_... Cheerily, and all together!_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ _A long, strong pull together!—_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ _Soon the flowing breeze will blow;_ _We’ll show the snowy canvas on her—_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ _A long, strong pull together!—_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ _Wafted by the breeze of morn_ _We’ll quaff the joyous horn together!—_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ _A long, strong pull together!—_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ "We’ll beat! we’ll beat!" cries the Laird, in great delight. "Give it her, boys! Not one halfpennyworth o’ that wind will we lose!" The bow cleaves the blue water; the foam hisses away from her rudder. It is a race of the North against the South. Then the chorus again— _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ _A long, strong pull together!—_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ Hurrah! hurrah! As the gig is run alongside, and guns and birds handed up, that spreading blue has not quite reached the yacht; there is no appreciable stir of the lazy ensign. But there is little time to be lost. The amateurs swing the gig to the davits, while the men are getting in the slack of the anchor chain; the women are incontinently bundled below, to be out of the way of flapping sheets. Then, all hands at the halyards! And by the time the great White Wings are beginning to spread, the breeze stirs the still air around us; and the peak sways gently this way and that; and they who are hard at work at the windlass are no doubt grateful for this cool blowing from the south. Then there is a cessation of noise; we become vaguely aware that we are moving. At last the _White Dove_ has spread her wings; her head is turned towards the south. Good-bye! you lonely loch, with the silent shores and the silent tombs—a hundred farewells to you, wherever we may be going! And slowly we beat down the loch, against this light southerly breeze. But as we get further and further into the open, surely there is something in the air and in the appearance of the southern sky that suggests that the glass has not been falling for nothing. The sea is smooth; but there is a strange gloom ahead of us; and beyond the islands that we visited yesterday nothing is visible but a wan and sultry glare. Then, afar, we can hear a noise as of the approach of some storm; but perhaps it is only the low sound of the swirling of the tides round the shores. Presently another sound attracts attention—a murmured hissing, and it comes nearer and nearer; dark spots, about the size of a threepenny-piece, appear on the white decks. The women have scarcely time to send below for their sunshades when the slight shower passes by—the decks are not even left damp. Then further and further we creep away towards the south; but where we expected to catch some far glimpse of the Irish coast—the blue line of Rathlin or the Antrim cliffs—there is only that dim, sultry haze.