the skies grow dark overhead, and
there is no white dove at all, but an angry sea-eagle, with black wings
outspread and talons ready to strike, Oh, what is the sound in the
summer air? Is it the singing of the sea-maiden of Colonsay, bewailing
still the loss of her lovers in other years? We cannot stay to listen;
the winds are fair; fly southward, and still southward, oh you beautiful
White Dove, and it is all a message of love and of peace that you will
whisper to her ear.

CHAPTER XLIII.

DOVE, OR SEA-EAGLE?

But there are no fine visions troubling the mind of Hamish as he stands
here by the tiller in eager consultation with Colin Laing, who has a
chart outspread before him on the deck. There is pride in the old man's
face. He is proud of the performances of the yacht he has sailed for so
many years; and proud of himself for having brought her--always subject
to the advice of his cousin from Greenock--in safety through the salt
sea to the smooth waters of the great river. And, indeed, this is a
strange scene for the _Umpire_ to find around her in the years of her
old age. For instead of the giant cliffs of Gribun and Bourg there is
only the thin green line of the Essex coast; and instead of the rushing
Atlantic there is the broad smooth surface of this coffee-colored
stream, splashed with blue where the ripples catch the reflected light
of the sky. There is no longer the solitude of Ulva and Colonsay, or the
moaning of the waves round the lonely shores of Fladda, and Staffa, and
the Dutchman; but the eager, busy life of the great river--a black
steamer puffing and roaring, russet-sailed barges going smoothly with
the ride, a tug bearing a large green-hulled Italian ship through the
lapping waters, and everywhere a swarming fry of small boats of every
description. It is a beautiful summer morning, though there is a pale
haze lying along the Essex woods. The old _Umpire_, with the salt foam
of the sea incrusted on her bows, is making her first appearance in the
Thames.

"And where are we going, Hamish," says Colin Laing, in the Gaelic, "when
we leave this place?"

"When you are told, then you will know," says Hamish.

"You had enough talk of it last night in the cabin. I thought you were
never coming out of the cabin," says the cousin from Greenock.

"And if I have a master, I obey my master without speaking," Hamish
answers.

"Well, it is a strange master you have got. Oh, you do not know about
these