with a sort of vicious vigor. "How can you tell? I'm not a
spiritualist, nor any sort of a humbug at all, I hope, but I
sometimes indulge in presentiments. Before we started on this
cruise, I was haunted by that dismal old ballad of Sir Patrick
Spens--"

'The King's daughter of Norroway
Tis thou maun bring her hame!'

"And here you have found her, or so it appears. What's to come of
it, I wonder?"

"Nothing's to come of it; nothing WILL come of it!" laughed Philip.
"As I told you, she said she was a peasant. There's the breakfast-
bell! Make haste, old boy, I'm as hungry as a hunter!"

And he left his friend to finish dressing, and entered the saloon,
where he greeted his two other companions, Alec, or, as he was
oftener called, Sandy Macfarlane, and Pierre Duprez; the former an
Oxford student,--the latter a young fellow whose acquaintance he had
made in Paris, and with whom he had kept up a constant and friendly
intercourse. A greater contrast than these two presented could
scarcely be imagined. Macfarlane was tall and ungainly, with large
loose joints that seemed to protrude angularly out of him in every
direction,--Duprez was short, slight and wiry, with a dapper and by
no means ungraceful figure. The one had formal gauche manners, a
never-to-be-eradicated Glasgow accent, and a slow, infinitely
tedious method of expressing himself,--the other was full of
restless movement and pantomimic gesture, and being proud of his
English, plunged into that language recklessly, making it curiously