Year: 1875

On the afternoon of a summer
day, small schooner yacht, closely
reefed made her appearance off the
mouth of Loch Uribol, a long and
lonley ford in the remote Hebrides
of Scotland, and while beating to
and fro in the open sea in the midst
of the squall from the neighboring
mountains, hoisted the inverted red
flag to the foremast as a signal that
the parties on board were in need of
assistance.


1t had been dark, dry day, with
the wind blowing fresh from the
west very steady and strong, and the
yacht, tiny thing of fifteen or six
teen tons, with small cockpit, had
been beating since early dawn
across the tossing waters of the
Minch, which divides the dark, SER
rated peaks of Skye from the far-off
Outer Isles. Lightly as a bird she
had bounded the great rollers of the
sea, splashing the foam over herself
from stem to stern, but seldom tax
ing on board drop of "green." The
distance across was thirty miles, and
the wind was dead ahead, so that
her progress westward was slow in
deed. The time slipped by, however,
and the basaltic crags of the south
west coast of Skye grew fainter and
fainter; and the islands of the ocean
which at first had been hardly dis
tinguishable on the horizon, had
gradually loomed more and more
Misunderstanding in one desolate
and lonely darkness from the high
hills of Lewis past the faint, low
lying fats of Uist, to the dark and
rocky shores which fringe the cliffs
of Barra.


Not once in the long day had the
sun actually made his appearance.
The atmosphere had been full of a
palpitating, silvery light, in which
the skies seemed close to the earth,
and very gray, and the waves of the
sea, where they did not break into
white foam, unusually black and
threatening. Yet it was "good
weather." a safe, snug day for sail
ing, and the sombre, colorless tone
of all things-sea, far-off land and
sky was not without its charms for
those who have learned to love the
pathetic neutral tint of the melan-
choly Scottish coast.


But as the evening approached,
the sun looked out from gray
chasm above the outlying hills, and
shed lurid light over the dancing
sea, illuminlng to rose-color the
white sails of the little yacht, which
was by this time within few miles
of the dangerous coast. Just about
this time a weather-beaten Highlan-
er, who was steering the little YES
sci, cooked his eye up to the sunset,
and relinquishing the tiller to a
young man who sat in the cockpit
beside him, said, quietly,


She's going to give puff out o.
the west yonder, and Loch Uribol's
a terrible place for squalls. Well
take off the foresail altogether, and
let her go cannie VII mainsail, stay
sal and jib.


Scarcely had the speaker, with the
assistance of another man, who had
been lying istlessly in the fore part
of the vessel, carried out his precau-
tion, and taken the foresail down,
when the first squall from the land
came up white as foam and laid the
vessel over to the cooming of the
cockpit. Squall after squall follow
ed, while the light from the sunset
grew every moment a more lurid
crimson, steaming with the wind out
of great rent in the vast noun
tains of cloud. The yacht was too
lightly ballasted to carry her canvas
well, and more than once the winds
racked her so savagely as to threat
en- to founder her outright, the wa
ter passing into the cockpit in one
green torrent and drenching the
helmsman to the skin. The sea was
comparative smooth, however, owing
to the shelter of the hills. From the
dark precipices and distant misty
glens the squalls shot out with fu-
ry only realizable by him who has
navigated these coasts in a small
vessel. With the fury of hate and
the strength of dispair, so to speak,
they plunged one by one upon the
schooner, like wild beasts franticly
endeavoring to tear her to pieces.


With light laugh, the helmsman
dashed the wet hair out of his eyes,
and strained his gaze toward the
land.