“Good God!” said I, “they are all lost.” “Ay,” returned my uncle, “a’—a’ lost. They hadnae a chance but to rin for Kyle Dona. The gate they’re gaun the noo, they couldnae win through an the muckle deil were there to pilot them. Eh, man,” he continued, touching me on the sleeve, “it’s a braw nicht for a shipwreck! Twa in ae twalmonth! Eh, but the Merry Men’ll dance bonny!” I looked at him, and it was then that I began to fancy him no longer in his right mind. He was peering up to me, as if for sympathy, a timid joy in his eyes. All that had passed between us was already forgotten in the prospect of this fresh disaster. “If it were not too late,” I cried with indignation, “I would take the coble and go out to warn them.” “Na, na,” he protested, “ye maunnae interfere; ye maunnae meddle wi’ the like o’ that. It’s His”—doffing his bonnet—“His wull. And, eh, man! but it’s a braw nicht for’t!” Something like fear began to creep into my soul and, reminding him that I had not yet dined, I proposed we should return to the house. But no; nothing would tear him from his place of outlook. “I maun see the hail thing, man, Cherlie,” he explained—and then as the schooner went about a second time, “Eh, but they han’le her bonny!” he cried. “The _Christ-Anna_ was naething to this.” Already the men on board the schooner must have begun to realise some part, but not yet the twentieth, of the dangers that environed their doomed ship. At every lull of the capricious wind they must have seen how fast the current swept them back. Each tack was made shorter, as they saw how little it prevailed. Every moment the rising swell began to boom and foam upon another sunken reef; and ever and again a breaker would fall in sounding ruin under the very bows of her, and the brown reef and streaming tangle appear in the hollow of the wave. I tell you, they had to stand to their tackle: there was no idle men aboard that ship, God knows. It was upon the progress of a scene so horrible to any human-hearted man that my misguided uncle now pored and gloated like a connoisseur. As I turned to go down the hill, he was lying on his belly on the summit, with his hands stretched forth and clutching in the heather. He seemed rejuvenated, mind and body. When I got back to the house already dismally affected, I was still more sadly downcast at the sight of Mary. She had her sleeves rolled up over her strong arms, and was quietly making bread. I got a bannock from the dresser and sat down to eat it in silence. “Are ye wearied, lad?” she asked after a while. “I am not so much wearied, Mary,” I replied, getting on my feet, “as I am weary of delay, and perhaps of Aros too. You know me well enough to judge me fairly, say what I like. Well, Mary, you may be sure of this: you had better be anywhere but here.” “I’ll be sure of one thing,” she returned: “I’ll be where my duty is.” “You forget, you have a duty to yourself,” I said.