But John of Skye keeps away from the land. It is past midnight. There is nothing visible but the black sea and the clear sky, and the red star of the lighthouse; nothing audible but Mary Avon’s humming to herself and her friend—the two women sit arm-in-arm under half-a-dozen of rugs—some old-world ballad to the monotonous accompaniment of the passing seas. One o’clock: Ushinish light is smaller now, a minute point of red fire, and the black line of land on our right looms larger in the dusk. Look at the splendour of the phosphorous-stars on the rushing waves. And at last John of Skye says in an undertone to Angus— "Will the leddies be going below now?" "Going below!" he says in reply. "They are waiting till we get to anchor. We must be just off Dunvegan Loch now." Then John of Skye makes his confession. "Oh, yes; I been into Dunvegan Loch more as two or three times; but I not like the dark to be with us in going in; and if we lie off till the daylight comes, the leddies they can go below to their peds. And if Dr. Sutherland himself would like to see the channel in going in, will I send below when the daylight comes?" "No, no, John; thank you," is the answer. "When I turn in, I turn in for good. I will leave you to find out the channel for yourself." And so there is a clearance of the deck, and rugs and camp-stools handed down the companion. _Deoch-an-doruis_ in the candle-lit saloon? To bed—to bed! It is about five o’clock in the morning that the swinging out of the anchor-chain causes the yacht to tremble from stem to stern; and the sleepers start in their sleep, but are vaguely aware that they are at a safe anchorage at last. And do you know where the brave _White Dove_ is lying now? Surely if the new dawn brings any stirring of wind—and if there is a sound coming over to us from this far land of legend and romance—it is the wild, sad wail of Dunvegan! The mists are clearing from the hills; the day breaks wan and fair; the great grey castle, touched by the early sunlight, looks down on the murmuring sea. And is it the sea, or is it the cold wind of the morning, that sings and sings to us in our dreams— _Dunvegan—oh! Dunvegan!_ *CHAPTER XI.* *DRAWING NEARER.* She is all alone on deck. The morning sun shines on the beautiful blue bay; on the great castle perched on the rocks over there; and on the wooded green hills beyond. She has got a canvas fixed on her easel; she sings to herself as she works. Now this English young lady must have beguiled the tedium of her long nursing in Edinburgh by making a particular acquaintance with Scotch ballads; or how otherwise could we account for her knowledge of the "Song of Ulva," and now of the "Song of Dunvegan?" _Macleod the faithful, and fearing none!_ _Dunvegan—oh! Dunvegan!_