r. But as her beauty
is considered superhuman, they say it is the devil who is her
_parfumeur_, her _coiffeur_, and who sees after her complexion; in
brief, she is thought to be a witch in full practice, dangerous to life
and limb."

Errington laughed loudly, he was so much relieved.

"Is that all?" he said with light contempt. "By Jove! what a pack of
fools there must be about here,--ugly fools too, if they think beauty is
a sign of witchcraft. I wonder Dyceworthy isn't scared out of his skin
if he positively thinks the so-called witch is setting her cap at him."

"Ah, but he means to convairt her," said Macfarlane seriously. "To draw
the evil oot o' her, as it were. He said he wad do't by fair means or
foul."

Something in these latter words struck Lorimer, for, raising himself in
his seat, he asked, "Surely Mr. Dyceworthy, with all his stupidity,
doesn't carry it so far as to believe in witchcraft?"

"Oh, indeed he does," exclaimed Duprez; "he believes in it _a la
lettre_! He has Bible authority for his belief. He is very firm--firmest
when drunk!" And he laughed gaily.

Errington muttered something not very flattering to Mr. Dyceworthy's
intelligence, which escaped the hearing of his friends; then he said--

"Come along, all of you, down into the saloon. We want something to eat.
Let the Gueldmars alone; I'm not a bit sorry I've asked them to come
to-morrow. I believe you'll all like them immensely."

They all descended the stair-way leading to the lower part of the yacht,
and Macfarlane asked as he followed his host--

"Is the lass vera bonnie did ye say?"

"Bonnie's not the word for it this time," said Lorimer, coolly answering
instead of Errington. "Miss Gueldmar is a magnificent woman. You never
saw such a one, Sandy, my boy; she'll make you sing small with one look;
she'll wither you up into a kippered herring! And as for you, Duprez,"
and he regarded the little Frenchman critically, "let me see,--you _may_
possibly reach up to her shoulder,--certainly not beyond it."

"_Pas possible!_" cried Duprez. "Mademoiselle is a giantess."

"She needn't be a giantess to overtop you, _mon ami_," laughed Lorimer
with a lazy shrug. "By Jove, I _am_ sleepy, Errington, old boy; are we
never going to bed? It's no good waiting till it's dark here, you know."

"Have something first," said Sir Philip, seating himself at the saloon
table, where his steward had laid out a tasty cold collation. "We've had
a good deal