“In there is a little bay, called Loch Bay, and by it a rural hamlet or village, which is claimed as the real capital of Skye. It is called Stein.”
“But see, see,” cried Rory. “Is that a geyser rising out of the sea between us and the shore?”
“Why, it is very like a fountain,” said Ralph.
“It is very like a whale,” said Allan, and McBain laughed.
“It is a whale,” he added. “It is the solitary, or caa’in’ whale, and the rascal is in there after the herrings. A more independent brute doesn’t swim in the sea. He ignores a boat. He looks upon mankind as poor, miserable, puny creatures, and I don’t think he would go very far out of his way for a line-of-battle ship.”
An hour or two afterwards they came in sight of Duntulm Castle, previously having passed the little church of Kilmuir, with its bleak-looking stone-built manse. Near it is a graveyard, which had very great interest for poetic Rory.
“Poor Flora McDonald!” he almost sighed. “I always think that Prince Charlie should have taken her away with him to sunny Italy and married her. How beautifully the story of the ill-fated prince would have read had it ended thus!”
“Rory,” said Ralph, “I’ll leave you to dream and romance while I go and see about the luncheon.”
“So like an Englishman,” said Rory.
“Never mind,” replied Ralph; “we can’t be all alike. What if I do prefer roly-poly to romance; don’t the English win all their battles on beefsteak?”