“Hech!” cried the women, “he'll be drooned--he'll be drooned!” “Yes; he'll be drooned!” cried Sandy, “if yon lassie does na come alongside him deevelich quick--he's sair spent, I doot.” Two spectators were now added to the scene, Mrs. Gatty and Lord Ipsden. Mrs. Gatty inquired what was the matter. “It's a mon drooning,” was the reply. The poor fellow, whom Sandy, by aid of his glass, now discovered to be in a wornout condition, was about half a mile east of Newhaven pier-head, and unfortunately the wind was nearly due east. Christie was standing north-northeast, her boat-hook jammed against the sail, which stood as flat as a knife. The natives of the Old Town were now seen pouring down to the pier and the beach, and strangers were collecting like bees. “After wit is everybody's wit!!!”--_Old Proverb._ The affair was in the Johnstone's hands. “That boat is not going to the poor man,” said Mrs. Gatty, “it is turning its back upon him.” “She canna lie in the wind's eye, for as clever as she is,” answered a fishwife. “I ken wha it is,” suddenly squeaked a little fishwife; “it's Christie Johnstone's lad; it's yon daft painter fr' England. Hech!” cried she, suddenly, observing Mrs. Gatty, “it's your son, woman.” The unfortunate woman gave a fearful scream, and, flying like a tiger on Liston, commanded him “to go straight out to sea and save her son.” Jean Carnie seized her arm. “Div ye see yon boat?” cried she; “and div ye mind Christie, the lass wha's hairt ye hae broken? aweel, woman--_it's just a race between deeth and Cirsty Johnstone for your son._” The poor old woman swooned dead away; they carried her into Christie Johnstone's house and laid her down, then hurried back--the greater terror absorbed the less. Lady Barbara Sinclair was there from Leith; and, seeing Lord Ipsden standing in the boat with a fisherman, she asked him to tell her what it was; neither he nor any one answered her. “Why doesn't she come about, Liston?” cried Lord Ipsden, stamping with anxiety and impatience. “She'll no be lang,” said Sandy; “but they'll mak a mess o' 't wi' ne'er a man i' the boat.” “Ye're sure o' thaat?” put in a woman. “Ay, about she comes,” said Liston, as the sail came down on the first tack. He was mistaken; they dipped the lug as cleverly as any man in the town could. “Hech! look at her hauling on the rope like a mon,” cried a woman. The sail flew up on the other tack. “She's an awfu' lassie,”. whined another. “He's awa,” groaned Liston, “he's doon!” “No! he's up again,” cried Lord Ipsden; “but I fear he can't live till the boat comes to him.” The fisherman and the viscount held on by each other. “He does na see her, or maybe he'd tak hairt.” “I'd give ten thousand pounds if only he could see her. My God, the man will be drowned under our eyes. If he but saw her!!!” The words had hardly left Lord Ipsden's lips, when the sound of a woman's voice came like an AEolian note across the water.