"What's that?" cried Max, whose knowledge of birds save in books was princ.i.p.ally confined to sparrows, poultry, and pigeons.

"Heron. Can't you see his beak?"

"Yes, and long neck. What a long thin tail!"

Scood chuckled.

"What's he laughing at?"

"You mind what you're doing; you'll have the boat over. Keep the tiller as I showed you."

Max hastily complied.

"That isn't his tail," continued Kenneth, watching the heron, which was far out of shot. "Those are his long thin legs stretched out behind to balance him as he flies."

Max said "Oh!" as he watched the bird, and came to the conclusion that he was being laughed at, but his attention was taken up directly after by a couple of birds rising from the golden-brown weedy sh.o.r.e they were gliding by--birds which he could see were black and white, and which flew off, uttering sharp, excited cries.

"What are those?"

"Pies."

"Pies?"

"Yes; not puddings."

"I mean magpies?"

"No; sea pies--oyster-catchers."

"Do they catch oysters?"

"Never saw one do it, but they eat the limpets like fun. Now then, sit fast. Here's a shot."

Max sat fast and shrinkingly, for he was not accustomed to a gun being fired close to his ears. He watched eagerly as a couple of birds flew toward them with outstretched necks and quickly beating, sharply-pointed wings, but they turned off as the gun was raised, and, though Kenneth fired, there was no result.

"Waste of a shot," he said, reloading.

"What were those?"

"Sheldrakes. How shy they are, Scood!"

Max thought it was enough to make them, but he did not say so, and he scanned the island as they sailed on, with the sensation of gliding over the beautiful sparkling water growing each moment more fascinating as his dread wore off. They were pa.s.sing a glorious slope of sh.o.r.e, green and grey and yellow, and patched with black where some ma.s.s of shaley rock jutted out into the sea to be creamed with foam, while everywhere, as the tide laid them bare, the rocks were glistening with the golden-brown seaweed of different species. Blue sky, blue water, blue mountains in the distance: the scene was lovely, and the London boy's eyes brightened as he gazed with avidity at the ever-changing sh.o.r.e.

"Is that a castle?" he said, as a square ruined tower gradually came into sight at the point of the island.

"Yes; there are lots about," said Kenneth coolly. "There's another yonder."

He nodded in the direction of the mainland, so cut up into fiords that on a small scale it resembled the Norwegian coast, and, on shading his eyes, Max could see another mouldering pile of ruins similar in structure to Dunroe, with its square ma.s.s of masonry and four rounded towers at the corners.

"What castle is that?"

"Rannage. This one on the island is Turkree. Every chief used to have a place of that sort, and most of 'em built their castles on rocks like that sticking out into the sea."

Max gazed eagerly at the ruined towers, the homes of jackdaws, bats, and owls, and he was beginning to dream about the old times when men in armour and courtly ladies used to dwell in these sea-girt fortalices, but his reverie was broken in upon by a sharp snapping bark from Sneeshing, and an exclamation from Scood.

"Oh, you beauty!" exclaimed Kenneth, as he gazed up at a great strong-winged, hawk-like bird, which went sailing by. "See, Max. Blue hawk."

"Is that a blue hawk?" said Max, as he gazed wonderingly at the rapidity with which the great bird cut through the air.

"Yes; peregrine falcon, the books call it. There's a nest yonder where we're going."

"Where?"

"On the face of that great grey cliff that you can see under the sail."

Max gazed at the huge wall of rock about a mile away, and noted that the falcon was making for it as fast as its wings would beat.

"Are we going there?"

"Yes. I want the nest. I think there are young ones in it--late couple fledged."

The rocky cliff looked so stern and forbidding, that it seemed as if climbing would be impossible.

"Then we're going on to that rock on the other side--that tall crag.

That's where the eagles build."

Max gazed hard at a faint blue ma.s.s of crag miles farther, and then turned half doubtingly to his companion.

"Eagles?" he said; "I thought there were none now."

"But there are. There's one pair build yonder every year, quite out of reach; but I mean to have a try for them some day. Eh, Scood?"

"Ou ay!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the young gillie carelessly; "why no?"

"Are there any other wild things about?"

"Any wild things? plenty: badgers, and otters, and roe deer, and red deer. Look, there's one right off against the sky on that hill. See?"

"Yes," cried Max. "I can see that quite plainly."

"Tah!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Scood scornfully; "it's a coo."

"You, Scood, do you want me to pitch you overboard?" cried Kenneth.

"Nae."

"Then hold your tongue."