Let us now quit the shore, and bear company with the party on board, who, having dined sumptuously, sat sipping their coffee on deck, while the swift craft skimmed the calm waters of the bay, and unfolded in her course the beautiful panorama of the shore—the bold steep bluff of Brayhead, the curved strand of Killiney, the two “Sugar Loaves” rising from the bosom of dark woods, and, in the distance, the higher chain of the Wicklow mountains, while on the opposite side Howth seemed like a blue island studding the clear surface of the bay. Lord Kilgoff and Mr. Sickleton paid but passing attention to the bright picture around. A learned discussion on naval matters, wherein my Lord took the opportunity of storing his mind with a goodly stock of technicals, to be used at some future occasion, occupied them altogether, leaving her Ladyship and Roland Cashel to the undisturbed enjoyment of the scene and its associations.
They paid the highest tribute the picturesque can exact—they sat in silence watching the changing tints, which from red faded to violet, then gray, and at last grew dark with closing night, while the wind freshening sent the sea rushing swiftly past, and made their light craft heave and pitch heavily.
“We are returning to Kingstown, I trust?” said my Lord to Sickleton, who had left him for a moment, to give orders about shortening sail. “It appears to me like a threatening night.”
“It looks dirty, my Lord,” said Sickleton, dryly, as he walked aft with the pilot, and conferred with him in a low tone.
“Are we making for Kingstown, Mr. Cashel?” said my Lord, in a voice he was not able to divest of anxiety.
“I believe not,” said Cashel, rising, and approaching the compass. “No, we are lying down channel straight as we can go.”
“Ay, and very well for us that we can do it,” growled out the pilot. “If we make the Hook Light before we tack, I shall say we 're lucky.”
“Does he mean there is any danger, Mr. Cashel?” said Lady Kilgoff, but in a voice devoid of tremor.
“None whatever; but I am sadly distressed at having carried you out so far, since I find that in the present state of the tide, and with the wind still driving more to the north, we cannot bear up for Kingstown, but must run along the shore.”
“Think nothing of that,” said she, gayly; “real peril I have no fancy for—a mere inconvenience is of no moment whatever; but”—here she dropped her voice very low—“say something to my Lord—give him some encouragement.”