“It may be a little bit squally,” he said to her, “but we shall soon be under the lee of Iona.  Perhaps you had better hold on to something.”

The advice was not ill-timed; for almost as he spoke the first gust of the squall struck the boat, and there was a sound as if everything had been torn asunder and sent overboard.  Then, as she righted just in time to meet the crash of the next wave, it seemed as though the world had grown perfectly black around them.  The terrified woman seated there could no longer make out Macleod’s figure; it was impossible to speak amidst this roar; it almost seemed to her that she was alone with those howling winds and heaving waves—­at night on the open sea.  The wind rose, and the sea too; she heard the men call out and Macleod answer; and all the time the boat was creaking and groaning as she was flung high on the mighty waves only to go staggering down into the awful troughs behind.

“Oh, Keith!” she cried—­and involuntarily she seized his arm—­“are we in danger?”

He could not hear what she said; but he understood the mute appeal.  Quickly disengaging his arm—­for it was the arm that was working the tiller—­he called to her,—­

“We are all right.  If you are afraid, get to the bottom of the boat.”

But unhappily she did not hear this; for, as he called her, a heavy sea struck the bows, sprung high in the air, and then fell over them in a deluge which nearly choked her.  She understood, though, his throwing away her hand.  It was the triumph of brute selfishness in the moment of danger.  They were drowning, and he would not let her come near him!  And so she shrieked aloud for her father.

Hearing those shrieks, Macleod called to one of the two men, who came stumbling along in the dark and got hold of the tiller.  There was a slight lull in the storm, and he caught her two hands and held her.

“Gertrude, what is the matter?  You are perfectly safe, and so is your father.  For Heaven’s sake, keep still! if you get up, you will be knocked overboard!”

“Where is papa?” she cried.

“I am here—­I am all right, Gerty!” was the answer—­which came from the bottom of the boat, into which Mr. White had very prudently slipped.

And then, as they got under the lee of the island, they found themselves in smoother water, though from time to time squalls came over and threatened to flatten the great lugsail right on to the waves.

“Come now, Gertrude,” said Macleod, “we shall be ashore in a few minutes, and you are not frightened of a squall?”

He had his arm round her, and he held her tight; but she did not answer.  At last she saw a light—­a small, glimmering orange thing that quivered apparently a hundred miles off.

“See!” he said.  “We are close by.  And it may clear up to-night, after all.”

Then he shouted to one of the men: 

“Sandy, we will not try the quay the night:  we will go into the Martyr’s Bay.”