It was about an hour afterwards that we were startled by sounds on deck; and presently we knew that the _White Dove_ was again flying through the water. The women took some little time to get their shawls and things ready; had they known what was awaiting them, they would have been more alert. For no sooner were we on deck than we perceived that the _White Dove_ was tearing through the water without the slightest landmark or light to guide her. The breeze that had sprung up had swept before it a bank of sea-fog—a most unusual thing in these windy and changeable latitudes; and so dense was this fog that the land on all sides of us had disappeared, while it was quite impossible to say where Lismore light-house was. Angus Sutherland had promptly surrendered the helm to John of Skye; and had gone forward. The men on the look out at the bow were themselves invisible. "Oh, it is all right, mem!" called out John of Skye, through the dense fog, in answer to a question. "I know the lay o’ the land very well, though I do not see it. And I will keep her down to Duart, bekass of the tide." And then he calls out— "Hector, do you not see any land yet?’ "_Cha n’eil!_" answers Hector, in his native tongue. "We’ll put a tack on her now. Ready about, boys!" "_Ready about!_" Round slews her head, with blocks and sails clattering and flapping; there is a scuffle of making fast the lee sheets; then once more the _White Dove_ goes plunging into the unknown. The non-experts see nothing at all but the fog; they have not the least idea whether Lismore lighthouse—which is a solid object to run against—is on port or starboard bow, or right astern, for the matter of that. They are huddled in a group about the top of the companion. They can only listen, and wait. John of Skye’s voice rings out again. "Hector, can you not mek out the land yet?" "_Cha n’eil!_" "What does he say?" the Laird asks, almost in a whisper: he is afraid to distract attention at such a time. "He says ’No,’" Angus Sutherland answers. "He cannot make out the land. It is very thick; and there are bad rocks between Lismore and Duart. I think I will climb up to the cross-trees and have a look round." What was this? A girl’s hand laid for an instant on his arm; a girl’s voice—low, quick, beseeching—saying "Oh, no!" It was the trifle of a moment. "There is not the least danger," says he, lightly. "Sometimes you can see better at the cross-trees." Then the dim figure is seen going up the shrouds; but he is not quite up at the cross-trees, when the voice of John of Skye is heard again. "Mr. Sutherland! "All right, John!" and the dusky figure comes stumbling down and across the loose sheets on deck. "If ye please, sir," says John of Skye; and the well-known formula means that Angus Sutherland is to take the helm. Captain John goes forward to the bow: the only sound around us is the surging of the unseen waves.