_The Arrow_ was out of sight, and Macdonald crowded on all the sail the small sloop would bear. It was well he did so, for as the day wore on the wind grew shifty, and sometimes blew dead ahead, and the average rate of speed up the Cromarty Frith did not exceed four miles an hour. It was after midday when they turned into the river which led to the loch of the Wilderness. Lord Towyn recognized the stream by the description that had been given him, and unhesitatingly directed an advance. Sir Harold and Mr. Atkins had many misgivings as the sloop crept slowly up the river, a mere deep cut between high hills, their progress like the snail’s, but they did not venture to express it to their hopeful and confident young guide. As the stream grew narrower their misgivings increased, and the young earl read their thoughts in their grave faces. “Courage!” he said, approaching the baronet. “It is true we barely creep along here, and the day is wearing on, but the yacht has had to go slowly here also, and cannot be more than an hour in advance of us.” “But, Arthur,” suggested the baronet, giving voice to his apprehensions, “suppose that the man of the yacht deceived you as to the proper route, or that we have taken the wrong course in running up this river? I can’t believe that any one can make a cut in the hills like this one an approach even to a Highland stronghold. No wind can strike our sails, or so little, at any rate, that we could easily walk faster than we sail, if only we had a level road to walk on. And if we _are_ upon the wrong tack, what will become of Neva, my poor wronged little Neva?” His voice trembled as he asked the question. “I know we are going straight to her, Sir Harold,” said the earl hopefully. “Believe and trust in my convictions. You may smile at the idea, but I feel that I am getting nearer and nearer to Neva with every inch we gain.” The night closed in early in that wild Highland region, a night of wind and mist. Not a light gleamed from the deck of _The Lucky_, as she felt her way between the narrowing rocks. About six o’clock of the early evening, she glided from the narrow river with a sudden bound, as a puff of wind filled her flapping sails, into the hidden loch of the Wilderness. The yacht lay at anchor at the further side of the loch, and a mile away. A lantern hung at her masthead, and the forms of men were seen in the spectral glare, moving hurriedly to and fro on her deck. “We have come to the right place, you see,” said Lord Towyn exultantly. “This is the loch. Yonder lies the yacht, but recently come in. The men are busy unloading their purchases.” Sir Harold and Atkins swept the bold and rocky shores with their keen glances. The rugged steeps were black and bare, and in the dense gloom they saw no gleaming lights, no signs of habitation. “We must come to anchor up in the deeper shadow of this overhanging cliff,” said Lord Towyn. The order was obeyed.