unhappy
individual was considered guilty and had received the punishment due to
his or her crime. It was rather hard, this, for weak brethren, and
perhaps it is as well that the system is in existence no longer. There
was a good deal of the right that is born of might in Scotland then; it
is to be hoped that the land is happier now with its castles in ruins,
and its sons and daughters wanderers on the face of the earth, farming in
Canada, climbing to wealth and power in the United States, governing in
India, growing wool in Natal, coming to the front with true Scotch
tenacity and instinct everywhere. At the same time, when we need men for
our armies and our fleets, and remember that the flower of them come from
such islands as Mull, one may regret the forced exile of these hardy sons
of the Celt or the Norseman.

CHAPTER VI.
FAST DAY AT PORTREE.

In rough weather it requires no little courage to make one's way in a
steamer from Tobermory to Portree, the capital of the Isle of Skye. Our
noble-hearted owner is very careful on this point. The _Elena_ is a
beautiful yacht, and he treats her tenderly. It is true, off
Ardanamurchan Point we tumble about on the troubled waves of the
Atlantic, and are glad to shelter in the quiet harbour of Oronsay, where
we pass the night, after the Doctor's lady has gone on shore in search of
milk, whilst the Doctor smokes his cigar on the top of the highest spot
he can find, and I interview the one policeman of the district, who is
unable to put on his official costume, as he tells me it rained heavily
yesterday, and his clothes are hung by the fire to dry. At Oronsay there
are some six houses, including what is called an hotel. Here and there
are some old tubs about us which would cause Mr. Plimsoll's hair to stand
on an end, and which seek in this stagnant spot shelter from the gale.
Next morning we resume our voyage, leaving Oronsay with a very light
heart--to quote a celebrated phrase--and in a few hours are at Portree,
after passing the residence of the Macdonald who is a descendant of the
Lord of the Isles, and such islands as Rum and Muck, and others with
names equally unpoetical in English ears. From afar we watch the giant
hills of the Isle of Skye, their summits wreathed in clouds. Mr. Black
and Mr. Smith have between them much to answer for. They write of fine
weather when the sun shines, when you may see ocean and heaven and earth
all alike, serene and beaut