For Creggan's thoughts were all with his newly-found friends and the doings of this eventful day.
CHAPTER II.
THE NIGHT CAME ON BEFORE ITS TIME.
The home of Hermit M'Vayne, which was Creggan's foster-father's real name, was indeed a strange one. Situated under the south-western side of a rock, partly leaning against it, in fact, stood the strong and sturdy hut. The sides, and even the roof, were of timber, the latter thatched with heather and grass; though only one gable was of stone, and here was the chimney that conducted the smoke from the low hearth upwards and outwards to the sky.
And night and day around this log-house moaned the wind, for even when almost calm on the mainland a breeze was blowing here, and ever and aye on the dark cliff-foot beneath broke and boomed the waves of the restless Minch. But when the storm-king rose in his wrath and went shrieking across the bleak island, the spray from the breakers was dashed high and white, far over the hut, and would have found its way down the chimney itself had this not been protected by a moving cowl.
But I really think that the higher the wind blew, and the louder it howled, while the waves sullenly boomed and thundered on the rocks below, the cosier and happier did the hermit and his foster-child feel within.
Although, strangely enough, the hermit had never as yet told Creggan the story of his own past life, nor his reasons for settling down on this sea-girdled little morsel of rock and moorland, still he never seemed to tire of telling the boy about his adventures on many lands and many seas, nor did the lad ever weary of listening to these. And the wilder they were the better he liked them.
It was on stormy nights, especially in winter, that Creggan's strange foster-father became most communicative. But on such nights, before even the frugal supper was placed upon the board, the hermit felt he had a duty to perform, and he never neglected it. For high on a rock on the centre of the island he had erected a little hollow tower of stone. It was in reality a kind of slow-combustion stove filled with peats and chunks of wood, and with pieces of sea-weed over all. It was lit from below, and when the wind blew through the chinks and crannies, it sent forth a glare that could be seen far and high over the storm-tossed ocean. Many a brave brig or barque staggering up the Minch, and many a fisherman's boat also, on dark and windy nights had to thank the hermit's beacon-light that warned them off the Whaleback rocks.
Having set fire to his storm-signal, the old man's work was done for the day. Supper finished, a chapter from the Book of Books was read, then a prayer was prayed—not read from a printed book,—and after this the inmates of this rude but cosy hut drew their stools more closely to the fire. No light was lit if not needed, and indeed it was seldom necessary, the blazing peats and the crackling logs gave forth a glare that, though fitful, was far more pleasant to talk by than any lamp could have been.
Now, Mr. Nugent and his wife had promised to visit Creggan some evening on his lonely island, and not only Matty but her brother also were to accompany them. They did not say when the visit would be made. Their lives were as unlike Creggan's as one could possibly imagine. They were spending the summer here in Skye, living in a rough sort of a shanty, which, however, they had furnished themselves and made exceedingly comfortable; and every day brought them some new pleasure: boating parties, long journeys over the mountains, painting, botanizing, or collecting specimens and even fossils, for on no island in all our possessions, does nature display her stores on a more liberal scale than in this same wildly romantic Skye.