. It was ten of the clock when he awoke, with a frenzied start, demanding how long he had slept.
Jean Gordon, in whose hands was the morning porridge-spurtle (and, as it were, the care of all the churches), tried the method of sarcasm.
"Weel, laddie," she said, "ye juist cam' here yestreen, and gin yesterday was the eighth, as Peter telled ye, ye will maybe be able to mak' oot that this will be the ninth. And come off the dead-cauld flags this instant with yourbare feet, and you in a pour of sweat. There's nae sense ava in the callant! What are ye in sic a fyke for aboot the tenth and the tenth? Are the eleventh and the twelfth no' as guid days? Did the same Lord no' make them a'?"
Wat went back obediently to bed.
"Mind," he said, "if you are lying to me, you shall fry in hell-fire for that lie. For a man's life and soul are on your truth."
"The boy's fair dementit," cried Jean; "what for should auld Jean Gordon lee to him? Tell me your trouble, laddie," she said, going nearer to him. "For I've had trouble o' my ain a' my life, and weel I ken there are few things so evil that they canna be mended—that is, if ye are minded to stroke them the richt way o' the hair."
At this point Peter McCaskill was heard shuffling along the passage, but Jean was over quick for him. She rose and very promptly and unceremoniously shut the door in his face.
"Gae 'way wi' ye the noo, Peter," she said, peremptorily; "tak' the fish-pole and fetch in a fry o' trouts for the breakfast. Ye'll get naething else to eat gin ye dinna."
"Noo, laddie," she said, sitting down beside Wat, with a world of sympathetic invitation in her voice, "tell me a' your heart's trouble."
So, with a great sense of relief, Wat told the tale to the old lady, whose own love-trouble of fifty years before had kept her maiden all her life.
As he spoke, Jean stroked the hand which hung over the edge of the bed.
"Laddie, my laddie!" were all the articulate words she said, but she soothed Wat with a little, low, continuous murmur of sound as he fretted and fumed at his helplessness.
"Ye shall get your lass—fear ye not that," she said, when he had finished. "I hae heard o' the wedding. They say the lass does naething but bide in her chamber and greet. She has fallen away to a shadow. But be that as it may, there is a great repair o' folk to the house o' Balmaghie. I saw a heap o' the queer, daftlike folk o' the north riding by, wi' feathers in their checked bonnets, and tartan trews on their hurdies—aye, trews of bonny tartan claith—ye never saw the like. But ye shall hae your lass, were it only to spite the menseless crew. Peter and me will help ye to her."
In what manner Jean Gordon was to help him Wat Gordon knew not—nor, for the matter of that, Peter McCaskill either—save by getting him the loan of his cousin Sandy's horse, and even that might be a Highlandman's loan—taken without the asking. But Wat said nothing, only laid him down contentedly, while Jean Gordon set off to provide the breakfast she had so abruptly denied to the curate.
Presently Peter came in with his trouts, for in the loch of Lochinvar the spotted beauties were infinitely less shy and infrequent than in later days they have become.
"Benedictus benedicat!" quoth Peter, who knew his Latin by ear, and sat him down.
"That's a daft, heathen-like grace," said Jean. "I shouldna wonder gin the folks did rabble ye and tear your white clouts ower your head, if ye gied them balderdash like that in the pulpit."
The curate smiled a wry, discomfortable smile at the prophecy, but nevertheless he proceeded to take his breakfast with some fortitude, looking up occasionally to see that the trouts did not burn as they made a pleasant skirling noise in the pan.
"There's nocht like a loch trout newly catched, in a' this bonny God's warld," he said. "I wonder how mencan be haythens and ill-doers when there's sic braw loch trout in Gallowa'! And burn trout are just as guid—in fact, there's some that actually prefers them!"
All this day Jean Gordon might have been heard in solemn confabulation with the curate, while Wat lay and listened to the din of their voices, sometimes uplifted in controversy, sometimes hushed in gossip, but ever coming to him pleasantly dulled and harmonized through the thick walls and long echoing passages of the house of Lochinvar. It was a windy day also, and the water sang him a lullaby of his childhood, as it lapped and swished all about him, with a noise like the leafy boughs of trees brushing against the foundations of his ancient castle.
"To-morrow! To-morrow! To-morrow!" said Wat, over and over to himself. "To-morrow my die will be cast for life or death."
The morning of the tenth came—still, uncolored below, rising to grayish-blue above, rose-rimmed only along the eastern horizon. The reapers were out in the high fields about Gordonstoun by daybreak, with their crooked reaping-hooks in their hands, busily grasping the handfuls of grain and cutting them through with a pleasant "risp" of sound. Cocks crowed early that morning, for they knew it was going to be a day of fervent heat. It would be as well, therefore, to have the pursuit of slippery worm and rampant caterpillar over betimes in the dawning. Then each chanticleer could stand in the shade and scratch himself applausively with alternate foot all the hot noontide, while his wives clucked and nestled in the dusty holes along the banks, interchanging intimate reflections upon the moral character of the giddier and more skittish young pullets of the farmyard.
But long after the sun had risen Wat Gordon lay asleep. Jean Gordon had a suit of clothes lying ready brushed for him on a chair—frilled linen, lace so cobwebby and fine, that it seemed to be spun from the foam of the loch after a storm. His father's sword swung by a belt of faded scarlet leather from the oaken angle of the nearest chair-back.
"I'll gie him half an hour yet," said she; "Peter will no' be here wi' Sandy Gordon's muckle horse before that time."
The minutes passed slowly. Jean opened the window of the tower, and the fresh air of the moorland stole in. Wat Gordon lay on his pillow knitting his brows and working his hands as if in grips with some deadly problem that lacked a solution.
"Puir lad, puir lad, whatna kittle thing love is!" murmured the old lady; "it works us, it drives us, and it harls us. It grieves us and gars us greet. And yet, what wad life be without it and the memory o't! And 'tis Jean Gordon that should ken, for she has lived sixty years on the memory o' ae bonny month o' maist heavenly bliss."
At last she bent over him, hearing a loud and piercing whistle from the shore of the loch.
"My lamb, my lamb!" she whispered, fondly, "rise ye, for your love's sake. Here are your claes. Gang forth like a bridegroom rejoicing in your strength. Ye shallna gang menseless this day, though ye hae to ride on another man's horse. The time will come when ye shall hae mony braw plenished stables o' your ain."
Obediently Wat rose, and put the fine clothes on him with a kind of wonder. He was still pale and wan, and his body was wasted by suffering and recent privation. Nevertheless, he felt his head clear, and there was an elastic ease in all his sinews.
"To-day," he said to himself, gladly—"to-day I cast the die for love or death."
The curate came for him in the boat, and Jean Gordon accompanied them.
"I am loath to part," she said; "it was aye a kindly Galloway custom to convoy the lad ye liked best, and Guid kens that's Wat Gordon o' Lochinvar."
"What do three horses there?" asked Wat, as they rowed the boat over to the landing-place, where a black charger and two humbler shelties were tethered close together among the dwarf moorland birches.
"'Tis a grand day for pleasuring," said Jean, "and Peter and me have made it up to ride together to the Three Thorns o' Carlinwark by the end o' the loch. There ye will find us gin ye need us. Ye will hae to ride that gate onyway, gin ye win clear o' the house o' Balmaghie with life and good fortune."
Wat mounted his cousin's horse Drumclog, a mighty black of rare paces, which, in spite of his size, on firm ground could distance any steed in the stewartry—aye, and as far as to Gretna on the border-side.
Now when Wat Gordon turned to ride away, sitting erect on his black horse, there came a light of almost maiden's love into Jean Gordon's eye.
"Never was there bride couched beside bridegroom like him!" she exclaimed, proudly. "Win her or lose her, it will be the height o' pride to the young lass all her life long, that on a day she had such a lover to venture all for her sake."
And indeed, despite the wild eye, sunk in its rim of darkest purple, despite the hollow cheek and pale face of his wandering, well might she say it. For no such cavalier as Walter Gordon, Lord of Lochinvar and Gordonstoun, that day took the eyes of ladies in all broad Scotland. Doubly outlawed as he was—rebel, landless, friendless, penniless—there was yet something about the lad which carried hearts before him as the wind carries dandelion spray. And many a high dame and many a much-courted maiden had left her all that day to have followed him through the world at a waft of his right hand.
A coat of fine blue cloth set Walter Gordon well. A light cape of the same was bound over it, having a broad, rough hem of gold. His father's sword swung by his side. The sash and star of King James's order shone on his breast as the wind blew back his cloak. Knee-breeches of corded leather and cavalier's riding-bootscompleted his attire, while a broad hat, white-feathered for loyalty and trimmed with blue and gold, was on his head.
"Aye, there gangs the leal heart," said Jean Gordon, wiping her dim eyes that she might watch him the longer; "there gangs the bonny laddie. There rides Wat Gordon, the only true lover—the lad that is ready to lay doon his life for his dear, lightly as a man sets on the board an empty cup after that he has drunken. Wae's me that sax inches o' steel in the back, or a pistol bullet at ten paces, should have power to lay a' that beauty low in the dust!"
*****
The holms and woodland spaces of Balmaghie were indeed a sight to see that glorious morn of the tenth of September, in the year of Christ, His Grace, 1689. There was scarce accommodation in the wide stables of the mansion for the horses of the guests. The very byres were crowded with them. The kye were milked on the edge of the wood to give the horses stalling-room in their places. As for Mistress Crombie, she was nearly driven out of her wits by the foreign cooks whom the new lady of the house had brought with her—some of them from Edinburgh and some of them all the way from London itself—to do justice to the great occasion.
Alisoun Begbie had a host of assistants. Every gentleman's house in the neighborhood had supplied its quota—given willingly, too, for there was no saying how soon the time might come to solicit an equivalent, either from the social kindness of the great lady of Balmaghie, or from the important political influence of the bridegroom, Murdo, Lord of Barra and the Small Isles.
Down the moorland road, by the side of which the humblebees were droning in the heather bushes, and the blithe blackcock spreading his wings and crowing as if the spring had come again, yet another guest was ridingto the wedding—and one, too, arrayed in the wedding garment.
Wat Gordon of Lochinvar flashed like a dragon-fly in gay apparel above the lily-clad pools of Loch Ken. But he had no invitation—no "Haste-to-the-Wedding"—unless, perhaps, the little heart of gold which he carried in his breast could be accounted such a summons. He rode slowly, often walking his horse long distances, like one who is not anxious to arrive over early at an important meeting-place. After he had passed the Bridge of New Galloway, and had ridden, to the astonishment and delight of those early astir in the ancient borough town, down the long, straggling, pig-haunted street, he dismounted and allowed his horse to walk by the loch-side, and even at intervals to crop the sweet grasses of the road-side.
Yet it was from no consuming admiration of the supreme beauties of that fair pathway that Wat Gordon lagged so long upon it that September morn. To no purpose the loch rippled its deepest blue for him. In vain the heather ran back in league on league of red and purple bloom to the uttermost horizon, that Bennan frowned grimly above, and that the Black Craig of Dee fulfilled the promise of its name in gloomy majesty against the western sky. For Wat Gordon kept his pale face turned anxiously on his charger.
"Ah, Drumclog," he said, thinking aloud, "thou art a Whig's horse, but if ever thou didst carry a cavalier on a desperate quest, it is surely this fair morning. Speed to thy legs, nimbleness to thy feet, for thou carriest more than the life of one this day."
But just at the weary traverse across the moor of the Bennan, after the shining levels of Loch Ken were left behind, and before the sylvan quietnesses of the Lane of Grenoch had been encountered, Wat Gordon came suddenly on a troop of cavalry that rode northward, tinkling spur and jingling bit. So long had the country folk of Galloway been in the habit of fleeing at the sound, that, as the troop advanced, riding easily, heads were hastily popped out of the whitewashed cottages of Mossdale, where it sits blithely on the brae. There came a rush of white-headed bairns; then a good-wife who took the heather rather more reluctantly, like a motherly hen disturbed from off her comfortable nest; and then, last of all, followed the good-man, keeping well behind the yard dike, and driving the family pig before him. For this picture, in sixteen hundred and eighty-nine, affords the exact estimate of the character and conduct of his Majesty's dragoons, which the experience of thirty years had taught the moorland folk of Galloway.
Yet, in the present pacified state of the country, these were doubtless troopers in the service of King William, and the old bad, days gone forever—that is, from the point of view of the good-man of Mossdale. Nevertheless, with such a pig, that worthy man considered that it was well to run no risks.
But it was otherwise with Wat Gordon of Lochinvar.He had fought at Killiekrankie, and had twice been outlawed by the government of King William.
"Halt!" cried the officer in command to him; "whither away, riding so gayly, young sir?"
"To the wedding at Balmaghie," Wat replied, tossing his lace kerchief, as if he had been a gallant shedding perfume over the Mall under the eyes of the maids-in-waiting.
"Your name and possessions?" continued the officer, noways inclined to be impressed by butterfly graces.
"I am Gordon of Gordonstoun—a kinsman of Alexander Gordon of Earlstoun, to whose house I presume you are going," replied Wat, subtly. "This is, indeed, my cousin's war-horse on which I ride, if so be any of you are acquainted with him."
"Aye, by my faith, that do I all too well," said one of the troopers; "the uncanny devil came nigh to taking my arm off the other morning between his teeth, when I would have shifted him out of his stall to make room for the horse of your honor."
"Well done, Drumclog!" said Wat, leaning over and patting his neck, as easily as if he had been a councillor of the king himself, instead of a rebel twice attainted and mansworn.
"A good Cameronian horse," smiled the officer. "I thank you, laird of Gordonstoun, for your courteous answers. I would not keep you a moment from the bridal to which you go. Gay footing to you! I would it were mine to lead the dance this night with the maids of Balmaghie, and to drink the bride's stirrup-cup this morning."
"Aye," said Wat, "it is indeed good to drink the loving-cup from the bride's fair hands. 'Tis to taste it that I go. I have risen from a sick bed to do it."
"So my eyes tell me, brave lad," said the officer. "I trust your illness has not been grievous?"
"Nothing but what the bright eyes of a maid have power to cure!" cried Wat, looking back and waving his hand.
"Faith, right gallantly said," replied the officer; "with a tongue so attuned to compliment I will not detain thee a moment. 'Twere a pity such speeches should be wasted on a troop of his Majesty's dragoons."
So with a courteous wave of his hand the young captain swept northward, followed by his clanking troopers. And as he went little did he know his own escape from death, or guess that Wat Gordon, fingering at his sword and pistols so daintily and featly as he sat his horse, had in his mind the exact spot where the bullet would strike if it had chanced that any in the troop knew him for a rebel. For that light grip and easy swing of the sword indicated nothing less than a desperate resolve to cut his way singly through a whole command, rather than be stopped on his way to the bridal of Kate McGhie and my Lord of Barra.
A group of retainers stood irregularly about the outer gate of Balmaghie when Wat rode up. They greeted him with honor, one after another sweeping the ground with their plumed hats as they swerved aside to let him pass. But the ancient gardener stood open-mouthed, as if trying to recall a memory or fix a puzzling resemblance.
As Lochinvar rode through the glinting dewy woodlands he saw youths and damsels parading the glades in couples—keeping, however, their faces carefully towards the house for the signal that the bride was coming. Already the bridegroom had arrived with his company, and, indeed, most of them were even now in the hall drinking prosperity and posterity to the wedding.
"Haste you, my lord!" cried one malapert damsel to Wat, as he rode past a group of chattering minxes, "or you will be too late to win your loving-cup of luck from the hands of the bride, ere she goes to don her veil."
To her Wat Gorden bowed with his gayest air, and so passed by. The company was just coming out of the hall as he rode up. There, first of all, was my lady. Behind her came Roger McGhie, looking wan and frail, but carrying himself with his old dignity and gentle courtesy. And there, talking gayly to my lady, was Murdo, Lord of Barra, now proud and elate, having come to the height of his estate and with the cup of desire at his lip.
These three stopped dead when they saw the gay rider on the black horse, reining his steed at the foot of the steps of the house of Balmaghie. For a space they stood speechless. But the master of the house, Roger McGhie, it was who spoke first.
"'Tis a marvel and a pleasure to see you here, my Lord Lochinvar, on this our bridal day—a welcome guest, indeed, if you come in peace to the house which once gave you shelter in time of need."
"Or come you to visit your ancient friends, who have not wholly cast you off, Lochinvar, though you have forgotten them?" added my lady, dimpling with a pleasure more than half malicious, on the broad terrace above him.
But Murdo of Barra said no word, as he stood on the upper steps gnawing his thin mustache, and talking aside to his groomsman as though that which was happening below were but some trifling matter which concerned him not.
"Light down and lead the dance, my lord," said Roger McGhie, courteously. "None like you, they say, can tread a measure, none so readily win a lady's favor—so runs the repute of you."
"I thank you, Balmaghie," answered Wat, courteously; "but I came without invitation, without summons, to ask but that last favor—the loving-cup of good luck from the bride's fair hands ere I ride to meet my fate. For I must needs ride fast and far this day."
"It is well and knightly asked, and shall be granted," said Roger McGhie. "Bid Kate bring hither a loving-cup of wine for my Lord of Lochinvar, who bides her coming at the hall-door."
Black Murdo of Barra moved his hand impatiently.
"Let a bridesmaid fetch it," he said. "The bride is doubtless at her dressing and brooks not to be disturbed."
"Give me but the moment, and to you I leave the rest," said Walter Gordon, looking up at him with the light of a desperate challenge shining clear in his eye.
Then the maidens of the bridal standing about whispered eagerly to each other.
"Ah, that were a bridegroom, indeed! See him sit in the saddle like a god—fitter for our bonny Kate than yon black, scowling Murdo."
Then out through the open doorway of the hall there came a vision of delight. The young bride came forth, clad in white, daintily slender, divinely fair. Not yet had she assumed her bridal veil. In simple white she moved, her hair rippling in sunlit curls to her neck, her maiden snood still for the last time binding it up. A silver beaker brimmed with the red claret wine in her hand. And as she came bearing it in, the wedding guests opened a way for her to pass, murmuring content and admiration. Barra stepped forward as if to relieve her of the burden, but she passed him by as though she had not seen him.
Presently she stood at the side of Wat Gordon's charger, which looked back at her over his shoulder as though he, too, marvelled at her beauty.
The true-lovers were met for the last time.
"Would that they need never part!" said a wise bridesmaid, leaning over and whispering to her mate. For their story was known, and all the young were very pitiful.
"Amen to that! Look at Murdo, how black and gash he glowers at them!" said her companion.
Wat Gordon took the cup and held it high in one brown gauntlet, still keeping the hand that gave it in his other.
"I pledge the bride—the bride and her own true-love!" he said, loud enough for all to hear.
Then he drank and leaned towards Kate as though to return the cup with courteous salutation.
None heard the word he whispered. None save she who loved him can ever know, for Kate has not revealed it. But the word was spoken. The word was heard. A moment only the bride's eyes sought her lover's. The next his arm was about her waist, and her foot left the gravel with a spring airy as a bird's first morning flight. The reins were gathered in Wat's hand, his love was safe on the saddle before him. The spurs were set in Drumclog's dark flanks, the brave horse sprang forward, and before ever so much as a cry could go up from that watching assembly, Wat Gordon was riding straight for Dee water with his love between his arms.
For a space that concourse of marriage guests stood frozen with surprise and wonder. Then a hoarse cry arose from Black Murdo and his friends. With one accord they rushed for the stables; but some groom, eager to enjoy his holiday untrammelled at the wedding, had locked the doors. The key could not be found. The door must be broken down. Then what a cursing, shouting, striking of scullions ensued, Black Murdo in the midst raging like a fiend!
But all the while Kate was in the arms of her love, and the brave horse went rushing on, stealing mile after mile from the confusion of their foes. They were past the water of Dee, fording by the shallows of Threave, before ever a man of their pursuers was mounted at Balmaghie. On they rode towards the green-isleted loch of Carlinwark, at whose northern end they were trysted to meet with the curate and Jean Gordon.
Soon Carlinwark's dappled square of blue gleamed beneath them as they surmounted the Wizard's Mount and looked down upon the reeking chimneys of cottages lying snugly in the bield of the wooded hollow. Never slackening their speed on the summit, they rushed on—Drumclog going down hill among the rabbit-holes and thorn bushes as swiftly and surely as on level pavemented city street.
And there at last, by the Three Thorns of a thousand trysts, stood the curate of Dalry, Peter McCaskill, andJean Gordon by his side with a blue cloak over her arm. A little way behind them could be seen the brawny blacksmith of Carlinwark, Ebie Callan, his sledge-hammer in one hand and the bridle-rein of a chestnut mare in the crook of his left arm.
There was as yet no sight or sound of pursuit behind them when they stayed Drumclog.
"Hurrah!" said the curate, standing before Wat and Kate in his white cassock and holding his service-book in his hand. "Are your minds made up? There is little time to lose, 'Dearly beloved, forasmuch,' and so on—Walter Gordon of Lochinvar, do you take this woman whom you now hold by the hand (take her by the hand, man)"—so on and on he mumbled, rustling rapidly over the leaves of his book—"before these witnesses? And do you, Katherine McGhie, take this man?—very well then—'whom God hath joined....' There, that is finished, and 'tis as good a job as if it had been done by the Dean of Edinburgh. They cannot break Peter McCaskill's marrying work except with the dagger. And as to that, you must ride to save your skin, Wat, my lad."
"Mount upon this good steed, my lady," said the blacksmith to Kate; "she will carry you to Dumfries like the wind off the sea. She is faster than anything this side of the border."
And after she had mounted, with Ebie Callan's gallant assistance, Jean Gordon cast the blue cloak about her.
"See and draw the hood decently about your head when ye come to the town-end o' Dumfries," she cried.
"WITH HIS LOVE BETWEEN HIS ARMS"
"WITH HIS LOVE BETWEEN HIS ARMS"
"And," said the curate, "mind ye, Black Murdo has a double post-relay of horses prepared for his bride and himself all the road to York, where the king is. Ebie has been ten days away through these outlandish parts layin' them doon. So ye can just say when ye get to the White Horse in the Vennel: 'The horses for my Lord of Barra and his lady,' and there ye are! In the town ofDumfries they do not know Black Murdo frae Black Satan—nor care. And now away wi' ye! I hear them coming, but ye'll cheat them yet. There's nocht in the stables o' Balmaghie that can catch you and your bonny lady if ye keep clear o' moss-holes."
The pursuers were just topping the hill when the black and the chestnut were again put to their speed, and then, with a wave of the hand from Kate, and shake of his chevron-glove from Wat, the lovers were off on their long and perilous ride. The curate stood looking after them a moment; then, pulling his surplice over his head, he waved it frantically, like a giant kerchief, murmuring the while: "The blessing o' the Almighty and Peter McCaskill be on ye baith!"—which was all the benediction that closed the marriage service of Wat Gordon and Kate McGhie.
Jean Gordon had turned aside to wipe her eyes, and the blacksmith stood staring after them with his mouth wider open than ever. As the pair surmounted the tangled hill of whins behind the little village of Causewayend, Wat looked down a moment from the highest part, but without checking his horses, in order to note the positions of his pursuers. Seeing this, the blacksmith became suddenly fired with enthusiasm. He lifted the mighty sledge which he had brought out in his hand and twirled it about his head.
"To the black deil wi' a' that wad harm ye or mar ye, ye bonny pair!" he shouted.
This was Ebie Callan's formula of blessing, and quite as serviceable in its way as that of the curate.
But at that moment a horseman, coming at a hand gallop down the hill, broke through the thicket and rushed at speed between the Three Thorns almost upon Peter McCaskill and the smith. His horse reared and shied at the waving surplice and the threatening hammer, whereupon the rider went over the pommel of his saddleand crashed all his length on the hard-beaten path. When he regained his footing, lo! it was Black Murdo of Barra himself, and very naturally he rose in the fiercest of tempers.
He drew his sword and would have rushed upon the curate, but that the blacksmith stepped in front with his sledge-hammer.
"Haud up, my man!" he exclaimed, peremptorily, as if the Lord of Barra had been a kicking horse he had set himself to shoe; "stand back gin ye dinna want your pow cracked like a hazel-nut. Mind ye, Ebie Callan never missed a chap wi' the fore-hammer in his life!"
At this point Peter McCaskill suddenly flapped his surplice in the face of Barra's horse, which flourished its heels and cantered away to meet its companions.
For by this time the other pursuers were beginning to come up, and, seeing that nothing could be gained by delay, Barra called to one of these, whose horse he took, and, delaying till a more convenient season any vengeance on Ebie Callan, once more set off in pursuit.
"Praise the Lord, they hae gotten a grand start. There's no' yin o' the vermin will come within a mile o' oor Wat on this side o' Dumfries whatever," affirmed the curate.
"And what's mair," added the smith, "if he gets the horses I laid doon for my lord, he will ride into Carlisle with no' a McGhie or black hieland McAlister within miles o' him."
"Except the McGhie on the chestnut," said Peter McCaskill.
"And even she's a Gordon noo, if ye hae as good skill in your welding trade as I hae in mine," replied Ebie Callan, turning away to his smithy bellows.
*****
It cannot be told at length, in this already over-long chronicle, in what manner Wat and Kate rode into Dumfriesfar ahead of their pursuers, or how they mounted on the horses prepared for Barra and his countess and went out amid the cheering of the populace. Nor is there room to relate how at each post they found, as Ebie had foretold, horses ever fresh and fresh, innkeepers obsequious, hostlers ready to delay all pursuers for a gold piece in hand as they rode off. Neither does it matter to the conclusion of the tale (which cannot long be delayed, though there would be pleasure in the prolonging of it) how they were assaulted by footpads at Great Salkeld; how Wat's blade played like summer lightning among them to the scatterment of the rascals; how Kate shot off a pistol and harmed nobody; how they rested three hours at Long Marten, and how Wat kept watch while Kate slept on the long, brown heath of the fell betwixt Stainmoor and the Nine Standards at the entering in of Yorkshire.
These make a tale by themselves which ought to be told one day—but by a tale-teller unbreathed by a longer race than even that from the house of Balmaghie to the court which King William was holding in the city of York.
It is sufficient to say that without once being sighted by their pursuers after they topped the hill beyond Carlinwark, Lochinvar and Kate, with thankful hearts, caught their first glimpse of the towers of York Cathedral, hull down in the broad plain, like the masts of a ship at sea.
As they came nearer to the city they began to pass groups of country folk, all hastening in to see the glories of the court. For the king had come so far from his capital to receive the homage of his northern province, before departing to Ireland on the great campaign which was to make him unquestioned monarch of the kingdoms three.
Soon Wat and Kate reached the ancient bar which spanned the northern road by which they had ridden.
"Whither-away so fast?" cried the sentinel to them.
"From Scotland to see the king!" said Wat, confidently, giving the man the salute in a manner only practised by the regiments in Holland.
"You are of his Highness's Scot regiments?" cried a much-surprised voice from the low doorway.
"Of the Douglas Dragoons," replied Wat, over his shoulder.
"Pass—a gallant corps!" returned the officer of the guard, who had been watching, giving Wat back his salute in form, but, notwithstanding, keeping his eyes fixed upon Kate, whose head shone like a flower out of the blue deeps of the cape in which the rest of her beauty was shrouded.
As they rode more slowly on, several distinct streams of people all setting in one direction told them without need of question in what place the king held his court. There were many strange folk to be seen about the ancient city that day. In front of the cathedral wereencamped the king's Laplanders, each armed with a great two-handed sword, nearly as long as the owner (for they were little men of their stature), and wearing bear-skins over their black armor.
The splendid uniforms of the prince's body-guard were also to be seen here and there. But it was not till they entered the wide grassy court of the castle that the full splendor of the scene was revealed to them.
Again and again they were challenged, but Wat's confident reply, "From Scotland to see the king!" together with his knowledge of the military etiquette in the Dutch army (and perhaps also in some measure the beauty of his companion), insured him a free and courteous passage on every occasion.
As they rode into the court-yard of the castle the king was just coming out of a pavilion which had been erected to receive him. The gentlemen of his body-guard, in orange uniforms, and with brilliant armor upon their breasts, lined the square. The dignitaries of the province stood more uncertainly about.
Walter and Kate rode straight up to within twenty yards of the king. Then Wat dismounted and took his wife by the hand. She vaulted lightly to the ground. So, hand-in-hand, the pair of runaway lovers stood before the king.
William of Orange was a man valiant by nature. He had no fear of assassination. And so on this occasion he put aside one or two assiduous courtiers who would have interposed between him and Lochinvar.
Wat stood with his hat in his hand waiting for the king to put a question. But William of Orange was silent. It was the custom of his house that they never spoke the first word.
"Have I your highness's leave to speak?" said Wat, at last.
William looked him all over with his eagle eye.
"I have seen you before," he said; "you are the Scots officer who brought me the papers concerning the forces at Amersfort."
Wat bowed, and at once began his speech to the king.
"Your highness," he said, "I am not here to ask a pardon for myself, but to claim your courteous protection for this lady—who is my wife."
The circle of dames and damsels who elbowed and rustled behind William at this point manifested the greatest interest. Kate had let the hood of her cloak fall from her head, and now stood, with the simple white of her bridal dress, unsoiled even after her long journey, showing beneath it.
"I will speak freely to your highness," said Wat, "asking no boon for myself. I am Walter Gordon of Lochinvar, in Galloway. Twice I am your outlaw—once according to the law of King James have I been an exile from my native land."
He spoke clearly and firmly, like one who will hide nothing.
The king bowed slightly, showing no more interest or animation than if he had been listening to the light gossip of the court.
"Because we two loved each other, I have carried off a bride from your councillor of state, my Lord Barra, that I might make her my wife. I escaped from your prison of Amersfort in order that I might rescue my love. I fought at Killiekrankie and Dunkeld—fought for King James, that I might win a way to her. For myself, therefore, I ask no mercy, and I expect none. But with confidence and unbound heart I place this lady, my wife, under the protection of your highness, a prince just and clement—so that whatever happens she may not fall into the power of her enemy and mine, the Lord Barra, from whom and from death I have saved her this day!"
"And how did you save her?" said William, looking at him level-eyed, as one man looks at another whom he knows to be also a man.
"I went to the wedding to drink the bride's last loving-cup, and when the bride came to the hall-door to speak with me I looked in her eyes once. Then I took her on my saddle-bow and rode away from among them all," said Wat, simply.
A little cheer fluttered out among the courtiers at this conclusion, and the ladies clapped their hands as at a play.
The king silenced them with a wave of his hand.
"And you expect—?" said William, and paused, questioningly.
"I expect nothing, Prince of Orange," said Wat, boldly. "But I resolved to come to you and tell you the worst. For I would rather have your justice than any other man's mercy—especially that of the men who rule for you in Scotland."
The king shrugged his shoulders.
"Aye," he said. "I am with you there. I wish that stiff-necked country of yours were a thousand miles off and Duke Hamilton the king of it."
"You fought by my side at Calmthout, did you not?" he said, suddenly, bending his piercing eyes on the young man.
Wat bowed, with a sudden access of pleasure shining on his face.
"And you saved the colors at Louvain," the king added.
Wat continued to hold his head down. William's memory was marvellous.
"You also brought the papers, relative to the manning and armament of the camp, out of the inn of Brederode, wresting them from the French spies at the risk of your life. And I made you an officer for it."
He paused again, still smiling. Never was there a brave man so nobly clement as William of Orange.
"If I pardon you the double treason—and the prison-breaking," he added, a little thoughtfully, "will you command again for me—not a company this time, but a regiment?"
It was an offer noble, generous, worthy of the greatest prince.
The courtiers and the great folks assembled gave a shout, which was not checked this time.
The king still stood silent, smiling, expectant, confident of Wat's answer.
"My general, and your most noble highness," began Lochinvar, slowly, "but lately it would have been the greatest honor of my life to command a regiment in the service of the Prince of Orange. But I cannot command one in the service of William, King of England."
"Think again," said the king, who understood him. "I have regiments over seas as well as in England."
"But they might be needed here, and I could not desert my colors a second time for loyalty, as once I did for love."
"What, then, do you desire?" said the king, shortly, looking manifestly disappointed.
"Only your highness's most noble clemency," replied Wat, gravely; "the right to live quietly in mine own ancient tower, under the protection of your just and equal laws, giving my word of honor, if you will, never again to bear arms during your highness's life."
"You have it, my Lord Lochinvar," said the king. "Gallantly you have won your bride. Wear her on your breast and keep her safe with the strength of your arm. I have lost me a good soldier and she has gotten her a good man."
Kate ran forward with a charmingly girlish gratitude, and, kneeling, kissed the king's hand.
She looked about her to where Lochinvar stood. There was entreaty and command in her eye.
"It is the first thing I have ever asked of you as your wife!" she said, in a low voice.
For a moment he resisted. Then Wat came forward, since his love had called him, and, bending his knee, he said, "I kiss your hand, most noble, most generous prince."
"Rise, my Lord Lochinvar," replied the king; "keep your castle and your ancient loyalty, till your lands, and abide in peace within your borders. I shall see that neither council nor councillor stir you. And as for my Lord of Barra, I have bidden him to confine himself to his own islands. He is no more councillor of mine. I have at last found the truth concerning the matter of the inn at Brederode."
So, with a wave of his hand, the king passed away. A great king he was, though even in that hour Wat had named him no more than prince. Then, as soon as he was gone, a swarm of courtiers surrounded Wat, and the ladies took Kate off to make much of her. For so great a marvel as the open carrying away of a bride on her marriage day, with her own free will and consent, had not been heard of in any land.
But when all was over, my Lord of Barra rode in, anxious and jaded with hard spurring; but the king turned his back on him.
"I know my friends at last," he said. "Let me not see your face again, my Lord Barra. Ye have my leave to abide in your isles, if ye will."
But instead Barra betook himself forthwith to France, where he was received into great honor as a consistent favorer of the true king. He was killed at Steenkirk, as was fitting, leading a charge. For though a traitor, Murdo of Barra was a brave man.
Peace and silence cinctured the ancient tower of Lochinvar like the blue circle of the vault of heaven. Kate and Wat were walking the battlements. It was a narrow promenade, but they kept the closer together. From the gable chimneys immediately above them the blue perfumed reek of a peat fire went up straight as a monument. In the kitchen Jean Gordon and her tow-headed servitor, Mall, were preparing the evening meal. There, at the foot of the loch, could be seen Jack Scarlett switching his long fishing-pole, his boat and his figure showing black against the bright lake.
Wat shaded his face with his hand and looked under it, for the sun shot his rays slantwise.
"What is the matter with old Jack?" he said; "yonder he goes, pulling as hard as he can for the shore. I see two people sitting on a heather-tussock by the landing-place."
When Kate had looked once swiftly, she clapped her hands. "'Tis Maisie and Will!" she cried, merrily. "Oh, I wonder if they have brought the babe?"
"The babe?" said her husband, "wherefore should they bring the babe, carrying him all the way from Earlstoun?"
"I should never let him out of my arms," cried Kate, "if I had such a boy."
She stopped somewhat suddenly and changed the subject.
"Look," she said, pointing with her finger, "Jack is showing them his fish. It is as well that he seems to have a good, taking in his basket; for, faith! there is little in the house but salted black-faced mutton."
Long before the boat could approach near enough to the tower to render conversation possible, Kate and Maisie were crying out unintelligible greetings one to the other, while with his hand on her skirts Will Gordon endeavored to induce his wife to sit down, lest she should overbalance herself and fall out of the boat.
Kate ran down the narrow turret stairs to the landing-place, whereupon Wat followed hastily, lest she should throw herself bodily into the water. The boat touched the wooden fenders, and the next moment the two women were in each other's arms. The men shook hands gravely, but said nothing, after their kind. Jack Scarlett took up his string of fish and departed kitchenward without a word, keeping his eyes studiously on the ground.
Meanwhile the two women were sobbing quietly and contentedly, each on her friend's shoulder.
Then Will Gordon must needs turn and endeavor to cheer them with the eternal masculine tact.
"Why, lassies," he said, with loud joviality, "what can there be to cry about now, when everything has fallen out so well after all our troubles?"
His wife turned to him fiercely.
"You great gaby!" she cried, pointedly, "get into the house and leave us alone. Can you not see we are just glad?"
"Yes—glad and happy!" corroborated Kate. "What silly things men be!"
Wat and Will slunk off without a word. They did not so much as smile at the manner of the gladness of women. Even when they were safe in the square, oak-panelled hall, they seemed to have little to say to each other, except as to the crops on Gordonstoun and concerningthe planting of trees at Will's new house of Afton.
Presently the women came back, whereupon, for no obvious reason, Wat and Will immediately plucked up heart and became suddenly voluble.
"Wat," said Kate, daring him to a refusal with her eyes, "I am going over to Earlstoun to-morrow to see the baby."
"What!" cried her husband, "why not fetch it here to-night? I will lead an expedition to bring it this very moment, and Scarlett and Will shall be my officers."
"It, indeed, you—youman!" cried Kate, contemptuously. "Why, you could not be trusted with him."
"We might break it," said Will Gordon, quietly, "or it might even cry, and then what should we do? Better is it that we should all return to the Earlstoun to-morrow. Sandy and Jean have gone to Afton for a while."
And so it was arranged, perhaps because of the last-mentioned fact.
But Kate cried out impetuously, after a silence of five minutes: "I do not believe that I can wait till to-morrow to see the lovely thing."
"No, nor I either!" said Maisie, grievingly. She let her eyes rest a moment reproachfully on her husband, to convey to him that it was all his fault.
The two men looked at each other. Their glances of mutual sympathy said each to each: "This it is to be wedded."
"Well," said Wat, more cheerfully, like a man who knows it is vain to fight against his destiny, "let us all go there together to-night."
The women sprang up and clapped their hands.
"Scarlett," cried Kate, "ferry us across in the boat at once."
"What may be the great hurry?" he said. "The trouts are frying fine."
"We are going back to Earlstoun," said Kate, with decision in her tone.
"Is the auld hoose on fire, or what's a' the red-hot haste?" called Scarlett, from the kitchen, where he was superintending the sprinkling of oatmeal on the trouts—a delicate operation.
"Man, the bairn may be greeting!" said Will Gordon; whereat Wat Gordon suddenly laughed aloud—and then just judgment seemed about to descend upon them. But their several wives looked at each other to decide which should be the executioner. "After all," said the four eyes, as they took counsel, "is it worth it?" It was enough that they weremen—nothing could be expected of that breed when it came to a matter of the finer feelings.
Jean Gordon came anxiously panting up the stairs.
"You will be the better o' your suppers afore ye gang ony sic roads at this time of night," she said, determinedly.
So in a trice the trouts were brought in, and Scarlett sat down along with Lochinvar and his guests, for such was the sweet and honorable custom of the tower.
Then in the beauty of a late and gracious gloaming, they rowed over softly to the blossoming heather of the loch-side, and took their way by two and two up the hill. The two women walked on in front in whispered sibylline converse, sometimes looking over their shoulders to insure that their husbands did not encroach too closely upon the mysteries.
At the top of the hill Wat and Kate with one instinct stopped a moment and looked down upon the peace of their moorland home. Jack Scarlett was dragging a rod across the loch from the stern of the returning boat. Jean Gordon and Mall, her maid, were setting the evening fire to "keep in" till the morning. The topmost chimney still gave forth a faint blue "pew" of peat-reek,which went straight up into the still night air and was lost among the thickening spear-points of the stars.
Kate took her husband's arm.
"Are you sorry, Wat?" she said, with something like the dew of tears in her voice, "that you gave up the command of a regiment to come to this quiet place—and to me?"
In the hearing of his cousin Wat only smiled at her question, but privately he took possession of his wife's hand, and kept it in his all the way as they went down the hill, till they came through the Earlstoun wood past the tree in which Sandy had hidden so long. But at the well-house gate Kate suddenly dropped Wat's hand, and she and Maisie darted simultaneously towards the great doorway of Earlstoun.
Their husbands stood petrified.
"There is baby crying, after all! Did I not tell you?" cried Kate and Maisie together, looking reproachfully at each other as they ran.
Wat and Will were left alone by the curb of the well-house of Earlstoun; they clasped hands silently in the dusk of the gloaming and looked different ways. And though they did not speak, the grip of their right hands was at once a thanksgiving and a prayer.
THE END