There came a stirring of wind from the east, and the sea began to moan.  Surely the poor fugitives must have reached the shore now.  And then there was a strange noise in the distance:  in the awful silence between the peals of thunder it would be heard; it came nearer and nearer—­a low murmuring noise, but full of a secret life and thrill—­it came along like the tread of a thousand armies—­and then the gale struck its first blow.  The yacht reeled under the stroke, but her bows staggered up again like a dog that has been felled, and after one or two convulsive plunges she clung hard at the strained cables.  And now the gale was growing in fury, and the sea rising.  Blinding showers of rain swept over, hissing and roaring; the white tongues of flame were shooting this way and that across the startled heavens; and there was a more awful thunder than even the falling of the Atlantic surge booming into the great sea-caves.  In the abysmal darkness the spectral arms of the ocean rose white in their angry clamor; and then another blue gleam would lay bare the great heaving and wreathing bosom of the deep.  What devil’s dance is this?  Surely it cannot be Ulva—­Ulva the green-shored—­Ulva that the sailors, in their love of her, call softly Ool-a-va—­that is laughing aloud with wild laughter on this awful night?  And Colonsay, and Lunga, and Fladda—­they were beautiful and quiet in the still summer-time; but now they have gone mad, and they are flinging back the plunging sea in white masses of foam, and they are shrieking in their fierce joy of the strife.  And Staffa—­Staffa is far away and alone; she is trembling to her core:  how long will the shuddering caves withstand the mighty hammer of the Atlantic surge?  And then again the sudden wild gleam startles the night, and one sees, with an appalling vividness, the driven white waves and the black islands; and then again a thousand echoes go booming, along the iron-bound coast.  What can be heard in the roar of the hurricane, and the hissing of rain, and the thundering whirl of the waves on the rocks?  Surely not the one glad last cry:  SWEETHEART!  YOUR HEALTH!  YOUR HEALTH IN THE COAL-BLACK WINE!

* * * * *

The poor fugitives crouching in among the rocks—­is it the blinding rain or the driven white surf that is in their eyes?  But they have sailors’ eyes; they can see through the awful storm; and their gaze is fixed on one small green point far out there in the blackness—­the starboard light of the doomed ship.  It wavers like a will-o’-the-wisp, but it does not recede; the old Umpire still clings bravely to her chain cables.

And amidst all the din of the storm they hear the voice of Hamish lifted aloud in lamentation:—­

“Oh, the brave lad! the brave lad!  And who is to save my young master now? and who will carry this tale back to Castle Dare?  They will say to me, ’Hamish, you had charge of the young lad; you put the first gun in his hand; you had charge of him; he had the love of a son for you:  what is it you have done with him this night?’ He is my Absalom; he is my brave young lad:  oh, do you think that I will let him drown and do nothing to try to save him?  Do you think that?  Duncan Cameron, are you a man?  Will you get into the gig with me and pull out to the Umpire?”