What can keep this man up so late on deck?  There is nothing to look at but the great bows of the yacht black against the pale gray sea, and the tall spars and the rigging going away up into the starlit sky, and the suffused glow from the skylight touching a yellow-gray on the main-boom.  There is no need for the anchor-watch that Hamish was insisting on:  the equinoctials are not likely to begin on such a night as this.

He is looking across the lapping gray water to the jet-black line of cliff.  And there are certain words haunting him.  He cannot forget them; he cannot put them away.

* * * * *

WHEREFORE IS LIGHT GIVEN TO HIM THAT IS IN MISERY, AND LIFE UNTO THE BITTER IN SOUL? * * * WHICH LONG FOR DEATH, BUT IT COMETH NOT; AND DIG FOR IT MORE THAN FOR HIDDEN TREASURES. * * * WHICH REJOICE EXCEEDINGLY, AND ARE GLAD WHEN THEY CAN FIND THE GRAVE.

* * * * *

Then, in the stillness of the night, he heard a breathing.  He went forward, and found that Hamish had secreted himself behind the windlass.  He uttered some exclamation in the Gaelic, and the old man rose and stood guiltily before him.

“Have I not told you to go below before? and will I have to throw you down into the forecastle?”

The old man stood irresolute for a moment.  Then he said, also in his native tongue,—­

“You should not speak like that to me, Sir Keith:  I have known you many a year.”

Macleod caught Hamish’s hand.

“I beg your pardon, Hamish.  You do not know.  It is a sore heart I have this night.”

“Oh, God help us!  Do I not know that!” he exclaimed, in a broken voice; and Macleod, as he turned away, could hear the old man crying bitterly in the dark.  What else could Hamish do now for him who had been to him as the son of his old age?

“Go below now, Hamish,” said Macleod in a gentle voice and the old man slowly and reluctantly obeyed.

But the night had not drawn to day when Macleod again went forward, and said, in a strange, excited whisper,—­

“Hamish, Hamish, are you awake now?”

Instantly the old man appeared; he had not turned into his berth at all.

“Hamish, Hamish, do you hear the sound?” Macleod said, in the same wild way; “do you not hear the sound?”

“What sound, Sir Keith?” said he; for indeed there was nothing but the lapping of the water along the side of the yacht and a murmur of ripples along the shore.

“Do you not hear it, Hamish?  It is a sound as of a brass-band!—­a brass-band playing music—­as if it was in a theatre.  Can you not hear it, Hamish?”

“Oh, God help us!  God help us!” Hamish cried.

“You do not hear it, Hamish?” he said.  “Ah, it is some mistake.  I beg your pardon for calling you, Hamish:  now you will go below again.”

“Oh no, Sir Keith,” said Hamish.  “Will I not stay on deck now till the morning?  It is a fine sleep I have had; oh yes, I had a fine sleep.  And how is one to know when the equinoctials may not come on?”