e six ships that were so
anxiously expected came not to the appointed place.

CHAPTER XIX. STORMING AN ISLAND STRONGHOLD.

One morning very early Allan Redmain was on watch. He had had his fill
of fighting, and not few were the wounds he had received of both arrow
and spear. Wrapped in his warm plaid, he paced the deck. The seagulls
flew about the masthead and dipped into the blue water. The mountains of
Mull were shrouded in white mist. Suddenly Allan paused his walk and
looked northward towards the little isle of Staffa. On the sea line he
saw what at first he took to be the Treshnish Islands; but soon these
faint shadows loomed more distinct through the morning mist and took the
shape of ships' sails. Six ships he counted.

"Kenric is safe!" he sighed.

Then ordering one of his small boats to be lowered, he went to tell the
good news to Sir Piers on his galley hard by. But as together they
looked across the sea they counted yet another ship.

"You mistake, Allan," said Sir Piers. "These are not Kenric's ships at
all, but the galleys of my lord of Ross, who has, as you know, been upon
an expedition similar to our own -- to Skye and Lewis."

"Alas!" said Allan. "Then, where can Kenric be?"

"Where indeed?" sighed Sir Piers.

At this moment one of the men of Arran touched his master's arm.

"There is a fishing coracle coming alongside of us, my master," said he,
"with two fishermen in her."

Sir Piers and Allan crossed the deck and saw a small boat bearing
towards them, rowed by a brawny western islander.

"Saint Columba protect us!" cried Allan. "Look but at that man sitting
in the stern! 'Tis none other than Duncan Graham of Rothesay, my lord
Kenric's henchman. Whence comes he? and where is his master?

"Duncan! Duncan!" he called.

Duncan raised his eyes. His face was haggard and wan. His cheeks were
thin, his clothes torn and bloodstained.

Allan threw down a rope's end, and the boat was drawn alongside.
Scarcely able to move his gaunt limbs, Duncan clambered up the galley's
side and fell upon the deck, moaning. From under his ragged plaid he
drew a formidable sword and held it towards Allan without speaking a word.

"The Thirsty Sword!" cried Allan in dread surprise as he took the
weapon. "Alas! Kenric is most surely dead!"

"Not so!" moaned Duncan, lolling out his tongue. "Ah, food, food!"

Then Sir Piers de Currie bent down, and with the help of Allan took up
the giant form of Duncan, an