“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!