e dusky whales in the vague blue,
were the Pladda Islands--the remote and unvisited Seven Hunters--whose
only inhabitants are certain flocks of sheep belonging to dwellers on
the mainland of Lewis.

The travelers sat down on a low block of gneiss to rest themselves,
and then and there did the King of Borva recite his grievances and
rage against the English smacks. Was it not enough that they should
in passing steal the sheep, but that they should also, in mere
wantonness, stalk them as deer, wounding them with rifle-bullets, and
leaving them to die among the rocks? Sheila said bravely that no one
could tell that it was the English fishermen who did that. Why not the
crews of merchant-vessels, who might be of any nation? It was unfair
to charge upon any body of men such a despicable act, when there was
no proof of it whatever.

"Why, Sheila," said Ingram with some surprise, "you never doubted
before that it was the English smacks that killed the sheep."

Sheila cast down her eyes and said nothing.

Was the sinister prophecy of John the Piper to be fulfilled? Mackenzie
was so much engaged in expounding politics to Ingram, and Sheila was
so proud to show her companion all the wonders of Uig, that when they
returned to Mevaig in the evening the wind had altogether gone down
and the sea was as a sea of glass. But if John the Piper had been
ready to foretell for Mackenzie the fate of Mackrimmon, he had taken
means to defeat destiny by bringing over from Borvabost a large
and heavy boat pulled by six rowers. These were not strapping young
fellows, clad in the best blue cloth to be got in Stornoway, but
elderly men, gray, wrinkled, weather-beaten and hard of face, who sat
stolidly in the boat and listened with a sort of bovine gaze to the
old hunchback's wicked stories and jokes. John was in a mischievous
mood, but Lavender, in a confidential whisper, informed Sheila that
her father would speedily be avenged on the inconsiderate piper.

"Come, men, sing us a song, quick!" said Mackenzie as the party took
their seats in the stern and the great oars splashed into the sea of
gold. "Look sharp, John, and no teffle of a drowning song!"

In a shrill, high, querulous voice the piper, who was himself pulling
one of the two stroke oars, began to sing, and then the men behind
him, gathering courage, joined in an octave lower, their voices being
even more uncertain and lugubrious than his own. These poor fishermen
had not had the m