St. Mary's Isle, the tide running ebb, and leaving a wide brown belt of
sand behind it.

St. Mary's Isle! As we looked upon it that day, John Paul and I, and it
lay low against the bright water with its bare oaks and chestnuts against
the dark pines, 'twas perhaps as well that the future was sealed to us.

Captain Paul had conned the brigantine hither with a master's hand; but
now that the anchor was on the ground, he became palpably nervous. I had
donned again good MacMuir's shore suit, and was standing by the gangway
when the captain approached me.

"What'll ye be doing now, Dickie lad?" he asked kindly.

What indeed! I was without money in a foreign port, still dependent upon
my benefactor. And since he had declared his unwillingness to accept any
return I was of no mind to go farther into his debt. I thanked him again
for his goodness in what sincere terms I could choose, and told him I
should be obliged if he would put me in the way of working my passage to
London upon some coasting vessel. But my voice was thick, my affection
for him having grown-past my understanding.

"Hoots!" he replied, moved in his turn, "whyles I hae siller ye shallna
lack. Ye maun gae post-chaise to London, as befits yere station."

And scouting my expostulations, he commanded the longboat, bidding me be
ready to go ashore with him. I had nothing to do but to say farewell to
MacMuir and Lowrie and Auctherlonnie, which was hard enough. For the
honest first mate I had a great liking, and was touched beyond speech
when he enjoined me to keep his shore suit as long as I had want of it.