"Forgive me, Miss McDonald," said the officer, courteously; "but our orders are precise; no one can leave the island without a pass."
"I know it," she replied, with dignity, "and have provided myself. Here is my passport, signed by my father."
The officer took and ran his eye over it quickly: "Flora McDonald; with two servants, Betty Bruce and Malcolm Rae," he read. His gaze moved rapidly over the occupants of the boat, resting for a moment on the bright and intelligent face of the young lady.
"This seems all right, Miss McDonald," he said, respectfully, returning her the paper. "You can pass. Good-by, and a pleasant journey."
"Many thanks," she answered. "You should be successful in catching the bird that is seeking to fly from that island. Your net is spread wide enough."
"I hardly think our bird will get through the meshes," he answered, laughingly.
In a few minutes more they were wide asunder. A peculiar smile rested on the face of the lady, which seemed reflected from the countenances of her attendants, but not a word was said on the subject of the recent incident.
Their reticence continued until the rocky shores of the Isle of Skye were reached, and the boat was put into one of the many inlets that break its irregular contour. Silence, indeed, was maintained until they had landed on a rocky shelf, and the boat had pushed off on its return journey. Then Flora McDonald spoke.
"So far we are safe," she said. "But I confess I was frightfully scared when that patrol-boat stopped us."
"You did not look so," said Betty Bruce, in a voice of masculine depth.