The landlady was good-hearted evidently.
"And is it," she said, "is it that you won't be taken just a thistleful[[3]] of mountain-dew to make your meal digest?"
[[3]] A glass shaped like a thistle.
But the boys only laughed and shook their heads.
The sea out yonder was very blue and still to-day, but while Willie was gazing away across it, somewhat pensively perhaps, suddenly first one then another and a third great fountain of snow-white spray was thrown about twenty feet into the air.
"Oh, look, look, Creggan! What can it be?"
"Only the blowing whales," our young hero replied. "They are always about. And there are always plenty of seals about the low rocks, but I never shoot them, because they are so beautiful, and have eyes that look through and through you."
In their march across a long heathy moorland on their way to Quiraing, for the first time in his life Willie Nugent had the pleasure of seeing a real Scottish eagle. He was wheeling round and round in circles, but ever upwards, as if he would seek to reach the sun itself, and ever and anon his wild whistling scream made hills and rocks resound.
"There now," cried Creggan, pointing skywards, "that isn't a lark this time. And that isn't a lark's song."
"No," said Willie, gazing wonderingly up at the huge bird.