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."