Or is it the proud madam that is below, Hamish; and she will not speak; and she sits alone in all her finery? And what are we to do with her now, then, to break her will? Do you think she will speak when she is in the midst of the silence of the Northern seas? Or will they be after us, Hamish? Oh, that would be a fine chase, indeed! and we would lead them a fine dance through the Western Isles; and I think you would try their knowledge of the channels and the banks. And the painter-fellow, Hamish, the woman-man, the dabbler--would he be in the boat behind us? or would he be down below, in bed in the cabin, with a nurse to attend him? Come along, then!--but beware of the over-falls of Tiree, you southern men! Or is it a race for Barra Head; and who will be at Vatersay first! There is good fishing-ground on the Sgriobh bhan; Hamish; they may as well stop to fish as seek to catch us among our Western Isles! See, the dark is coming down; are these the Monach lights in the north?--Hamish, Hamish, we are on the rocks!--and there is no one to help her! Oh, sweetheart! sweetheart!-- * * * * * The brief fit of struggling sleep is over; he rises and goes to the window; and now, if he is impatient for the new day, behold! the new day is here. Oh, see how the wan light of the morning meets the wan face! It is the face of a man who has been close to Death; it is the face of a man who is desperate. And if, after the terrible battle of the night, with its uncontrollable yearning and its unbearable pain, the fierce and bitter resolve is taken?--if there remains but this one last despairing venture for all that made life worth having? How wildly the drowning man clutches at this or that, so only that he may breathe for yet a moment more? He knows not what miracle may save him; he knows not where there is any land; but only to live--only to breath for another moment--that is his cry. And then, mayhap, amidst the wild whirl of waves, if he were suddenly to catch sight of the shore; and think that he was getting near to that; and see awaiting him there a white Princess, with a smile on her lips and a red rose in her outstretched hand. Would he not make one last convulsive effort before the black waters dragged him down? CHAPTER XLII. THE WHITE-WINGED DOVE. The mere thought of this action, swift, immediate, impetuous, seemed to give relief to the burning brain. He went outside, and walked down to the shore; all the world was asleep; but the day had broken fair and pleasant, and the sea was calm and blue. Was not that a good omen? After all, then, there was still the wild, glad hope that Fionaghal might come and live in her Northern home: the summer days had not gone forever; they might still find a red rose for her bosom at Castle Dare.