head to
the wind, for she was drifting rapidly, and the first shock on the
rocks would send her and her stone ballast to the bottom. On the other
hand, there was no open sea-room to let her run away before the wind
with a straining jib. At all hazards it was necessary to fight her
clear of that long ledge of rock, even if the wind threatened to tear
the mast out of the boat. So Rob himself sprang down to the stern and
took the tiller.

'Duncan, Neil, stand by the halyards now! When I sing out to ye, hoist
her--be ready now!'

He had his eye on the rocks all this time. On the highest of them was
a tall iron perch, painted scarlet--a warning to sailors; but from that
point long shelves and spurs ran out, the yellow surface of barnacles
growing greener and greener as they went deeper into the sea. Already
Rob MacNicol could make out some of these submarine reefs even through
the turbulent water.

'Now then, boys; up with her! Quick now!'

It was a venturesome business; but there was no help for it. The
moment the sail was half hoisted, a gust caught the boat and drove her
over until her gunwale again scooped up a lot of the hissing water.
But as she righted, staggering all the while, it was clear there was
some good way on her, and Rob, having had recourse to desperate
remedies, was determined to give her enough of the wind. Down again
went the gunwale to the hissing water; and the strain on the rotten
sheets of the old boat was so great that it was a wonder everything did
not go by the board. But now there was a joyous hissing of foam at the
bow; she was forging ahead; if she could only stand the pressure, in a
minute or so she would be clear of the rocks. Rob still kept his eye
on these treacherous shelves of yellow-green. Then he sang out,

'Down with her, boys!'

The black lug-sail rattled into the boat; there was nothing left now
but the straining jib.

'Slack the lee-jib sheet!'

The next minute he had put his helm gently up; the bow of the boat fell
away from the wind; and presently--just as they had time to see the
green depths of the rocks they had succeeded in weathering--the
war-galley of the great chieftain was spinning away down Loch Scrone,
racing with the racing waves, the wind tearing and hauling at her
bellied-out jib.

'Hurrah, my lads! we'll soon be at Eilean-na-Rona now, eh?' Rob shouted.

He did not seem much put about by that narrow escape. Squalls were
common on this coast