The sun went down, and a smart breeze rose off the land as the "Ben-my-Chree," with the fleet behind her, rounded Contrary Head, and crossed the two streams that flow there. For an hour afterward there was still light enough to see the coast-line curved into covelets and promontories, and to look for miles over the hills with their moles of gorse, and tussocks of lush grass. The twilight deepened as the fleet rounded Niarbyl Point, and left the islet on their lee, with Cronk-ny-Irey-Lhaa towering into the gloomy sky. When they sailed across Fleshwick Bay the night gradually darkened, and nothing was seen of Ennyn Mooar. But after an hour of darkness the heavens lightened again, and glistened with stars, and when old Billy Quilleash brought his boat head to the wind in six fathoms of water outside Port Erin, the moon had risen behind Bradda, and the rugged headland showed clear against the sky. One after another the boats and the fleet brought to about the "Ben-my-Chree."
Dan asked old Billy if he had found the herrings on this ground at the same time in former seasons.
"Not for seven years," said the old man.
"Then why try now?"
Billy stretched out his hand to where a flight of sea-gulls were dipping and sailing in the moonlight. "See the gull there?" he said. "She's skipper to-night; she's showing us the fish."
Davy Fayle had been leaning over the bow, rapping with a stick at the timbers near the water's edge.
"Any signs?" shouted Billy Quilleash.
"Ay," said Davy, "the mar-fire's risin'."
The wind had dropped, and luminous patches of phosphorescent light in the water were showing that the herrings were stirring.
"Let's make a shot; up with the gear," said Quilleash, and preparations were made for shooting the nets over the quarter.