re to see ye trail i' the wind, but will
offer ye Meg, oor daughter, instead o' the halter ye hae truly earned.
Ye can tak Meg--an' your life as her tocher.'

Robson's proud determination to accept his fate and suffer silently as
became a hardy Northumbrian wavered a little.

He was but twenty-five years of age, and life was very sweet to him. He
thought of the merry moonlight, of the joys of riding, and the fierce
excitements of the foray with passionate desire. The old song of the
Borderers was ringing in his ears:

'Sweet is the sound o' the driven steers
And sweet the gleam o' the moonlit spears,
When the red cock crows o'er byre and store
And the Borderer rides on his foraying splore.'

He looked from the tail of his eye upon 'Meg wi' the muckle mouth.' No
beauty certainly, but 'twas fighting he craved, not women. Yet she was
not ill-natured, he surmised--the 'muckle mouth' signified good temper;
'twas far better than a 'muckle tongue'--she would do at a pinch as his
housekeeper.

Meg meanwhile on her part was also eyeing him askance. He was a handsome
gallant surely! Her heart longed for the canty fellow. Yet if he showed
the least sign of disdain he should go hang for her.

Robson now looked directly upon her. 'Well, Meg,' he decided swiftly,
'I'll take ye'; then he added in a flash of understanding, 'if ye'll
take me.' His tact triumphed. With a ready smile that stretched almost
from ear to ear Meg surrendered herself joyfully.

'Ay, my lad, I'll tak ye,' she replied on the instant.

The crowd now broke into a boisterous 'hooray,' as keen for the wedding
as a moment before they had been eident for the funeral. 'Bring oot the
tangs!' they vociferated loudly. A pair of tongs were at once produced,
and under the direction of the blacksmith the captive and the woman held
hands, and took each other for man and wife.

The 'handfasting' thus concluded, 'Ye hae forgot the bride ale!' cried
many voices. 'We mun drink their health, Provost, ye ken. Bring oot the
ale, canny man!' 'Ay, or clairt,' suggested a thin-faced scrivener. 'A
mutchkin o' usquebaugh for ilka man,' shouted a burly flesher, ''tis
mair heartenin'.'

The Provost turned a little pale at their unforeseen demand: he almost
regretted his consent to the wedding. Then he recollected that there was
a firkin of home-brewed in the cellar that a recent thunderstorm had
turned sour, and his brow grew clear. 'Bring oot the pickle firkin,'