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CHAPTER L
LOCHINVAR KEEPS TRYST

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-boots completed 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 riding to 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."

CHAPTER LI
THE BRIDE'S LOVING-CUP

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.

CHAPTER LII
CATCH THEM WHO CAN!

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, and Jean 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.

"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 of Dumfries 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 saddle and 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 Dumfries far 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.