Meanwhile the _White Dove_, with all sail set, had come along at a spanking pace. The weather threatened change, it is true; there was a deep gloom overhead; but along the southern horizon there was a blaze of yellow light which had the odd appearance of being a sunset in the middle of the day; and in this glare lay the long blue promontory known as the Rhinns of Islay, within sight of the Irish coast. And so we went down by Easdail, and past Colipoll and its slate-quarries; and we knew this constant breeze would drive us through the swirls of the Dorus Mohr—the "Great Gate." And were we listening, as we drew near in the afternoon to the rose-purple bulk of Scarba, for the low roar of Corrievrechan? We knew the old refrain:— _As you pass through Jura’s Sound_ _Bend your course by Scarba’s shore;_ _Shun, oh, shun the gulf profound_ _Where Corrievrechan’s surges roar!_ But now there is no ominous murmur along those distant shores. Silence and a sombre gloom hang over the two islands. We are glad to shun this desolate coast; and glad that the _White Dove_ is carrying us away to the pleasanter south, when, behold! behold! another sight! As we open out the dreaded gulf, Corrievrechan itself becomes but an open lane leading out to the west; and there, beyond the gloom, amid the golden seas, lies afar the music-haunted Colonsay! It is the calm of the afternoon; the seas lie golden around the rocks; surely the sailors can hear her singing now for the lover she lost so long ago! What is it that thrills the brain so, and fills the eyes with tears, when we can hear no sound at all coming over the sea? It is the Laird who summons us back to actualities. "It would be a strange thing," says he, "if Tom Galbraith were in that island at this very meenit. Ah’m sure he was going there." And Captain John helps. "I not like to go near Corrievrechan," he says, with a grin, "when there is a flood tide and half a gale from the sou’-west. It is an ahfu’ place," he adds, more seriously, "an ahfu’ place." "I should like to go through," Angus Sutherland says, quite inadvertently. "Aye, would ye, sir?" says Captain John, eagerly. "If there wass only you and me on board, I would tek you through ferry well—with the wind from the norrard and an ebb tide. Oh, yes! I would do that; and maybe we will do it this year yet!" "I do not think I am likely to see Corrievrechan again this year," said he, quite quietly—so quietly that scarcely any one heard. But Mary Avon heard.