“If you must have a weapon,” he said, “upon such a peaceful occasion, why did you not use the short poniard sent from Edinburgh on purpose?”

The boy vindicated himself by saying it was lost.

“You put it out of the way yourself, I suppose,” said his father, “out of ambition to wear that preposterous thing, which might have served Sir William Wallace.  But never mind, get to horse now, and take care of your sister.”

The boy did so, and was placed in the centre of the gallant train.  At the time, he was too full of his own appearance, his sword, his laced cloak, his feathered hat, and his managed horse, to pay much regard to anything else; but he afterwards remembered to the hour of his death, that when the hand of his sister, by which she supported hersel on the pillion behind him, touched his own, it felt as wet and cold as sepulchral marble.

Glancing wide over hill and dale, the fair bridal procession at last reached the parish church, which they nearly filled; for, besides domestics, above a hundred gentlemen and ladies were present upon the occasion.  The marriage ceremony was performed according to the rites of the Presbyterian persuasion, to which Bucklaw of late had judged it proper to conform.

On the outside of the church, a liberal dole was distributed to the poor of the neighbouring parishes, under the direction of Johnie Mortheuch [Mortsheugh], who had lately been promoted from his desolate quarters at the Hermitage to fill the more eligible situation of sexton at the parish church of Ravenswood.  Dame Gourlay, with two of her contemporaries, the same who assisted at Alice’s late-wake, seated apart upon a flat monument, or “through-stane,” sate enviously comparing the shares which had been allotted to them in dividing the dole.

“Johnie Mortheuch,” said Annie Winnie, “might hae minded auld lang syne, and thought of his auld kimmers, for as braw as he is with his new black coat.  I hae gotten but five herring instead o’ sax, and this disna look like a gude saxpennys, and I dare say this bit morsel o’ beef is an unce lighter than ony that’s been dealt round; and it’s a bit o’ the tenony hough, mair by token that yours, Maggie, is out o’ the back-sey.”

“Mine, quo’ she!” mumbled the paralytic hag—­“mine is half banes, I trow.  If grit folk gie poor bodies ony thing for coming to their weddings and burials, it suld be something that wad do them gude, I think.”

“Their gifts,” said Ailsie Gourlay, “are dealt for nae love of us, nor out of respect for whether we feed or starve.  They wad gie us whinstanes for loaves, if it would serve their ain vanity, and yet they expect us to be as gratefu’, as they ca’ it, as if they served us for true love and liking.”

“And that’s truly said,” answered her companion.

“But, Aislie Gourlay, ye’re the auldest o’ us three—­did ye ever see a mair grand bridal?”

“I winna say that I have,” answered the hag; “but I think soon to see as braw a burial.”