"The land is no' that high that ye need to
be scared. Leave you the vessel to me, and
I'll tak' her through it snug. But we may as
weel hae the third reef in the mainsail, and
mak' things ready in case o' need."

This was soon done. The mainsail was
reefed, and the second jib substituted for the
large one; after a glance at the compass,
Hamish again sat quiet at the helm.

"Barra," he said, renewing our late subject
of talk, "is a great place for superstition, and
sae is Uist. The folk are like weans, simply
and kindly. There is a Ben-shee weel-ken'd
at the head o' Loch Eynort, and anither haunts
one o' the auld castles o' the great Macneil o'
Barra, I hae heard, too, that whiles big snakes
wi' manes like horses come up into the freshwater
lakes and lie in wait to devour the flesh
o' man. In a fresh-water loch at the Harris,
there was a big beast like a bull, that came up
ae day and ate half the body o' a lad when he
was bathing. They tried to drain the loch to
get at the beast, but there was o'er muckle
water. Then they baited a great hook wi' the
half o' a sheep, but the beast was o'er wise to
bite. Lord, it was a droll fishing! They're a
curious people. But doe ye no' think, if the
sea and the lochs were drainit dry, there would
be all manner o' strange animals that nae man
kens the name o'? There's a kind of water-
world. Nae man kens what it's like—for the
drowned canna see, and if they could see, they
couldna speak. Aye!" he added, suddenly
changing the current of his thoughts, "aye!
the wind's rising, and we're no' far off the
shore, for I can smell the land."

By what keenness of sense Hamish managed
to "smell the land," we had no time just then
to inquire; for all our wits were employed in
looking after the safety of the Tern. She was
bowling along under three-reefed mainsail and
storm-jib, and was getting just about as much
as she could bear. With the rail under to the
cockpit, the water lapping heavily against the
coaming, and ever and anon splashing right
over in the cockpit itself, she made her way
fast through the rising sea. In vain we strained
our eyes to see the shore:

     The blinding mist came down and hid the land,
     As far as eye could see!

All at once, the foggy vapours peculiar to the
country had steeped everything in darkness;
we could guess from the wind where the land
lay, but were at a loss to tell how near. What
with the whistling wind, the darkness, the
surging sea, we felt bewildered and amazed.

The Wanderer looked at his watch, and it
was past midnight. Even if the fog cleared
off, it would not be safe to take Loch Boisdale
without good light, and there was nothing for
it but to beat about till sunrise. This was a
prospect not at all comfortable, for we might
even then be in the neighbourhood of dangerous
rocks, and, if the wind rose any higher, there
was nothing for it but running before the wind,
God knew whither. Meantime, it was determined
to stand off a little to the open, in dread
of coming to over-close quarters with the
shore.

Hamish sat at the helm, stern and imperturbable.
We knew by his silence that he was
anxious, but he expressed no anxiety whatever.
Ever and anon he slipped down his hand on
the deck to leeward, feeling how near the
water was to the cockpit, and, as there seemed
considerable danger of foundering in the heavy
sea, he speedily agreed with us that it would
be wise to close over the cockpit hatches. That
done, all was done that hands could do, save
holding the boat with the helm steady and
close to the wind—a task which Hamish fulfilled
to perfection. Indeed, we were in no slight
danger from squalls, for the wind was off the
land, and nothing saved us, when struck by
heavy gusts, but the firmness and skill of the
helmsman. He had talked about smelling the
land, but it is certain that he seemed to smell
the wind. Almost before a squall touched her,
the Tern was standing up to it, tight and firm,
when ever so slight a falling off might have
stricken us over to the mast, and perhaps (for
the cockpit hatches were a small protection)
foundered us in the open sea.

The Viking was a wreck by this time, too
weak even to scream out his prophecies of
doom, but lying anticipating his fate in his
forecastle hammock, with the grog at his side
and his eyes closed despairingly against all the
terrors of the scene. The cook was lying in
the cabin, very sick, in that happy frame of
mind when it is indifferent whether we float on,
or go to the bottom. The Wanderer, drenched
through, clung close beside the pilot, and
strained his eyes against wind and salt spray
into the darkness. It would be false to say
that he felt comfortable, but as false to say
that he felt frightened. Though dreadfully
excitable by nature, he was of too sanguine a
temperament to be overpowered by half-seen
perils. On the whole, though the situation was
precarious, he had by no means made up his
mind to be drowned; and there was something
so stimulating in the brave conduct of the little
ship, which seemed to be fighting out the battle
on her own account, that at times he was light-
hearted enough to sing out, loud, a verse of his
favourite Tom Bowling. No man, however,
could have sat there in the darkness, amid the
rush of wind and wave, without at times thinking
of the power of God; so again and again, through
the Wanderer's mind, with a deep sea-music of
their own, rolled the wondrous verses of the
Psalm: "They that go down to the sea in ships,
that do business in great waters. They see the
works of the Lord, and his wonders in the
deep. For He commandeth, and raiseth the
stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof.
They mount up to the heaven, they go down
again to the depths; their soul is melted
because of trouble. They reel to and fro, and
stagger like a drunken man, and are at their
wits' end. Then they cry unto the Lord in
their trouble, and He bringeth them out of their
distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so
that the waves thereof are still. Then are they