"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"
"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.