Surely the steamer was heading too much to the northward! With a cry, Lora instinctively stretched her arms toward the distant vessel; but no sound came from her lips, for at that moment a spurt of yellow flame rent the gray gloom, as a lantern was swung aloft to the mast-head. In a few seconds she would know all; for whenever the _Clansman_ was too late for her flag-signal to be easily seen, she showed a green light a foot or so beneath the yellow. Lora heard the heavy pulse of the engines, the churn of the beaten waves, even the delirious surge and suction as the spent water was driven along the hull and poured over and against the helm ere it was swept into the wake that glimmered white as a snow-wreath. So wrought was she that, at the same time, she was keenly conscious of the rapid _tweet-tweet-tweet-tweet-tweet--o-o-h sweet!--sweet!_ of a yellow-hammer among the whin close by, and of the strange, mournful cry of an oyster-opener as it flew with devious swoops toward some twilight eyrie. The throb of the engines--the churn of the beaten waves--the sough of the swirling yeast--even the churning, swirling, under-tumult, and through it and over it the heavy pulse, the deep panting rhythmic throb: this she heard, as it were the wrought surge of her own blood. Would the green light never swing up to that yellow beacon? A minute passed: two minutes: three! It was clear that the steamer had no need to call at Innisròn. She was coming up the mid of the Sound, and, unless the ferry-light signalled to her to draw near, she would keep her course north-westward. Suddenly Lora realised this. At the same time there flashed into her mind the idea that perhaps Alastair was on board after all, but that he was ill, and had forgotten to tell the captain of his wish to land by the island ferry. She turned, and, forgetful or heedless of her condition, moved swiftly from ledge to ledge, and thence by the path to where, in the cove beyond the clachan, the ferry-boat lay on the tide-swell, moored by a rope fastened to an iron clank fixed in a boulder. "Ian! Ian!" she cried, as she neared the cove; but at first she saw no one, save Mrs. Maclean, black against the fire-glow from her cottage. "Ian! Ian!" A dark figure rose from beside the ferry-shed. "Is that you, Ian? _Am bheil am bhàta deas?_ Is the boat ready? _Bi ealamh! bi ealamh! mach am bhàta_: quick! quick! out with the boat!" In her eager haste she spoke both in the Gaelic and the English: nor did she notice that the old man did not answer her, or make any sign of doing as she bade him. "_Oh, Ian, bi ealamh! bi ealamh! Faigh am bhàta deas! rach a stigh do'n bhàta!_" Word for word, as is the wont of the people, he answered her:-- "Why is it that I should be quick? Why should I be getting the boat ready? For what should I be going into the boat?" "The _Clansman_! Do you not see her? _Bi ealamh; bi ealamh!_ or she will go past us like a dream."