Miss Avon has her eye on the mainsail. She answers, with a business-like air—
"Oh, there is no fear of that. What I have to mind, with this wind, is not to let her gybe, or I should get into disgrace."
"Then I hope you won't let her gybe, whatever that is," said he, with a laugh.
Never was any setting-out more auspicious. We seemed to have bade farewell to those perpetual calms. Early as it was in the morning, there was no still, dream-like haze about the mountains; there was a clear greenish-yellow where the sunlight struck them; the great slopes were dappled with the shadows of purple-brown; further away the tall peaks were of a decided blue. And then the windy, fresh, brisk morning; the White Dove running races with the driven seas; the white foam flying away from her sides. John of Skye seemed to have no fear of this gentle skipper. He remained forward, superintending the setting of the topsail; the White Dove was to "have it" while the fresh breeze continued to blow.
And still the squally easterly wind bears her bravely onward, the puffs darkening the water as they pass us and strike the rushing seas. Is that a shadow of Colonsay on the far southern horizon? The lighthouse people here have gone to bed; there is not a single figure along the yellow-white walls. Look at the clouds of gulls on the rocks, resting after their morning meal. By this time the deer have retreated into the high slopes above Craignure; there is a white foam breaking along the bay of Innismore. And still the White Dove spins along, with foam-diamonds glittering in the sunlight at her bows; and we hear the calling of the sea-swallows, and the throbbing of a steamer somewhere in among the shadows of Loch Aline. Surely now we are out of the reign of calms; the great boom strains at the sheets; there is a whirl of blue waters; the White Dove has spread her wings at last.
"Ay, ay," says John of Skye, who has relieved Miss Avon at the helm; "it is a great peety."
"Why, John?" says she, with some surprise; is he vexed that we should be sailing well on this fine sailing day?
"It iss a great peety that Mr. Sutherland not here," said John, "and he wass know so much about a yacht, and day after day not a breeze at ahl. There iss not many chentlemen will know so much about a yacht as Mr. Sutherland."
Miss Avon did not answer, though her face seemed conscious in its colour. She was deeply engaged in a novel.
"Oh, that is the Mr. Sutherland who has been with you," said Howard Smith to his hostess, in a cheerful way. "A doctor, I think you said?"