ern men!
Or is it a race for Barra Head; and who will be at Vatersay first! There
is good fishing-ground on the Sgriobh bhan; Hamish; they may as well
stop to fish as seek to catch us among our Western Isles! See, the dark
is coming down; are these the Monach lights in the north?--Hamish,
Hamish, we are on the rocks!--and there is no one to help her! Oh,
sweetheart! sweetheart!--

* * * * *

The brief fit of struggling sleep is over; he rises and goes to the
window; and now, if he is impatient for the new day, behold! the new day
is here. Oh, see how the wan light of the morning meets the wan face! It
is the face of a man who has been close to Death; it is the face of a
man who is desperate. And if, after the terrible battle of the night,
with its uncontrollable yearning and its unbearable pain, the fierce and
bitter resolve is taken?--if there remains but this one last despairing
venture for all that made life worth having? How wildly the drowning man
clutches at this or that, so only that he may breathe for yet a moment
more? He knows not what miracle may save him; he knows not where there
is any land; but only to live--only to breath for another moment--that
is his cry. And then, mayhap, amidst the wild whirl of waves, if he were
suddenly to catch sight of the shore; and think that he was getting near
to that; and see awaiting him there a white Princess, with a smile on
her lips and a red rose in her outstretched hand. Would he not make one
last convulsive effort before the black waters dragged him down?

CHAPTER XLII.

THE WHITE-WINGED DOVE.

The mere thought of this action, swift, immediate, impetuous, seemed to
give relief to the burning brain. He went outside, and walked down to
the shore; all the world was asleep; but the day had broken fair and
pleasant, and the sea was calm and blue. Was not that a good omen? After
all, then, there was still the wild, glad hope that Fionaghal might come
and live in her Northern home: the summer days had not gone forever;
they might still find a red rose for her bosom at Castle Dare.

And then he tried to deceive himself. Was not this a mere lover's
stratagem. Was not all fair in love as in war? Surely she would forgive
him, for the sake of the great love he bore her, and the happiness he
would try to bring her all the rest of her life? And no sailor, he would
take care, would lay his rough hand on her gentle arm. That was the
folly