Moray was a good-natured man enough; he nodded an understanding, and put a piece of gold in the gardener’s hand; but, nevertheless, Dick felt none the more sanguine, after this recognition, for the success of his enterprise.
No sooner, however, had he seen Maxwell swing himself into the old beech tree, a gymnastic feat which called forth his warmest approval, than he hastened back to put his long-laid scheme in practice, with what success we have already learned; for the bloodhound’s sagacity must unquestionably have led to a discovery of the fugitive, had it not been for the diversion occasioned by the fire.
‘An’ noo,’ said the borderer, with a sad, wistful expression on his honest face, very different from the roguish humour with which he had narrated the detail of his adventure,—‘an’ noo, I’m easy in my mind, whichever way the bowl may rin. I’ve paid my debt, Maister Maxwell, ye ken; I’m thinking it’ll no be lang or I get my quittance.’
Maxwell was somewhat puzzled; he could not quite fathom the meaning of his honest friend. Alas! ere a few hours were past he understood it but too well.
Time of course was the chief object with the three cavaliers; it was indispensable to arrive in Perth at as early an hour as possible, so as to warn the Queen of her danger, and to raise the country for the punishment of her foes. The party however were right well mounted; Dick had not selected the worst of Bothwell’s horses for an expedition in which speed was so likely to be an essential element of success; and ‘Wanton Willie,’ once the property of Lord Scrope himself, and stolen from the English warden by a series of stratagems, remarkable alike for ingenuity and audacity, was an animal of extraordinary power, mettle, and endurance.
It was no ordinary sensation of delight that Maxwell experienced as he swept through the evening air borne onwards by the long untiring stride of the powerful bay stallion. It was like grasping the hand of an old friend to stroke and smooth that swelling crest as ‘Wanton Willie’ tossed his head and snorted, champing the bit and snatching playfully at the rein.
He had always loved a good horse well. Now with the fate of a kingdom dependent on his speed, he could not prize too highly the merits of his charger. Also Maxwell’s heart was even yet sore and empty; it was soothing to rely on the honest fidelity of a brute. How many men are there who lavish on horse and hound the affections that were hoarded, it may be, long ago, elsewhere; given unreservedly, accepted with glee, and returned after a while to the dejected owner with the sap dried up, the core extracted, and the virtue gone! So he learns to content himself perforce with that which is real and substantial, at least as far as it goes; learns to thrill at the note of a hound, forget the past in the glowing excitement of a gallop; and the well-judging world opines that he has a grovelling soul which soars not above the stables and the kennel, and is fit for no better things.
The moon was coming up from the horizon, and still the three rode swiftly and steadily on. They were many miles from Leslie now, but, alas! they were not yet clear of Leslie’s influence. At a small hamlet where they stopped to water and refresh their horses, Maxwell was recognised ere he touched the ground by a scion of the house of Rothes, even then on the march with a party of horse to join his kinsman’s forces at the Paren-Well.
David Leslie started with surprise as the bay was pulled up at the stone trough before the village inn, but the young soldier was prompt in action and saw at a glance he had but three men to deal with, and one of those unarmed. His own retainers were numerous and on the spot.
‘Walter Maxwell!’ he exclaimed, seizing ‘Wanton Willie’ at the same instant by the bridle, ‘you are my prisoner! Ho! a Leslie! a Leslie! to the rescue!’