There is a round-headed tomb let into a wall of the old monastery and it is believed to contain ‘the bones of the prince of pipers, Raonall MacAilein Oig, the author of the most celebrated pipe music in existence’, according to one writer on Eigg (Dr. MacPherson), though what all the fans of the MacCrimmons and MacArthurs and Mackays might have to say to that I do not know. Certainly the run of vowels in the name is music itself and half persuades me to believe the learned antiquary.

In the evening light, as we turned away from the tomb with ‘its Celtic notions of heraldry’ and came out on the grassy promontory towards the sea, we were in a mood to hear the learned voice continuing: ‘Thus have we glimpses of island history for a thousand years from the martyrdom of St. Donan to the death of Ranald the piper. But who can assign their true dates to the flint, the iron, the bronze, the amber, the jet, the timber, not one of them products of the island . . . yet they are not only found in the island, but specimens of each one discovered in a single tomb.’

At our feet white sea-shells were round the green mound of a child that had recently died on the island. Older the meaning of that decoration than we could fathom. In front the lush grass was thick with yellow rattle and rising out of it was an ancient Celtic cross (or at least parts of the original cross cemented together). To the right, two old graveyards were overgrown with nettles, in that condition of complete neglect so often encountered in the Highlands. Further to the right, the land dipped and rose and went down through the little hazel woods and the short braes where the white rose of Scotland, with its incomparable fragrance, grows in greater profusion than anywhere else I know. Below, the water moved in slow tiny impulses over the pale sands of the flat shore, and in the shallows between, the seagulls waded across.

In the deepening gloom the learned voice grew faint: ‘There is still in the Island an old blind man who chants Ossianic poetry, never yet published, which he received by tradition.’

But the old man is dead, his poetry gone with him, and what have we, who come after him, to set as a light in the gloom?

At that moment our eyes, lifting to Castle Island, were held by the flash from the lighthouse, not yet full-bodied, with a twilight elfin green in it. It came upon us like pure magic—but the magic that in a moment held some secret assurance, perhaps a little pride, and certainly hope. Our hostess’s involuntary smile seemed to suggest that perhaps we, too, have tried to do something after our fashion.

Stepping into a dinghy is a simple enough matter, if done with decision; but to put one foot out and then hesitate is to ask for close communion with the sea. Kit, not being used to small boats, adopted the hesitating precedure, and the dinghy slowly left the pier wall with one of her legs while the other remained desperately ashore, until she gracefully sat on the ocean, and would have quite disappeared but for the attentions of our host, who effected a spectacular rough-and-tumble rescue. This was not a very auspicious opening to our projected descent on Rum, particularly following an earlier visit to the Thistle which had been interrupted half way and when the floor boards were awash in an effort to find the missing cork. Of all ways of bailing a small boat, the easiest is by hauling the boat ashore and pulling the cork out. Only it is as well to make a habit of seeing the cork is in before taking the water again. Not that there is any real danger so long as one knows where the draining hole is and can readily get at it. Those not used to this sort of misadventure can, however, become quite disconcerted when, at some distance from shore, they suddenly find sea-water pouring into their shoes.