lonely waters of Loch Scavaig was poised, rather than anchored, the
fairy vessel of my dreams, with all sails spread,--sails that were
white as milk and seemingly drenched with a sparkling dewy radiance,
for they scintillated like hoar-frost in the sun and glittered
against the sombre background of the mountainous shore with an
almost blinding splendour. Our whole crew of sailors and servants on
the 'Diana' came together in astonished groups, whispering among
themselves, all evidently more or less scared by the strange
spectacle. Captain Derrick waited for someone to hazard a remark,
then, as we remained silent, he addressed Mr. Harland--

"Well, sir, what do you make of it?"

Mr. Harland did not answer. For a man who professed indifference to
all events and circumstances he seemed startled for once and a
little afraid. Catherine caught me by the arm,--she was shivering
nervously.

"Do you think it is a REAL yacht?" she whispered.

I was amused at this question, coming as it did from a woman who
denied the supernatural.

"Of course it is!" I answered--"Don't you see people moving about on
board?"

For, in the brilliant light shed by those extraordinary sails, the
schooner appeared to be fully manned. Several of the crew were busy
on her deck and there was nothing of the phantom in their movements.