Over all the lowlands of the Ross, the wind must have blown as fierce as on the open sea; and God only knows the uproar that was raging around the head of Ben Kyaw.

Sheets of mingled spray and rain were driven in our faces.

All round the isle of Aros the surf, with an incessant, hammering thunder, beat upon the reefs and beaches.

Now louder in one place, now lower in another, like the combinations of orchestral music, the constant mass of sound was hardly varied for a moment.

And loud above all this hurly-burly I could hear the changeful voices of the Roost and the intermittent roaring of the Merry Men.