The poor old woman swooned dead away; they carried her into Christie Johnstone's house and laid her down, then hurried back—the greater terror absorbed the less.
Lady Barbara Sinclair was there from Leith; and, seeing Lord Ipsden standing in the boat with a fisherman, she asked him to tell her what it was; neither he nor any one answered her.
“Why doesn't she come about, Liston?” cried Lord Ipsden, stamping with anxiety and impatience.
“She'll no be lang,” said Sandy; “but they'll mak a mess o' 't wi' ne'er a man i' the boat.”
“Ye're sure o' thaat?” put in a woman.
“Ay, about she comes,” said Liston, as the sail came down on the first tack. He was mistaken; they dipped the lug as cleverly as any man in the town could.
“Hech! look at her hauling on the rope like a mon,” cried a woman. The sail flew up on the other tack.
“She's an awfu' lassie,”. whined another.
“He's awa,” groaned Liston, “he's doon!”
“No! he's up again,” cried Lord Ipsden; “but I fear he can't live till the boat comes to him.”