When the Curlew was abreast of Inganess, Willie Slater, the lookout man at the bow, reported a ship in sight; and as my uncle Mansie lighted a rude torch, made of old rope steeped in the oil of sea birds, my father peered into the darkness and saw a large barque heading towards the land.  The blazing light of the torch was presently waved as a warning signal to those on the ship.

The meaning of this was understood too late, for before the vessel could turn she was driven swiftly upon the North Gaulton rocks, and there smashed like a bottle of glass.

Then the sail of the Curlew was lowered, and the boat taken as close as possible to the wrecked ship.  The cries of the people on board were heard in the tempest, but there was little hope of saving life.  Yet the pilot crew were undaunted by any risks.  Four of the men were at the oars; Mansie was at the bow with his flaming torch, and my father at the tiller.  They got within hail of the ship, and after an infinite amount of trouble succeeded in saving four precious lives.  These four persons were a seaman, a gentleman passenger—­who was picked up suffering from a wound he had received in the head when the vessel struck—­Mrs. Kinlay, and my schoolfellow, Tom Kinlay.

When they were brought into the boat, Mrs. Kinlay entreated my father not to leave the wreck until he had saved her husband and her infant girl.  But after much searching of the water the chance of saving any more lives was so small, and the danger to the Curlew so great, that the boat was brought to the beach at Inganess Geo, where its suffering passengers were landed and carried up to the neighbouring farm of Crua Breck.

The Curlew was then taken back to the wrecked barque.  One of the ship’s boats had been launched by the skipper and some of the crew, who had endeavoured to save all they could; but the little craft was too frail to stand against the heavy sea; it was dashed against the sunken rocks and all were drowned.  My father and his men remained by the vessel until daylight.  Among the jagged rocks, when the tide went down, they found the body of a very beautiful woman with the shattered body of a child still clasped in her arms.  The infant seemed to have been hurriedly taken from its bed.  This fair lady was afterwards recognised as the wife of the owner of the ill-fated vessel—­the gentleman my father had rescued—­who had been returning with her and their infant daughter to Denmark.  The lady’s name was Thora Quendale, and it was her tomb that I had seen in the old graveyard of Bigging on that evening when we shared the viking’s treasures.

Her husband had remained in Orkney only until he had laid her and the child to rest, when, gathering the few remnants of his property that remained to him from the wreck of his ship, he took a passage in a vessel that happened to touch at Kirkwall for repairs, and with the sailor who had been saved with him he set sail for Denmark.  My uncle Mansie said that this Mr. Quendale had promised to my father and others that he would be back again in Pomona in a few months, but since that time he had never been heard of.