to turn and fly. But Hamish Shaw, the pilot,
setting his lips together, delivered himself
so violently against flight, vowed so staunchly
that having come thus far we must proceed,
or be for evermore branded as pretenders,
and finally swore so roundly by his reputation
as a seaman to carry us safely through
all perils, that even the Viking shook his
horrent locks and became for the instant
nearly as courageous as he looked. "Nothing,"
said the Viking, in a glow of reckless ardour,
"nothing gives me so much pleasure as tearing
through it, with the wind blowing half a
gale, and the boat's side buried to the cockpit
coaming."

We had all great confidence in Hamish
Shaw, for two very good reasons; firstly,
because he had long been accustomed to sailing
all sorts of boats in these waters; and secondly,
because he was steady as a rock, and cool as
snow in times of peril. Again and again,
during the voyage, did we find reason to
bless ourselves that we had such a man on
board. He was fond of talk, and had much
to say well worth listening to, but at critical
moments he was like the sphinx—only rather
more active. To see him at the helm, with
his eye on the waves, steadily helping the little
craft through a tempestuous sea, bringing
her bow up to the billows, and burying it
in them whenever they would have drowned
her broadside; or sharply watching the water
to windward, with the mainsail sheet in his
hand, shaking her through the squalls off a
mountainous coast—these were things worth
seeing, things that made one proud of the
race. As for the Viking, though he had
considerable experience in sailing in smooth water,
and though he was a very handy fellow in the
ship's carpenter line, he was nowhere when it
began to blow. He had been subject to
palpitation of the heart for many years, and it
always troubled him most when he was most
wanted: making him very pale, feeble, and
fluttering. He took a great deal of whisky to
cure his complaint, but it had merely the effect
of exciting him without relieving his unfortunate
symptoms. The Wanderer could do a
little in an emergency, but his nautical
knowledge was very slight, just enabling him to
distinguish one rope from another if he were
not particularly hurried in his movements. The
cook was a lady, and of course could be of no
use on deck in bad weather: though, as Hamish
Shaw expressed it, she showed a man's spirit
throughout the voyage.

In plain point of fact, there was only one
sailor on board; and as he had only one pair of
hands, and could not be everywhere at the
same moment, it was a miracle that the Tern
escaped destruction.

As the distance from Canna to Loch Boisdale,
the nearest point in the outer Hebrides,
was about thirty miles, all quite open water,
without the chance of any kind of harbour, and
as the Tern, even with a fair wind, could not
be expected to run more than six miles an hour
in a sea, it was advisable to choose a very good
day indeed for the passage. As usual in such
cases, we began by being over-cautious, and
ended by being over-impatient. This day was
too calm, and that day was too windy. We
ended by doing two things which we had
commenced by religiously avowing not to do—
that is to say, never to start for a long passage
except at early morning, and never to venture
on such a passage without a fair wind. We
weighed anchor at about two o'clock in the
afternoon, with the wind blowing north-west—
nearly dead in our teeth.

But it was a glorious day, sunny and cheerful;
the clouds were high and white, and the
waters were sparkling and flashing, far as the
eye could see. As soon as the wind touched the
white wings of the little Tern, she slipped out
of the harbour with rapid flight, plunged
splashing out at the harbour mouth, and was
soon swimming far out in the midst of the
spray, happy, eager, tilting the waves from her
breast like a swimmer in his strength. Next
to the rapturous enjoyment of having wings
oneself, or being able to sport among the
waves like a great northern diver, is the
pleasure of sailing during such weather in a boat
like the Tern.

Canna never looked more beautiful than
today—her cliffs wreathed into wondrous forms
and tinted with deep ocean dyes, and the
slopes above rich and mellow in the light. But
what most fascinates the eye is the southern
coast of Skye, lying on the starboard bow as we
are beating northward. The Isle of Mist is clear
to-day, not a vapour lingers on the heights;
and although it must be admitted that much of
its strange and eerie beauty is lost, still we
have a certain gentle loveliness in its place. Can
that be Skye, the deep coast full of rich warm
under-shadow, the softly-tinted hills,
"nakedly visible without a cloud," sleeping against
the "dim sweet harebell-colour" of the
heavens? Where is the thunder-cloud, where
are the weeping shadows of the cirrus, where
are the white flashes of cataracts through the
black smoke of rain on the mountain-side?
Are these the Cuchullins the ashen-grey
heights turning to solid amber at the peaks, the
dry seams of the torrents softening in the
sunlight to golden shades? Why, Blaavin, with
hooked forehead, would be bare as Primrose
Hill, save for one slight white wreath of vapour,
that, glittering with the hues of the prism,
floats gently away, to die in the delicate blue.
Dark are the headlands, yet warmly dark,
projecting into the sparkling sea and casting
summer shades. Skye is indeed transformed, yet
its beauty is still spiritual, still it keeps the
faint feeling of the glamour. It looks like
witch-beauty, wondrous and unreal. You feel
that an instant may change it, and so it may
and will. Ere we have sailed many miles more,
Skye will be clouded over with a misty woe,
her face will be black and wild, she will sob in
the midst of the darkness with the voice of falling
rain and eerie winds.

We were flying along swiftly, and the breeze
was heading us less and less. The sea still