The bride lifted her blue-grey hood and glanced at him, aware of some romance deeper than her own that sounded in the voice of this slim, weather-beaten stranger. “Dear, will you ask a favour of this gentleman?” she said, touching her bridegroom’s arm. “He wishes us luck, and he has a loose horseshoe to give us. He comes in a good hour, I think.” Rupert stooped. The shoe came easily away into his hand, and the bride, as she took it from him, looked up at him as if she had known him long and found him trusty. “You carry the luck-giver’s air,” she said. “I have seen it once or twice, and--it cannot be mistaken.” “Likely,” said Rupert, with a touch of the old bitterness. “I have found little of my own--till lately.” “Well, as for luck,” put in the blacksmith dryly, “I fancy you’ve all three got more than the poor fools who came this way five days ago. Five thousand o’ them, so it was said--five thousand faces that looked as if they were watching their own burial--and the pipes just sobbing like bairns left out i’ the cold, and the Pretender with his bonnie face set as grim as a Lochaber blade----” “The Prince--have you later news of him?” asked Rupert indifferently, as if he talked of the weather. “Whisht, now! We have to call him the Pretender, whatever a body may think privately. Yes, I’ve news of him--news comes north and south to Gretna, for it’s a busy road. They tell me he’s in Glasgow, and minded to bide there for a good while.” The bridegroom laughed--the low, possessive laugh of pride that is the gift of newly-wedded males. “Princes come and go, but a good wife comes only once. Good-night to you, for we’re pursued.” The bride gave Rupert a long, friendly look as she turned to get to saddle. “I thank you for your luck, sir,” she said. It was so they parted, not to meet again; but Rupert, as he waited restlessly until his horse was shod, was aware that this lady of the grey-blue hood had loosened his grim hold of life a little, because some note in her voice, some turn of the pretty head, had reminded him of Nance Demaine--Nance, half-forgotten, pushed into the background of this ride perilous that was to give him manhood at long last. And a sudden, foolish longing came to him to be at Windyhough again, seeing Nance come into a dull room, to make it, by some magic of her own, a place full of charm and melody. “They say the Duke of Cumberland is staying to take Carlisle, sir,” said the blacksmith, putting the finishing touches to his work. “Yes. So they told me when I rode through to-day.” “Well, it gives these other chiels a chance, and I’m no saying I’m sorry.” “Nor I,” said Rupert as he got to saddle, and pressed a crown-piece into the blacksmith’s hand.