"Let me steer first," she said, "and then tell me how things work."
"That is whiles the best plan," said Malcolm. "Jist lay yer han'
upo' the tiller, my leddy, an' luik oot at yon pint they ca' the
Deid Heid yonner. Ye see, whan I turn the tiller this gait, her
heid fa's aff frae the pint; an' whan I turn't this ither gait,
her heid turns till 't again: haud her heid jist aboot a twa yairds
like aff o' 't."
Florimel was more delighted than ever when she felt her own hand
ruling the cutter--so overjoyed indeed, that, instead of steering
straight, she would keep playing tricks with the rudder--fretting
the mouth of the sea palfrey, as it were. Every now and then Malcolm
had to expostulate.
"Noo, my leddy, caw canny. Dinna steer sae wull. Haud her steddy.
--My lord, wad ye jist say a word to my leddy, or I'll be forced
to tak the tiller frae her."
But by and by she grew weary of the attention required, and, giving
up the helm, began to seek the explanation of its influence, in a
way that delighted Malcolm.
"Ye'll mak a guid skipper some day," he said: "ye spier the richt
questions, an' that's 'maist as guid 's kennin' the richt answers."
At length she threw herself on the cushions Malcolm had brought
for her, and, while her father smoked his cigar, gazed in silence
at the shore. Here, instead of sands, low rocks, infinitively broken
and jagged, filled all the tidal space--a region of ceaseless rush
and shattered waters.
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