A little later, Mr. Atkins and Ryan appeared, and the four passengers adjourned to the cabin, where the younger Macdonald, who acted as steward, had set out upon the cabin table a formidable array of cold meats, bread, biscuits, and fruits, both fresh and preserved. A pot of hot coffee had also been provided, and a bowl of hot punch was ready for those who preferred it.
After breakfast, the passengers returned to the deck.
They passed Fort George in good time, and came out into the rougher waters of the Moray Frith. Here their progress was less rapid. The Lucky lurched somewhat; but when she turned into the straits, and finally emerged into the smoother waters of Cromarty Frith, she was moving as steadily, although by no means as swiftly, as a bird upon the wing.
The Arrow was out of sight, and Macdonald crowded on all the sail the small sloop would bear. It was well he did so, for as the day wore on the wind grew shifty, and sometimes blew dead ahead, and the average rate of speed up the Cromarty Frith did not exceed four miles an hour.
It was after midday when they turned into the river which led to the loch of the Wilderness. Lord Towyn recognized the stream by the description that had been given him, and unhesitatingly directed an advance. Sir Harold and Mr. Atkins had many misgivings as the sloop crept slowly up the river, a mere deep cut between high hills, their progress like the snail’s, but they did not venture to express it to their hopeful and confident young guide.
As the stream grew narrower their misgivings increased, and the young earl read their thoughts in their grave faces.
“Courage!” he said, approaching the baronet. “It is true we barely creep along here, and the day is wearing on, but the yacht has had to go slowly here also, and cannot be more than an hour in advance of us.”
“But, Arthur,” suggested the baronet, giving voice to his apprehensions, “suppose that the man of the yacht deceived you as to the proper route, or that we have taken the wrong course in running up this river? I can’t believe that any one can make a cut in the hills like this one an approach even to a Highland stronghold. No wind can strike our sails, or so little, at any rate, that we could easily walk faster than we sail, if only we had a level road to walk on. And if we are upon the wrong tack, what will become of Neva, my poor wronged little Neva?”
His voice trembled as he asked the question.
“I know we are going straight to her, Sir Harold,” said the earl hopefully. “Believe and trust in my convictions. You may smile at the idea, but I feel that I am getting nearer and nearer to Neva with every inch we gain.”