here, who draw their living from the bosom of a sea that thus harshly
treats its children. Yet it is a sea that can be kindly enough; and in
the long, golden summer evenings, when the brown-sailed fishing-boats in
endless procession draw out from the "haven under the hill," to vanish
seaward in the deepening twilight, you would scarce believe that a thing
so gentle could be guilty of treachery, or ever could arise in sudden
mad frenzy to slay those who had trusted it.

Yet that was what happened that terrible Friday, the 14th of October
1881. No summer's morning could have dawned more peaceful and fair. And
here we were but in mid-October, when the woods are in their glory and
Scotland looks still for the settled weather of her "Indian summer";
there should yet be ample measure of quiet days and nights ere winter
gales rumble in the chimneys and wail through the rigging of boats lying
weather-bound in harbour.

A cloudless day, sea of deepest blue, without even the faintest
cat's-paw to wrinkle its shining face; a morning warm, genial, windless,
reminiscent of fairest summer, such a day as landsmen rejoice in,
feeling that it is good to be alive. But the glass came tumbling down,
the sea heaved sullenly in the oily calm, seething around the bared
fangs of jagged rocks, drawing back with threatening snarl or snatching
irritably at the trailing sea-weed; and high aloft the gulls wheeled,
clamouring. Old men amongst the fishers looked askance. Why did they not
take warning? Alas! The year had been a lean year; the weather latterly
had been bad, and for near on a week the boats had been unable to go
out. The fish were there for the taking. Prices now were good. And "men
must work" even if "women must weep." So it befell that boat after boat
put out from harbour and headed over the windless sea, dragged,
galley-like, by the clumsy sweeps, till, clear of the land, the fanning