"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."