St. Mary’s Isle!  As we looked upon it that day, John Paul and I, and it lay low against the bright water with its bare oaks and chestnuts against the dark pines, ’twas perhaps as well that the future was sealed to us.

Captain Paul had conned the brigantine hither with a master’s hand; but now that the anchor was on the ground, he became palpably nervous.  I had donned again good MacMuir’s shore suit, and was standing by the gangway when the captain approached me.

“What’ll ye be doing now, Dickie lad?” he asked kindly.

What indeed!  I was without money in a foreign port, still dependent upon my benefactor.  And since he had declared his unwillingness to accept any return I was of no mind to go farther into his debt.  I thanked him again for his goodness in what sincere terms I could choose, and told him I should be obliged if he would put me in the way of working my passage to London upon some coasting vessel.  But my voice was thick, my affection for him having grown-past my understanding.

“Hoots!” he replied, moved in his turn, “whyles I hae siller ye shallna lack.  Ye maun gae post-chaise to London, as befits yere station.”

And scouting my expostulations, he commanded the longboat, bidding me be ready to go ashore with him.  I had nothing to do but to say farewell to MacMuir and Lowrie and Auctherlonnie, which was hard enough.  For the honest first mate I had a great liking, and was touched beyond speech when he enjoined me to keep his shore suit as long as I had want of it.

“But you will be needing it, MacMuir,” I said, suspecting he had no other.

“Haith!  I am but a plain man, Mr. Carvel, and ye can sen’ back the claw frae London, wi’ this geordie.”

He slipped a guinea into my hand, but this I positively refused to take; and to hide my feelings I climbed quickly over the side and into the stern of the boat, beside the captain, and was rowed away through the little fleet of cobles gathering about the ship.  Twisting my neck for a parting look at the John, I caught a glimpse of MacMuir’s ungainly shoulders over the fokesle rail, and I was near to tears as he shouted a hearty “God speed” after me.

As we drew near the town of Kirkcudbright, which lies very low at the mouth of the river Dee, I made out a group of men and women on the wharves.  The captain was silent, regarding them.  When we had got within twenty feet or so of the landing, a dame in a red woollen kerchief called out: 

“What hae ye done wi’ Mungo, John Paul?”

“Captain John Paul, Mither Birkie,” spoke up a coarse fellow with a rough beard.  And a laugh went round.

“Ay, captain!  I’ll captain him!” screamed the carlin, pushing to the front as the oars were tossed, “I’ll tak aith Mr. Currie’ll be captaining him for his towmond voyage o’ piratin’.  He be leukin’ for ye noo, John Paul.”  With that some of the men on the thwarts, perceiving that matters were likely to go ill with the captain, began to chaff with their friends above.  The respect with which he had inspired them, however, prevented any overt insult on their part.  As for me, my temper had flared up like the burning of a loose charge of powder, and by instinct my right hand sought the handle of the mate’s hanger.  The beldame saw the motion.