ve been intending to write him this long time. There's a
thought in my head,' says he, 'that all's not well with him.

"'Tell him this: I've been thinking and I've thought: There's great
virtue to the place you're born in. Tell him he ought no' stay so long
frae the braes o' Ulster. Tell him: The sea's not good for the head. A
man's alone wi' himself too long, wi' his ain heid. Tell him that's not
good.

"'Tell him,' says he, 'there's great virtue and grand soothin' to the
yellow whins and the purple heather. That's a deep fey thing. Tell him
to try.'

"'Is that all, sir, Alan Donn,' says I?

"'You might tell him,' says he, 'aye, you might tell him: "'Your uncle
Alan was not a coward, and he was a wise man."'

"At that I was puzzled--I tell you without, offense meant--it sounded
like boasting. And it was no' like Alan Donn to boast.

"'Can I come along wi' you, sir, Alan Donn?' says I.

"With that he gies me a look would knock you down. 'Did na I tell you to
do so'thin' for me?' says he.

"Then I kent he was na coming back.

"'Aye, aye, sir,' said I.

"He goes to the boat on the edge of the water. You could hardly keep
your footing with the wind, nor hear your neighbor with the sea. And
Alan Donn laughs: 'By Christ, 't is myself that must be fond o'
boating,' says he. 'And to-day is the grand day for it, surely. _Hi
horo_, push her off,' says he. '_Horo eile! Horo_, heroes, _horo eile!_'
We pushed with the water up to our waists. The keel ground. The sand
sucked. We pushed with the water up to our shoulders. Then the trisail
caught the wind. And Alan Donn was off.

"And Hughie Rafferty was wrong: Not at fifty, not at a hundred did he
turn. Not at half a mile. He must have had the arms of Finn McCool, Alan
Donn, and the hands of a woman. He'd take the high waves like a hunter
taking a wall. Then you could nearly feel him easing her to the pitch.
Apart from the waves themselves you could see the wee fountain of water
when the bows slapped. Then he'd come up again. The trisail would belly
and again he'd dive.

"And then he came to the ninth wave--_tonn a' bhaidhte_, the drowning
wave. Even away off you could see it rise like a wall, and curl at the
top. We were watching. There was the crippled schooner, and Alan Donn,
and the great sea. And the wave curled and broke. And then was only the
schooner and the great sea....

"And we waited for a minute, although we knew there was no call.

"And after a while a