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.