“And Gilian was down at the Waterfoot and saw it all,” she broke in upon the reminiscence.
“Was he, faith?” said the Cornal. “I like my tales at first hand. Tell us all about it, laddie; what vessel was she?”
He wheeled his chair about as he spoke, and roused himself to attention. It was a curious group, too much like his old court-martial to be altogether to the boy’s taste. For Miss Mary stood behind him, with an air of proud possession of him that was disquieting, and the two men seemed to expect from him some very exciting history indeed.
“Well, well!” said the Cornal, drumming with his fingers on his chair-arm impatiently, “you’re in no great hurry with your budget. What vessel was it?”
“It was the Jean,” said Gilian, bracing himself up for a plunge.
“Ye seem to be a wondrous lot mixed up with the fortunes of that particular ship,” said the Cornal sourly. “What way did it happen?”
“She was in the mouth of the river,” said Gilian, “and the spate of the river brought down the wooden bridge at Clonary. I saw it coming, and I cried to them, and Black Duncan cast off, leaving boat and tiller. She drove before the wind and went on Ealan Dubh, and sunk, and—that was all.”
The story, as he told it, was as bald of interest as if it were a page from an old almanack.
“What came of the men?” said the Cornal. “The loss of the Jean does not amount to muckle; there was not a plank of her first timbers left in her.”
“They got ashore in the small boat,” said Gilian.