“I can ride the bare back weel eneuch for a
fisher loon,” said Malcolm; “but I never
was upon a saiddle i’ my life.”
“The sooner you get used to one the better.
Go and tell Stoat to saddle the bay mare. Wait
in the yard: I will bring the letter out to you
myself.”
“Verra weel, my lord!” said Malcolm.
He knew, from sundry remarks he had heard about the
stables, that the mare in question was a ticklish
one to ride, but would rather have his neck broken
than object.
Hardly was she ready, when the marquis appeared, accompanied
by Lady Florimel—both expecting to enjoy
a laugh at Malcolm’s expense. But when
the mare was brought out, and he was going to mount
her where she stood, something seemed to wake in the
marquis’s heart, or conscience, or wherever
the pigmy Duty slept that occupied the all but sinecure
of his moral economy: he looked at Malcolm for
a moment, then at the ears of the mare hugging her
neck, and last at the stones of the paved yard.
“Lead her on to the turf, Stoat,” he said.
The groom obeyed, all followed, and Malcolm mounted.
The same instant he lay on his back on the grass,
amidst a general laugh, loud on the part of marquis
and lady, and subdued on that of the servants.
But the next he was on his feet, and, the groom still
holding the mare, in the saddle again: a little
anger is a fine spur for the side of even an honest
intent. This time he sat for half a minute, and
then found himself once more on the grass. It
was but once more: his mother earth had claimed
him again only to complete his strength. A third
time he mounted—and sat. As soon as
she perceived it would be hard work to unseat him,
the mare was quiet.
“Bravo!” cried the marquis, giving him
the letter.
“Will there be an answer, my lord?”
“Wait and see.”
“I s’ gar you pey for’t, gien we
come upon a broon rig atween this an’ Kirkbyres,”
said Malcolm, addressing the mare, and rode away.
Both the marquis and Lady Florimel, whose laughter
had altogether ceased in the interest of watching
the struggle, stood looking after him with a pleased
expression, which, as he vanished up the glen, changed
to a mutual glance and smile.
“He’s got good blood in him, however he
came by it,” said the marquis. “The
country is more indebted to its nobility than is generally
understood.”
Otherwise indebted at least than Lady Florimel could
gather from her father’s remark!
Malcolm felt considerably refreshed after his tussle
with the mare and his victory over her, and much enjoyed
his ride of ten miles. It was a cool autumn afternoon.
A few of the fields were being reaped, one or two
were crowded with stooks, while many crops of oats
yet waved and rustled in various stages of vanishing
green. On all sides kine were lowing; overhead
rooks were cawing; the sun was nearing the west, and
in the hollows a thin mist came steaming up.
Malcolm had never in his life been so far from the
coast before: his road led southwards into the
heart of the country.
