"And I suppose now," said Calum, meditatively, "they will have him bringing in the tables for them every time they come to play cards in the middle of the night. Aw, Dyeea, I know what I would do if I was the master of that place: I would have the keepers hidden, and when those people came in I would have three or four guns go off at them all at once: would not that settle them?"
"You are a foolish lad, Calum, to think you can harm people like that with a gun," said Coinneach. "No, if it was I, I would say the Lord's Prayer to myself, very low, so that they could not hear; and if they did hear, and still came towards me, I would cry out, 'God on the cross!'—and that would put the people away from me, as it made the Woman take her hands from my throat the dreadful night I was coming by the Black Bay."
"Ay, but tell me this, Coinneach," said the younger of the two men. "I have heard that in great terror your tongue will cleave to your mouth; and you cannot cry out. And what is to happen to you then, if one of those people came near to put a cold breath on you?"
Coinneach did not answer this question: for the last few seconds he had been carefully scanning the darkened plain before him.
"The boat is coming now, Calum," he whispered. "And it is just as noiseless as any ghost she is." And with that the two men got up from the rock on which they had been sitting, and went down to the water's edge, where they waited in silence.
There was a low whistle; Coinneach answered it. Presently a dark object became dimly visible in the gloom. It was a rowing-boat; and as she slowly drew near the prow sent ripples of phosphorescence trembling away into the dusk, while the blades of the muffled oars, each time they dipped, struck white fire down into the sea. It looked as if some huge and strange creature, with gauzy silver wings, was coming shoreward from out of the unknown deeps. Not a word was uttered by anyone. When the bow of the boat came near Coinneach caught it and checked it, so that it should not grate on the shingle. Then he and his companion tumbled in; two other oars, also muffled, were put in the rowlocks; and silently she went away again, under the guidance of a fifth man, who sate at the helm. Very soon the lights of Lochgarra were lost to view; they had got round one of the promontories. Out to seaward there was nothing visible at all; while the 'loom' of the land was hardly to be distinguished from the overhanging; heavens that did not show a single star.
And yet the steersman seemed to be sufficiently sure of his course. There was no calling a halt for consultation, nor any other sign of uncertainty. Noiselessly the four oars kept measured time; there were simultaneously the four sudden downward flashes of white—followed by a kind of seething of silver radiance deep in the dark water; then, here and there on the surface, a large and lambent jewel would shine keenly for a second or two, floating away on the ripples as the boat left it behind. Not one of the men smoked: that of itself showed that something unusual was happening. They kept their eyes on the sombre features of the adjacent shore—of which a landsman could have made next to nothing; or they turned to the dimly-descried outline of the low range of hills, where that could be made out against the sky. It was a long and monotonous pull—with absolute silence reigning. But at length a whispered "Easy, boys, easy!" told them that this part of their labour was about over; and now they proceeded with greater caution—merely dipping the tips of their oars in the water, while all their attention was concentrated on the blurred and vague shadows of the land.
They were now in a small and sheltered bay, the stillness of which was so intense that they could distinctly hear the murmur of some mountain burn. On the face of the hill rising from the sea there were certain darker patches—perhaps these were birch-woods: also down by the shore there were spaces of deeper gloom—these might be clumps of trees. No light was visible anywhere: this part of the coast was clearly uninhabited, or else the people were asleep. And yet, before venturing nearer, they ceased rowing altogether; and watched; and listened. Not a sound: save for that continuous murmur of the stream, that at times became remote, and then grew more distinct again—as some wandering breath of wind passed across the face of the hill. The world around them lay in a trance as deep as death: the bark of a dog, the call of a heron, would have been a startling thing. Meanwhile two of the oars had been stealthily shipped; the remaining two were sufficient to paddle the boat nearer to the rocks, when that might be deemed safe.
And at last the steersman, who appeared to be in command, gave the word. As gently as might be, the boat was headed in for the shore, until Coinneach, who was up at the bow, whispered "That'll do now;" the rowing ceased; there was a pause, and some further anxious scrutinising of that amorphous gloom; then two black figures stepped over the side into the water, taking with them the lug-line of the net that was carefully arranged in the stern. They were almost immediately lost sight of; for the boat was again noiselessly paddled away, until the full length of the line was exhausted; while he in the stern began to pay out the net—each cork float that dropped into the water sending a shower of tremulous white stars spreading from it, and all the meshes shivering in silver as they were straightened out. A wonderful sight it was; but not the most likely to procure a good fishing; for, of course, that quivering, lustrous, far-extended web would be visible at some little distance. However, out went the net easily and steadily—with just the faintest possible "swish" as each successive armful soused into the sea; and then, as quick as was consistent with silence, the boat was pulled ashore, and two of the men jumped out with the other lug-line. They, too, vanished in the impenetrable dusk. The solitary occupant of the mysterious craft, standing up at the bow, was now left to watch the result of these operations and to direct, in low and eager whispers, his unseen comrades. Slowly, slowly the semicircular net was being hauled in; as it got nearer and nearer the men at the lug-lines splashed the water with them, so as to frighten the fish into the meshes; the sea glimmered nebulous in white fire; here and there a larger star burned clear on the black surface for a moment, and then gradually faded away. The commotion increased—in the water and out of it; it was evident from the fluttering and seething that there was a good haul; and in their excitement the scringers who were ashore forgot the danger of their situation—there were muttered exclamations in Gaelic as the net was narrowed in and in. And then, behold!—in the dark meshes those shining silver things—each entangled fish a gleaming, scintillating wonder—a radiant prize, here in the deep night. If this was Kain for Donald Ross of Heimra, it was Kain fit to be paid to a king.
It was at this moment that three men came across the rocky headland guarding the bay on its northern side. They had just completed a careful inspection of the neighbouring creek—as careful as the darkness would allow; they had followed the windings of the coast, searching every inlet; and so far their quest had been in vain. Now they stood on this promontory, peering and listening.