“Not plenty; enough to clear the rock,” was the reply.
“Sit fast, and you’ll see what a rush through we shall go. Hold tight.”
Max set his teeth, and his eyes showed a complete circle of white about the iris as the boat careened over, and, feeling now the current which raced foaming around the point, he had a strange catching of the breath, while his hands clung spasmodically to the thwart and side.
The huge mass of frowning rock seemed to be coming to meet them; the grey-winged birds flew hither and thither; the water, that had been dark blue flecked with white, suddenly became one wild race of foam, such as he had seen behind the paddle-boxes of the steamers during his run up from Glasgow. There was the perpendicular wall on his right, and a cluster of black crags on his left, and toward these the boat was rushing at what seemed to him a terrific rate. It was like running wildly to their death; but Kenneth was seated calmly holding the tiller, and Scood half lay back, letting one hand hang over and splash amongst the foam.
Hiss, roar, rush, and a spray of spattering drops of the beaten waves splashed over them as they raced on, passing through the opening at a rate which made Max Blande feel dizzy. Then, just as the boat careened over till the bellying sail almost touched the low crags on their left, it made quite a leap, rose upright, the pressure on the sail ceased, the rush of wind seemed to be suddenly cut off, and they were gliding rapidly along in an almost waveless bay, with a deep, loud, thunderous roar booming into their ears.
“What do you think of that?” cried Kenneth, laughing in his guest’s astonished face.
“I—I don’t know. Is anything broken?”
“Broken? No. We’re under the shelter of the great point.”
“Oh, I see. But what’s that noise? Thunder?”
“Thunder? No. That’s the Grey Mare wagging her tail.”