“What a terrible place!  It seems to be thousands of miles out of the world,” murmured the singer.  “Don’t any ships ever come to this harbor—­except wrecks?”

The skipper shook his head.  “Me own fore-an’-aft, the Polly, bes the only vessel trades wid this harbor,” he said.  He stowed the letter away in his pocket, turned and strode from the room and out of the house.  He looked calm enough now, but the battle was still raging within him.

The skipper was out of bed next morning at the first peep of dawn.  He dressed for a long journey, stuffed his pockets with food, and then wakened his grandmother.

“I bes goin’ meself wid this letter,” he said.  “The men won’t be tryin’ any o’ their tricks, I bes t’inkin’.  Dick Lynch bain’t fit for any divilment yet awhile an’ ‘tothers be busy gettin’ timber for the church.  Send Cormy to tell Bill Brennen an’ Nick Leary to keep ’em to it.”

“Why bes ye goin’ yerself, Denny?” inquired the old woman.

“Sure, it bes safest for me to carry the letter, Granny,” returned the skipper.

He ate his breakfast, drank three mugs of strong tea, and set out.  A little dry snow had fallen during the night.  The air was bitterly cold and motionless, and the only sound was the sharp crackling of the tide fingering the ice along the frozen land-wash.  The sky was clear.  With the rising of the sun above the rim of the sea a faint breath of icy wind came out of the west.  By this time the skipper was up on the edge of the barrens, a mile and more away from the little harbor.  He was walking at a good pace, smoking his pipe and thinking hard.  A thing was in his mind that he could not bring himself to face fairly, as yet.  It had been with him several hours of yesterday, and all night, and had caused him to change his plan of sending Bill Brennen with the letter—­and still it lurked like a shadow in the back of his mind, unilluminated and unproven.  But he knew, deep in his heart, that he would presently consider and act upon this lurking, sinister half-thought.  Otherwise, he was a fool to be heading for Witless Bay.  Bill Brennen, or any other man in the harbor, could have carried the letter as well—­except for the idea that had been blindly at work all night in the back of his brain.

He had made four miles of his journey when he halted, turned and looked back along the desolate barrens and the irregular edge of the cliffs.  Misgivings assailed him.  Was Flora safe?  What if something should happen—­had already happened, perhaps—­to stir his treacherous fellows to mutiny again?  Any little accident might do it if they knew that he was on his way to Witless Bay.  If one of them should cut his foot with an axe, or drop a tree on one of his comrades, it would be enough (with the skipper out of the way) to raise the suspicion of witchcraft and curses in their silly, mad souls again.  And then what would happen?  What would happen to Flora, the helpless, wonderful, most beautiful creature