hore was a maiden looking away and away to sea, and the
nets all unheeded at her feet, and the seagulls not heeding her at all,
and the great sorrow was in her eyes, in the very poise of her; and I
wondered where was the lithe lad she should be having to love her, for
her eyes would aye be looking at the empty sea. . . .

When my mind was wandering on pictures of sadness, of an empty sea and
great grim silent hills, the inn door was pushed open, and the cold
swirl of frosty night air made the roysterers turn, and in there came a
thick-set junk of a man. Always to my mind, Dol Rob Beag, for he it
was, had a look of a Joonie doorie, being all run to shoulders, and no
neck on him at all. His arms hung well to his knee, giving the man the
appearance of a powerful animal. His face was brown as a smack's sail,
and his eyes red and shifty as a ferret's.

"What is it ye waant here?" growled McKelvie with a lowerin' look, and
there was silence from the others; and the men put their drink down
where it would not spill if there should be a scrimmage. Dol Beag put
a hand to his beard, and his shifty eyes fixed on the innkeeper.

"Ceevility," says he, "from a man in the public. I'm wantin' that, and
I'll be payin' for whatever drink I'll tak. Put a refreshment before
me, McKelvie, and go back again to your affairs."

There's no denying the man had a cold-steel bravery in him, and a grim
smile flickered on his face as he watched McKelvie, for no Hielan'man
born can thole being likened to a menial, and the dark blood of hatred
glowed on the innkeeper's face.

"I ken the ceevility I would like to be giving to you, Dol Beag," says
he, and put a drink on the table, and lifting the coin tendered in
payment he hurled it behind the fire. "I would not be thinking myself
clean if I kept your money."

Dol Beag was on him before his words were out.

"The hell take you," he girned through clenched teeth, and his knife
left his hip. "Ye'll lick where that lay, McKelvie, ye--ye--maker of
meats for sailors," and the sweat rolled off his brow, and his voice
was a skirl of rage.

McKelvie grabbed a horse-pistol from among his kegs.

"Ye hound, I'll put a hole in ye that will be hurrying the gaugers tae
fill wi' siller," and as quick as light he levelled the pistol and drew
the trigger. The room was filled with brimstone smoke that gripped the
back of the throat, but Dol Beag was unhurt, and creeping like a
powerful beast on his ene