an agonized and broken voice:--

"O Sir Keith, you are my master, and there is nothing I will not do for
you; but only this one night you will let me remain with the yacht? I
will give you the rest of my life; but only this one night--"

"Into the gig with you!" Macleod cried, angrily. "Why, man, don't you
think I can keep anchor-watch?" But then he added very gently, "Hamish,
shake hands with me now. You were my friend, and you must get ashore
before the sea rises."

"I will stay in the dingy, then?" the old man entreated.

"You will go ashore, Hamish; and this very instant, too. If the gale
begins, how will you get ashore? Good-by, Hamish--_good-night!_"

Another white sheet of flame quivered all around them, just as this
black figure was descending into the gig; and then the fierce hell of
sounds broke loose once more. Sea and sky together seemed to shudder at
the wild uproar, and far away the sounds went thundering through the
hollow night. How could one hear if there was any sobbing in that
departing boat, or any last cry of farewell? It was Ulva calling now,
and Fladda answering from over the black water; and the Dutchman is
surely awake at last!

There came a stirring of wind from the east, and the sea began to moan.
Surely the poor fugitives must have reached the shore now. And then
there was a strange noise in the distance: in the awful silence between
the peals of thunder it would be heard; it came nearer and nearer--a low
murmuring noise, but full of a secret life and thrill--it came along
like the tread of a thousand armies--and then the gale struck its first
blow. The yacht reeled under the stroke, but her bows staggered up again
like a dog that has been felled, and after one or two convulsive plunges
she clung hard at the strained cables. And now the gale was growing in
fury, and the sea rising. Blinding showers of rain swept over, hissing
and roaring; the white tongues of flame were shooting this way and that
across the startled heavens; and there was a more awful thunder than
even the falling of the Atlantic surge booming into the great sea-caves.
In the abysmal darkness the spectral arms of the ocean rose white in
their angry clamor; and then another blue gleam would lay bare the great
heaving and wreathing bosom of the deep. What devil's dance is this?
Surely it cannot be Ulva--Ulva the green-shored--Ulva that the sailors,
in their love of her, call softly _Ool-a-va_--that is laughing aloud
with