WE SAIL IN McKELVIE'S SKIFF TO THE HOLY ISLAND.

Through the throng of bearded sailors we strode and made our way to the kitchen of the Quay Inn. A place sacred to kenspeckle folk it was, and from its smoke-stained rafters hung many pieces of bacon and dried shallots, and there were also bunches of centaury, and camomile, and dandelion root, and bogbean, for the goodman's wife was cunning in medicines of the older-fashioned sort. In this place the noise from the common room was not so plainly heard, and indeed it gave me the impression of a haven from the boisterous spirit there.

As I stood before the blazing fire, guiltily conscious of the puddle of water at my feet where the snow had melted, Dan left the kitchen by a door leading to a yard and stables, and I heard him speaking to some one; and then when he came back there was the goodwife with him, and Dan cried for a long hot drink, for the flesh was frozen on his bones. At that the goodwife, with many "to be sures" and "of courses," hurried herself here and there, and all the time she would be talking of the sheep in this terrible weather, and of our long tramp across the hill; and then she handed us the drink, and would not be having any payment at all for it, for were we not freens of her ain folk (however far out), and strangers too, moreover? And then the low door opened, and the innkeeper entered from the taproom, a dark man, very heavy across the shoulders, and a little bent on his legs like a sailor. I had seen him as we entered, black-bearded, silent, with his two swarthy sons, eyeing his company from below pent-house brows. His eyes, blue and keen, took us in from stem to stern, as the sailors say, and he came close to Dan before the fire, and—

"Ay," says he, "it'll be the boat again," and his voice was a growl.

"Just that," says Dan, sipping his drink, and then he talked quickly, and I heard him tell of Mirren Stuart's message and of Dol Rob Beag's treachery (for he had taken the word to the Preventives of where McGilp kept his cargo in the cove above the Snib before it was carted inland, or stowed in many an innocent-looking smack bound for the mainland).

"Dol Rob Beag will be slipping his cable one of these fine nights," growled the listener; and then, "There's just the caves at the Rhu Ban," [1] says he.

"I had that in my head," says Dan, "for the gangers are in the Cove at Bealach an sgadan, and McGilp will be in the Channel. McDearg o' the Isle House is in this to his oxters. There's just nothing for it but to show a glim on the seaward side o' the Isle, and McGilp will take the Gull to the Rhu Ban when the wind takes off; but, man, it's risky, devilish risky, wi' the bay fou o' boats."

"It's the deil's own night," agreed the innkeeper, "black as pitch and blowing smoke, but the snow will be helping us too," and then we sat before the fire all silent for a while, the goodwife busy with her infusions and brews.

"Will ye be remembering the night they pressganged McKillop?" thus suddenly to Dan.

"A droll night's work yon."

"Ye see," turning to me, "this Neil McKillop would be a likely lad, clever on the boats, and clever wi' the snares—ay, clever, clever—and kept his mother well. Ay—well, there came a night like this, but not so much wind, and the pressgang boat slipped into the bay, and nobody knowing, and ashore came the crew o' her, and many's the likely lad they took, and among them Neil McKillop. The boat would just be shoving off from the old Stone Quay when his mother came there in her white mutch.

"'Give me back my son, my only son,' she cried, standing on the quay-head; 'you will not be taking away the one that keeps me in meat and drink, me an old, old woman. Och, bring him back, my lad, and I'll be blessing ye and praying for ye in your bloody wars.'

"At that a tarry breeks up with an oar and skelps a splash o' water at the old woman, and laughed at her with the wind blowing her skirts, and showing her lean shanks.

"'Go back to your weeds and your snakes, ye witch," he cries in the Gaelic; 'we'll make a sailor-man out o' your whelp,' and the oars began to plash.

"Down on her knees went the old cailleach. 'Bring him to me, ye hounds, before I put a curse on ye,' and she tore her coorie from her head, and the wind tore through the strands of her white hair, and they rose like elf-locks. High above her head she threw her arm, her fingers stiff and pointing, there on the quay-head, an awesome sight in the mirk of a half moon.

"Then slowly, slowly, softly she began—

"'Cursed be ye all, seed, breed, and generations o' ye. The madness o' the sea come on ye in the still night watches, friendless, friendless on the face o' the waters be your lives, and your deaths too foul for the sea to be giving you a cleanly burial.' Then in a skirl o' rage, her face working, 'The foul things o' the deep shall reive the flesh from ye in your death, and in your lives ye shall mourn for the quiet streams o' fresh water and the sight of green things growing—and never, never, never get nigh them. . . .'

"In the boat the men lay on their oars, with faces white below the tan o' wind and weather, and then hurriedly she came astern, and Neil McKillop sprang on the quay, and to his mother, and the pressgang boat shot into the haze off the land, and the mother and son went back to the croft on the hillside."

His tale finished, McKelvie drained his glass at a gulp, and his lips pressed together as though he were unwilling that even the volatile essence might escape, and then—

"We'll go," says he. "Robin!"

At his word one of the swarthy sons entered and stood waiting, and through the open door to the common room I saw groups of sailors, asleep on the floor before the fire, and asleep on the benches where they sat; yet some hardened drinkers kept the drink going.

"Ye see, Hamish," Dan whispered, "there's a big sea running, and these sailor boys would rather risk the floor than their wee boats."

I felt a sinking at my heart, for I knew that the sailors were sweirt to risk their lives, yet there was not one timid face among them, but many bold and truculent—men used to risk their lives, and maybe enjoying the risk. But I held my peace, for I thought shame of my terror, and before Dan too. So the four of us went out quietly the back way and came to the quay, where we found a boat on the lee side, afloat, and with the mast stepped, and all ready for hoisting the sail, and I wondered if Dan's talking to the goodwife in the inn yard had had anything to do with it, for the boats at that time of the year were mostly upturned on the beach, and indeed most of the dingies and gigs from the ships were also drawn up.

Robin McKelvie slipped down the quay-wall as nimbly as a cat, and busied himself with the sail, doing what I know not, though I prayed he might not loosen any reef, and his father followed, more slowly, for he was a heavier man, but wonderfully active in a boat. Then Dan bade me climb down, and I scrambled down and found my feet on a gunwale just as I expected to feel the water, so I sat down in the boat suddenly, and Dan was beside me in a wee while.

Robin had the sail up, and made fast, as his father cast off and took the tiller, and the roar of the sea all round me as we sailed from the lee of the quay at first filled me with fear, but soon I felt the skiff rise to the first sea, and I forgot my terror in watching the helmsman.

"Ay, ay," he spoke softly; "they're coming now, the three sisters," and his eyes seemed to pierce the gloom for the three rolling curling waves as he shouldered the skiff over them. Sometimes I watched the water curling over the gunwale, and wondered if ever again I would reach the land, and then a wave would break somewhere near, and the helmsman would mutter—

"I ken ye; I will be hearing your whispering," and it seemed to me as if he were a cunning old warrior in the midst of well-tried foes, wary and courageous, and always winning through. But in the middle of the bay the waves rose madly round us, the stout skiff was tossed like a cork, now perched giddily on the crest, and now racing madly to the trough, and then to the crest again with a horrible side motion (which I think seamen call yawing), most fearful of all. But McKelvie spoke to his boat as I have heard horsemen speak to their horses.

When a squall struck us and the skiff lay down to it, he would croon softly—

"You will not be killing yourself, lass—easy, easy,—oh, but you are eager for the sea," and I knew that I was watching a master hand, a man cunning in the moods of the sea; but as I sat he bade me bale the water out of the boat, for it was slushing about high over the floor-boards, and these had come adrift, and were moving with every motion, so I baled with a will, glad for something mechanical to do, to keep my eyes off the menacing waves which seemed to rush up to devour us, and as if we were too poor a prey, spurned us away. Then I saw that we were in calmer water, and the steep shore of the Isle seemed close to, and the light of the white house clear, and in a little time the sail came rattling down, and the skiff's keel grated on the flat gravel, and we sprang ashore and put the anchor on the beach though the tide was going back.

And as we made our way over the gravelly shore I saw a crouching figure rise from among the wrack and come to us.

"Oh, oh; have ye come for me, father? Have ye come for me at last?" and a girl flung herself into McKelvie's arms, and hung there crying.

"Wheest, lass, wheest," commanded the innkeeper sternly.

"Oh, I just crept as near the sea as I could go, for oh, yon hoose is no' canny, and a' day the ravens from the Red Rocks have walked in at the doors, fluttering and croaking, and the Red Man is crying that he's gaun tae his hame the night; and McRae piping to him a' day, and him drinking and blaspheming. . . ."

"If McDearg's gaun the night, we'll maybe hae news tae stop him, my dear," said Dan. "Anywie, ye're surely no' feart of a raven's croaking?"

With that we started for the Isle House, the whitewash of it looking yellowish against the snow, and all about us the flapping of wings and the crying of sea-birds as our feet scrunched on the gravel.

"I canna go there," cried the lass. "I just canna; let me bide in the boat," and then, as she saw her brother take the lantern from the bows, she ran to him.

"Take me wi' ye, Robin. I'll speil tae the Goat's Ledge wi' ye; but oh, do not be making me go back there. . . ."

"Wheest, my lassie, my poor wee lassie," said her father; "there's nae harm will come on you, wi' your father and Robin beside ye; but you will not be mentioning any Goat's Ledge, for the devil himself will carry word to the Preventives."

So, standing some way from the skiff, we held a council of war, and at length Robin took his lantern and left us to climb to the Goat Ledge and make the warning signal, should M'Gilp be in the channel, and we others made for an outhouse, where we left McKelvie's lass content enough wi' two collies, for she was at her service in the Isle House, and they kent her. We left her there sitting on a bag of corn and the dogs at her feet, and made our way through the yard to the house.

[1] Bhuda ban=white headland.