And that was all she would say meanwhile. But next day was a busy day for Kate Glendinning. First of all she went straight to the Minister and demanded point-blank whether there were, or could be, any foundation for that story about Anna Chlannach; and the Minister—not directly, of course, but with many lamentations, in his high falsetto, over the wickedness of the human mind in harbouring and uttering slanders and calumnies—answered that he had known Anna Chlannach all her life, and that she had been half-witted from her infancy, and that the tale now told him was an entire and deplorable fabrication. Indeed, he would have liked to enlarge on the theme, but Kate was in a hurry. For she had heard in passing through the village that the Gillie Ciotach was about to go over to Heimra, with the parcels and letters that had come by the previous day's mail; and it occurred to her that here was a happy chance for herself.
"Now, Andrew," she said, when she was seated comfortably in the stern of the lugger, "keep everything smooth for me. I haven't once been sea-sick since I came to Lochgarra, and I don't want to begin now."
"Aw, is it the sea-seeckness?" said the Gillie Ciotach. "Well, mem, when you feel the seeckness coming on, just you tell me, and I will give you something to mek you all right. Ay, I will give you a good strong glass of whiskey; and in a moment it will make the seeckness jump out of your body."
"Whiskey?" said Käthchen. "Do you mean to say you take a bottle of whiskey with you every time you put out in a boat?"
"Aw, as for that," said the Gillie Ciotach—and he was clearly casting about for some portentous lie or another—"I was saying to Peter Grant that mebbe the young leddy might have the sea-seeckness; and Peter he was saying to me, 'Tek a smahl bottle of whiskey with you, Andrew, and then she will hef no fear of the sea-seeckness.' And it was just for yourself, mem, I was bringing the whiskey."
"And a pretty character you seem to have given me at the inn!" said Käthchen, as she contentedly wrapped herself up in her rugs.
Martha had seen the boat on its way into the harbour; she had come out to the door of the cottage; a visitor was welcome in this solitary island.
"Martha," she said, as soon as she had got within, "have you heard any news of late?—can you tell me where the Sirène is now?"
"Yes, indeed, mem," said the old Highland dame, with wondering eyes. "But do you not know that the Sirène is at the bottom of the sea? Was the master not writing to Miss Stanley about it?"
"We have not heard a word," Käthchen exclaimed.