sparkled, far us the eye could see, a flashing
surface—

             Dappled o'er with shadows flung
     From many a brooding cloud:

the wool-white cloud above, the soft shadow
below. There was no danger, and the Viking
was like a lion. All went merry as a marriage
bell. Picture after picture rose up, grew into
perfect loveliness, and faded like a fairy palace
into the air. Now it was Macleod's Maidens, the
three sister peaks on the western coast of Skye,
linked together by a dim rainbow, and glimmering
brightly through a momentary shower;
again, it was the far-off mouth of Loch Bracadale,
rich with the darkest purple tints, with a
real red-sailed fishing-boat in the foreground to
bring out the picture, just as Turner would have
placed it on the canvas; and still again, it was
the Cuchullins, already wreathed in mist,
magnified to still more gigantic size by their own
darkness, and looking as forlorn as if no
sunlight had ever fallen on their hoary brows.

But more frequently, with keener interest,
with more anxious longing, our eyes were turned
westward; to the far-off isles whither we were
bound. We could see them better now, misted
over by distance—part of the Barra highland,
the three great hills of Uist, and, dimmest of
all, the high hills of Harris. As the vapours
shifted on the coast, the shape of the land
changed. What had looked like mountains
drifted away before the wind; what had seemed
a cloud, outlined itself darkly and more darkly;
and, strange to say, the whole coast seemed,
as we drew nearer, to retreat further away,
insomuch that when we had beaten ten or
twelve miles of the actual distance to Loch
Boisdale, the outer Hebrides looked as distant
as ever, and we almost thought there must have
been some mistake in our calculation of the
number of miles across.

It was a strange feeling, riding out there in
the open Minch in that little boat, and knowing
that a storm, if it did catch us there, would
leave us little time to say our prayers. The
vessel was too small and crank to lie to, and
running before the wind she would have
drowned herself in no time. True, we had
extemporised a kind of wooden scuttle for the
cockpit, which might be of some service in a
sea, and did actually save us from some peril;
but the fact was, the boat, as Hamish Shaw
expressed it, wanted "body," and would never
live out bad weather in the open. It was a
wonder Hamish ever accompanied us at all—
he had such a profound contempt for the Tern,
quite agreeing with the skipper in Canna that
she was merely a toy, a plaything. We
suppose, however, that he had confidence in
himself, and knew that if any one could save her
at a pinch, he could.

We had started so late, that before we were
half way across, it was growing quite dark.
It promised to be a good night, however. The
worst of our situation just then, was, that the
wind was beginning to fail, and we were
making very little way through the rough roll
of the sea.

One certainly did not feel quite comfortable,
tumbling out there in the deepening twilight,
while the land on either side slowly mingled
itself with the clouds. After taking our bearings
by the compass, and getting a drop of
something warm, we could do nothing but sit
and wait for events. The Viking was beginning
to feel unwell with his old complaint.
Shivering he looked to windward, seeing all sorts
of nameless horrors. Twenty times, at least,
he asked Hamish what sort of a night it
promised to be? Twice he rushed down to
examine the weather-glass, an aneroid, and, to
his horror, it was slowly sinking. Then he
got lights and buried himself among the charts,
feebly gazing at a blank space of paper labelled
"The Minch." At last, unable to disguise it
any longer, he began to throw out dark hints
that we were doomed; that it was madness
sailing at night; that he had seen it from the
beginning, and should not have ventured so far;
that he knew from the colour of the sky that
we should have a storm in the night; and that,
only let him get safe back "round the Rhu,"
no temptation on earth should tempt him again
beyond the Crinan Canal.

It is to be feared that Hamish Shaw was
rather short with the Viking, and attributed
his trepidation to ignoble causes. Hamish
Shaw was in his glory. He loved sailing at
night, and had been constantly urging us to
it. He had learned the habit as a fisherman,
it was associated with much that was wildest
and noblest in his life, and he was firmly
persuaded that he could see his way anywhere
in the waters, by dark as well as by day.
Owl-like, wakeful and vigilant, he sat at the
helm, with his weather-beaten face looming
through his matted ringlets, his black pipe set
between his teeth, and his eyes looking keenly
to windward. He was not a sentimental man:
he did not care much for "scenery." But do
you think there was no dreamy poetry in his
soul; that he had no subtle pleasure, concealed
almost from himself, as the heaven bared its
glittering breast of stars, and the water that
darkened beneath, glimmered back the light,
and the wind fell softly, till we could hear the
deep breathing of the sea itself? What
memories drifted across his brain; of wild nights
at the herring-fishing, of rain, snow, and
wind; of tender nights in his highland home,
when he went courting in highland fashion to
the lassie's chamber-door! He is a strange
study, Hamish Shaw. To hear him speak
directly of any scene he has visited, you would
not credit him with any insight. But he sees
more than he knows. His life is too full to take
in separate effects, or wonder anew. What
light he throws for us on old thoughts and
superstitions, on tender affections of the race!
His speech is full of water and wind. He uses
a fine phrase, as naturally as nature fashions a
bud or a leaf. He speaks in natural symbols,
as freely as he uses an oar. His clear fresh
vision penetrates even into the moral world,
quite open and fearless even there, where the
best of us become purblind.