Brisker and brisker grows the breeze. Now we hear the first pistol-shots of the spray come rattling over the bows; and Hector of Moidart has from time to time to duck his head, or shake the water from his jersey. The _White Dove_ breasts these rushing waves and a foam of white water goes hissing away from either side of her. Speine Mor and Speine Beg we leave behind; in the distance we can descry the ruins of Aros Castle and the deep indentation of Salen Bay; here we are passing the thick woods of Funeray. "_Farewell, farewell, to Funeray!_" The squally look in the south-west increases; the wind veers more and more. Commander Mary Avon is glad to resign the helm, for it is not easy to retain hold in these plunging seas. "Why, you will catch the steamer after all, Angus!" says his hostess, as we go tearing by the mouth of Loch Aline. "This is a good one for the last!" he calls to her. "Give her some more sheet, John; the wind is going round to the north!" Whence comes the whirling storm in the midst of the calm summer weather? The blue heavens are as blue as the petal of a crane’sbill: surely such a sky has nothing to do with a hurricane. But wherever it comes from, it is welcome enough; and the brave _White Dove_ goes driving through those heavy seas, sometimes cresting them buoyantly, at other times meeting them with a dull shock, followed by a swish of water that rushes along the lee scuppers. And those two women-folk—without ulsters or other covering: it is a merry game to play jack-in-the-box, and duck their heads under the shelter of the gig when the spray springs into the air. But somehow the sea gets the best of it. Laugh as they may, they must be feeling rather damp about their hair; and as for Mary Avon’s face—that has got a bath of salt-water at least a dozen times. She cares not. Sun, wind and sea she allows to do their worst with her complexion. Soon we shall have to call her the Nut-brown Maid. Brisker and brisker grows the breeze. Angus Sutherland, with a rope round the tiller, has his teeth set hard: he is indeed letting the _White Dove_ have it at last, for he absolutely refuses to have the topsail down. The main tack, then: might not that be hauled up? No; he will have none of John of Skye’s counsels. The _White Dove_ tears her way through the water—we raise a cloud of birds from the rocks opposite Scallasdale—we see the white surf breaking in at Craignure—ahead of us is Lismore Lighthouse, perched over the whirling and struggling tides, shining white in the sunlight above the dark and driven sea. _Ahead she goes; the land she knows!_ —past the shadowy ruins of Duart, and out and through the turbulent tides off the lighthouse rocks. The golden afternoon is not yet far advanced; let but this brave breeze continue, and soon they will descry the _White Dove_ from the far heights of Castle Osprey!