“Let me steer first,” she said, “and then tell me how things work.”
“That is whiles the best plan,” said Malcolm. “Jist lay yer han’ upo’ the tiller, my leddy, an’ luik oot at yon pint they ca’ the Deid Heid yonner. Ye see, whan I turn the tiller this gait, her heid fa’s aff frae the pint; an’ whan I turn ’t this ither gait, her heid turns till ’t again: haud her heid jist aboot a twa yairds like aff o’ ’t.”
Florimel was more delighted than ever when she felt her own hand ruling the cutter—so overjoyed indeed, that, instead of steering straight, she would keep playing tricks with the rudder—fretting the mouth of the sea-palfrey, as it were. Every now and then Malcolm had to expostulate.
“Noo, my leddy, caw canny. Dinna steer sae wull. Haud her steddy. —My lord, wad ye jist say a word to my leddy, or I’ll be forced to tak the tiller frae her.”
But by and by she grew weary of the attention required, and, giving up the helm, began to seek the explanation of its influence, in a way that delighted Malcolm.
“Ye’ll mak a guid skipper some day,” he said: “ye spier the richt questons, an’ that’s ’maist as guid ’s kennin’ the richt answers.”
At length she threw herself on the cushions Malcolm had brought for her, and, while her father smoked his cigar, gazed in silence at the shore. Here, instead of sands, low rocks, infinitively broken and jagged, filled all the tidal space—a region of ceaseless rush and shattered waters. High cliffs of gray and brown rock, orange and green with lichens here and there, and in summer crowned with golden furze, rose behind—untouched by the ordinary tide, but at high water lashed by the waves of a storm.
Beyond the headland which they were fast nearing, the cliffs and the sea met at half-tide.
The moment they rounded it—
“Luik there, my lord,” cried Malcolm, “—there’s Colonsay Castel, ’at yer lordship gets yer name, I’m thinkin’, an’, ony gait, ane o’ yer teetles frae. It maun be mony a hunner year sin’ ever Colonsay baid intill ’t!”