"Down jib!" The sound of a human voice was so strange in this solitude—far stranger than the mere rattle of blocks and tackle.
The two men came aft: the steersman jammed down his helm; the vessel slowly rounded into the wind—the boom being hauled in meanwhile—the mainsail flapping and shivering in the light breeze.
"Stand by to let go!" was the next order; and the hands went forward again—the vessel gradually losing the way that was on her, until she seemed absolutely motionless.
There was a splash and a roar that sent a thousand shuddering echoes through the silence. A heron uttered a hoarse croak and rose on heavy and slow-moving wings to make for some distant shelter. A pair of dunlins—unseen in the dusk—added their shrill piping cry. Then all was still again, save for the continual moaning of the surge on the distant reef.
"Give a haul at the topping-lift, lads!" This was the final direction; and then, with another keen look round the little bay, young Ross of Heimra—or Donuil Og Vich Iain Vich Ruari, as some were proud to call him—went down into the cabin to put a few things together before going ashore.
Of the two sailors now left on the deck one was a powerfully built man of about thirty, with a close-clipped brown beard, bushy brown eyebrows, and eyes of a clear Celtic grey. His name was Kenneth Macleod; but he was more generally known as _Coinneach Breac_—that is to say, Kenneth of the small-pox marks. His companion was younger than himself—a lad of twenty or two-and-twenty; long and loutish of figure; but with a pleasant expression of face. This was Malcolm, or rather, Calum, as they called him. Probably he had some other name; but it was never heard of; the long, lumpish, heavily-shouldered lad was simply known throughout this neighbourhood as Calum, or Calum-a-bhata, Calum of the Boat.
"It is I who will have a sound sleep this night," said he, in Gaelic, as he stretched his hands above his head and yawned.
"And I, too, when the work is over," said his neighbour, pulling out a short black pipe. "And now you see what it is to have many friends. Oh, I know you, Calum; you are a young lad: and you are strong: you think of nothing but fighting, like the other young lads. But let me tell you this, Calum; it is not a good thing, fighting and quarrelling, and making enemies; it is easier to make enemies than to make friends: and many times you will be sorry when it is too late, and when that has been put wrong which you cannot put right. For you know what the wise man of Islay said. Calum; he said—’_He who killed his mother a few moments ago would fain have her alive now!_’"