For Helen was abreast of Margaret and leaning from her saddle, and speaking to the black horse, and he kent her voice and swerved to his mistress.
"Do-you-know-who-he-is-like, my brave Hillman?" said Helen.
"He is like his mist . . . he is like the devil," said Margaret.
Sometimes yet I can see Helen's face clear-cut upraised against the sky, her curling black hair flying loose, and never, never will I forget her laughing—the devilry and the joy of it.
CHAPTER XXXV.
DOL BEAG LAUGHS AGAIN.
Angus McKinnon stretched himself on the shore at the Clates. "I am not liking this waiting," said he to Dan McBride; "McNeilage might have been standing closer in."
"It will be the Revenue cutter he is feared of, Angus," said his father.
"The Revenue boat is lying off the White Rock in Lamlash," said Angus.
"McNeilage will be getting old and sober."
"Wait a wee, Angus—wait a wee, my boy." It was another McKinnon, a friend of his own, that spoke. "Things are just right; the wee boats will be in 'e noo. It is a good park of barley I had, yes, and the best of it in the kegs."