CHAPTER XIX.  STORMING AN ISLAND STRONGHOLD.

One morning very early Allan Redmain was on watch.  He had had his fill of fighting, and not few were the wounds he had received of both arrow and spear.  Wrapped in his warm plaid, he paced the deck.  The seagulls flew about the masthead and dipped into the blue water.  The mountains of Mull were shrouded in white mist.  Suddenly Allan paused his walk and looked northward towards the little isle of Staffa.  On the sea line he saw what at first he took to be the Treshnish Islands; but soon these faint shadows loomed more distinct through the morning mist and took the shape of ships’ sails.  Six ships he counted.

“Kenric is safe!” he sighed.

Then ordering one of his small boats to be lowered, he went to tell the good news to Sir Piers on his galley hard by.  But as together they looked across the sea they counted yet another ship.

“You mistake, Allan,” said Sir Piers.  “These are not Kenric’s ships at all, but the galleys of my lord of Ross, who has, as you know, been upon an expedition similar to our own —­ to Skye and Lewis.”

“Alas!” said Allan.  “Then, where can Kenric be?”

“Where indeed?” sighed Sir Piers.

At this moment one of the men of Arran touched his master’s arm.

“There is a fishing coracle coming alongside of us, my master,” said he, “with two fishermen in her.”

Sir Piers and Allan crossed the deck and saw a small boat bearing towards them, rowed by a brawny western islander.

“Saint Columba protect us!” cried Allan.  “Look but at that man sitting in the stern!  ’Tis none other than Duncan Graham of Rothesay, my lord Kenric’s henchman.  Whence comes he? and where is his master?

“Duncan!  Duncan!” he called.

Duncan raised his eyes.  His face was haggard and wan.  His cheeks were thin, his clothes torn and bloodstained.

Allan threw down a rope’s end, and the boat was drawn alongside.  Scarcely able to move his gaunt limbs, Duncan clambered up the galley’s side and fell upon the deck, moaning.  From under his ragged plaid he drew a formidable sword and held it towards Allan without speaking a word.

“The Thirsty Sword!” cried Allan in dread surprise as he took the weapon.  “Alas!  Kenric is most surely dead!”

“Not so!” moaned Duncan, lolling out his tongue.  “Ah, food, food!”

Then Sir Piers de Currie bent down, and with the help of Allan took up the giant form of Duncan, and carried him below into the cabin.

For two long hours the man lay without uttering a word.  But the warm wine with which they fed him brought back something of his strength.  He put his hand to his chest to show that he was wounded.  Allan Redmain drew away the garments and revealed a gaping sword wound.

“No; not dead,” moaned Duncan.  “He yet lives.  But oh, my masters, hasten to his aid, for he is even now a helpless prisoner in the dark dungeon of Breacacha Castle!”