‘It was an extraordinary and bitter hunt, that rose out of the romance of Bonnie Prince Charlie, who merely wanted a crown for himself. The Stuarts were a strange family, and from their record you would say that it would matter less than a harper’s tune to all that land we have passed and see still before us, even if Charlie did get his crown. For well the land knew that it was when the Stuarts were at St. James’s that she suffered her worst religious persecutions, and suffered, too, within herself her most bitter division. In the old days the strife had been between two countries, and each had had victories and defeats, but at least they made two sides, with wholeness of mind for the contest. But with the Stuarts in London, this land lost her wholeness and what harmony went with it. They say that if Charlie had won his crown, he would have done something. Well, he might have done something for a few chiefs—if the English had let him. But he was not likely to forget that they had beheaded his great grandfather, and if he wanted to keep his own head on his neck, he would have to play their tune. However, all that is as may be. He didn’t win his crown—and the hunt was on, sounding over the red tartan on Drumossie Moor. It was never let up.

‘They got the hunted Fox, too, and the Hunter trussed him up and took him on his steed behind him and carried him over the hills and far away to London, and there they let him have his say, and he said it right ironically, thank God, and so they executed him.’

‘Do you think he made up that very well?’ asked the Mate.

‘No,’ said the Crew. ‘But maybe there’s a great story lost in it. I thought you were going to end it by saying he had burnt his harp for Charlie.’

‘I did think of it,’ I answered, ‘but it wouldn’t be true. For now we come to the core of the matter as it touches this great and lovely land. Like Charlie, he burnt his harp for himself.’

We were now in the Firth of Lorn, with a favourable wind and a calming sea, and we debated whether we should cross over towards Sheep Isle and in due course take the sheltered sound inside Kerrera and on into Oban Bay. But the Mate was so set on his sail, and his arguments for the broad seaway were so strong, that we hadn’t the heart to counter him and in truth we were ploughing along now in grand style, right pleased with ourselves and with this new country. Before we came abreast of Loch Spelvie we passed a white yacht, well inshore from us, making up the sheltered Mull coast in full sail. She was at least three times our size and we were astonished to see her pitching so much, and laughed in our astonishment when she plunged rather heavily and plainly took a green one in over her bows. With considerable complacency, we wondered how much she would take in off the Torranan Rocks! Not but that we knew the mighty difference between running before a moderate sea and taking it head on. Still, the sea now, compared with what we had come through, was calm, and I hope we were entitled to whatever innocent amusement was going. Anyway, we watched her for quite a time and chuckled more than once, I’m afraid.