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Combe, relieved by an excuse to get away, almost stumbled over his own feet in hurrying through the door as he went to call up a horse for the hard climb across the ridge to a well-hidden bay where a little black schooner lay concealed.

Then with a slight gesture, and "I'm off," to Brundage, Williams turned to go. They knew each other too well to need handshakes and fair words at parting.

But Brundage called, "Skipper, here are these two young ladies that want to meet you. Children, this is Captain Williams—Hurricane Williams."

Their father—it had been like him to do just that—had neglected to say who this stern, forbidding man was; but at the sound of his name they knew him for that half-legendary personage always mentioned in their home with praise and a touch of awe. He was to them like a remote guardian, a powerful, just man, associated in their childish fancies as an equal with many figures in historical stories.

Under the pressure of Brundage's hand, Oreena, a slim little thing of seven, edged forward as the patient, heat-faded governess had taught her, making a dainty curtsey which looked very odd in that nickering lamplight, coming from a bare-legged little maid with loose hair flowing down her back.