Mary was silent for a second or two. Then she said, in an absent kind of way—
"There are wrongs and injuries done that can never be undone. I can never rebuild Castle Heimra."
CHAPTER III.
THE CAVE OF THE CROWING COCK.
Mary Stanley's eyes had not deceived her; the boat of which she had caught a momentary glimpse was a smart little yawl of twenty tons or so, that was making in for Heimra Island; and there were three men on deck—two redcaps forward, the master at the helm. This last was a young fellow of about six and twenty, a little, not much, over middle height, of somewhat pale complexion, and with singularly dark eyes and hair. The curious thing was this: though you could not say that any of his features were particularly fine (except, perhaps, his coal-black eyes, which were clearly capable of flame, if the occasion demanded) the general effect of them was striking; they seemed to convey an impression of strength—of a certain lazy audacity of strength; while the forehead revealed by the peaked cap being pushed carelessly backward denoted at once intelligence and resolution. But indeed at this moment the young man's attitude was one of merely quiescent indifference—though there was an occasional quick scrutiny of the neighbouring coast; all the graver perils of the voyage were over; they were running easily before a steady wind; and they would get safely to their anchorage ere the light had wholly died out of the western skies.
"Down foresail!" he called to the men. For now they were passing a headland that formed one of two arms encircling a sheltered little bay—a strangely silent and solitary-looking place it seemed in this mysterious light. Sterile, too; tumbled masses of rock with hardly a scrap of vegetation on them; a few clumps of birches here and there; an occasional dark green pine higher up the cliffs. But at all events it was quiet and still; the water lapped clear and crisp along the shingle; while the murmur of the outer sea was still everywhere around, and also, on the northern side of the bay, there was a long out-jutting reef where there was a continuous surge of white foam over the saw-toothed edge.
"Down jib!" The sound of a human voice was so strange in this solitude—far stranger than the mere rattle of blocks and tackle.
"Main sheet!"
The two men came aft: the steersman jammed down his helm; the vessel slowly rounded into the wind—the boom being hauled in meanwhile—the mainsail flapping and shivering in the light breeze.
"Stand by to let go!" was the next order; and the hands went forward again—the vessel gradually losing the way that was on her, until she seemed absolutely motionless.