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"Go back to your bed, Kate," said Margaret; "it is the nightmare. Who will be gone to the smuggling? there will not be any smuggling." "At the Clates, mistress my man is there, the man I am to be marrying, and your man, mistress, and his father," and then she got her words. "It is my father I am dreading," said she. "Dol Beag is my father.
The wee boats were close inshore now, and the Gull well off, for the Clates is not a nice place if the wind will be shifting to the suthard. With the grating of the keel of the first boat on the beach the men made a start to be lifting the kegs, and carrying them to the boat and wading, for it is not very safe to let a boat go hard aground if there will be a hurry to be shoving her off again.
Sometimes yet I can see Helen's face clear-cut upraised against the sky, her curling black hair flying loose, and never, never will I forget her laughing the devilry and the joy of it. Angus McKinnon stretched himself on the shore at the Clates. "I am not liking this waiting," said he to Dan McBride; "McNeilage might have been standing closer in."
"No, no; they're married," cried Margaret, and cut again at the black, although he was half maddened already. As he leapt from the lash I heard Helen "The gaugers are at the Clates Gilchrist and Dol Beag and Bryde and Dan. Can ye not see what will come of it?" I know not what I cried to Hugh as we galloped.
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