"Ready about!"
Round slews her head, with blocks and sails clattering and flapping; there is a scuffle of making fast the lee sheets; then once more the White Dove goes plunging into the unknown. The non-experts see nothing at all but the fog; they have not the least idea whether Lismore lighthouse—which is a solid object to run against—is on port or starboard bow, or right astern, for the matter of that. They are huddled in a group about the top of the companion. They can only listen, and wait.
John of Skye's voice rings out again.
"Hector, can you not mek out the land yet?"
"Cha n'eil!"
"What does he say?" the Laird asks, almost in a whisper: he is afraid to distract attention at such a time.
"He says 'No,'" Angus Sutherland answers. "He cannot make out the land. It is very thick; and there are bad rocks between Lismore and Duart. I think I will climb up to the cross-trees and have a look round."
What was this? A girl's hand laid for an instant on his arm; a girl's voice—low, quick, beseeching—saying "Oh, no!"
It was the trifle of a moment.
"There is not the least danger," says he, lightly. "Sometimes you can see better at the cross-trees."