mony?

However, as Hamish could not be in six places at once, he decided to
obey his mistress's directions, and went hurriedly off to the quay,
overtaking on his way Donald the piper lad, who was apparelled in all
his professional finery.

"And if ever you put wind in your pipes, you will put wind in your pipes
this day, Donald," said he to the red-haired lad. "And I will tell you
now what you will play when you come ashore from the steamer: it is the
'Farewell to Chubraltar' you will play."

"The 'Farewell to Gibraltar!'" said Donald, peevishly, for he was bound
in honor to let no man interfere with his proper business. "It is a
better march than that I will play, Hamish. It is the 'Heights of Alma,'
that was made by Mr. Ross, the Queen's own piper; and will you tell me
that the 'Heights of Alma' is not a better march than the 'Farewell to
Gibraltar?'"

Hamish pretended to pay no heed to this impertinent boy. His eye was
fixed on a distant black speck that was becoming more and more
pronounced out there amidst the grays and greens of the windy and sunlit
sea. Occasionally it disappeared altogether, as a cloud of rain swept
across toward the giant cliffs of Mull, and then again it would appear,
sharper and blacker than ever, while the masts and funnel were now
visible as well as the hull. When Donald and his companion got down to
the quay, they found the men already in the big boat, getting ready to
hoist the huge brown lugsail; and there was a good deal of laughing and
talking going on, perhaps in anticipation of the dram they were sure to
get when their master returned to Castle Dare. Donald jumped down on the
rude stone ballast, and made his way up to the bow; Hamish, who remained
on shore, helped to shove her off; then the heavy lugsail was quickly
hoisted, the sheet hauled tight; and presently the broad-beamed boat was
ploughing its way through the rushing seas, with an occasional cloud of
spray coming right over her from stem to stern. "Fhir a bhata," the men
sung, until Donald struck in with his pipes, and the wild skirl of "The
Barren Rocks of Aden" was a fitter sort of music to go with these
sweeping winds and plunging seas.

And now we will board the steamer, where Keith Macleod is up on the
bridge, occasionally using a glass, and again talking to the captain,
who is beside him. First of all on board he had caught sight of the red
flag floating over Castle Dare; and his heart had leaped up at that sign
o