"We'll tek the foresail off her, boys!" shouted John of Skye again, and presently there was another rattle down on the deck.
Onwards and onwards we flew, in absolute darkness but for that red light that made the sea shine like a foaming sea of blood. And the pressure of the wind behind increased until it seemed likely to tear the canvas off her spars.
"Down with the jib, then!" called out John of Skye; and we heard, but could not see, the men at work forward. And still the White Dove flew onwards through the night, and the wind howled and whistled through the rigging, and the boiling surges of foam swept away from her side. There was no more of Rona light to guide us now; we were tearing through the Sound of Scalpa; and still this hurricane seemed to increase in fury. As a last resource, John of Skye had the peak lowered. We had now nothing left but a mainsail about the size of a pocket-handkerchief.
As the night wore on, we got into more sheltered waters, being under the lee of Scalpa; and we crept away down between that island and Skye, seeking for a safe anchorage. It was a business that needed a sharp look-out, for the waters are shallow here, and we discovered one or two smacks at anchor, with no lights up. They did not expect any vessel to run in from the open on a night like this.
And at last we chose our place for the night, letting go both anchors. Then we went below, into the saloon.
"And how do you like sailing in the equinoctials, Mary?" said our hostess.
"I am glad we are all round this table again, and alive," said the girl.
"I thought you said the other day you did not care whether the yacht went down or not?"
"Of the two," remarked Miss Avon shyly, "it is perhaps better that she should be afloat."
Angus was passing at the moment. He put his hand lightly on her shoulder, and said, in a kind way—