wling.

The heather was mostly short and easy--"bull's fell" heather as it was
named. Tall cotton grass flaunted up suddenly through the slaty haze of
the night of pursuit. The plant called "Honesty" with its flat, white
seed vessels, gaunt and startling, swished past them, the dry pods
crackling among their horses' legs.

Mostly they rode easily, swaying to the movements of their beasts,
letting the little horses do the work as the Lord of the moors gave them
wisdom to do--using no whip or spur--these were not needed--and very
little guidance of rein. The little Galloways, Louis's black "Honeypot"
and Stair's "Derry Down," picked their way swiftly and cleanly. They
might have been steering by the stars. But it was only their instinct
sense of smell which told them when they were approaching a bog too soft
to be negotiated. Then they would turn their faces to the hill, questing
for the good odour of the "gall" or bog-myrtle, which is the
characteristic smell of good going in the Galloway wilderness. Stretches
of that delightful plant surround all bogs, morasses and other
dangerously wet spots, but the little beasts knew that so far as they
were concerned they were safe where the gall bushes grew. And, indeed,
it was well to keep wide. On the moorland face the silver flowes
glittered unwholesomely, deadly as quicksands in the Bay of Luce. It was
marvellous to see how gingerly the little beasts footed it in such
places. Never did they let a foot sink to the fetlock. With a quick
flinging swerve, they cast themselves to the side of safety and the foot
would come loose with the "cloop" of an opening bottle.

Sometimes the sand was firm, and then they would scour fearlessly along
it with many tossings of their heads and playful attempts at biting one
another. But so soon as they came upon the green froth of the "quaking
bogs" or the snake-bell shine of the shivering sands, it was each for
himself again--or rather for himself and herself, for Stair's mount was
a small barren mare, which in such things is even better than a horse,
better and more cunning, besides being more companionable for her
journey-mate.

They rode through banks of midges so huge that they almost reached the
dignity of mosquitoes. For where in the world except on the lonely road
past Clatteringshaws and the Loch of the Lilies, can you meet with
midges which for number and ferocity can compare with those of the Moors
of Wigtonshire? Sometimes the two l