{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_43395/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_43395","id":"gutenberg_43395","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43395","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","Mythology, Celtic -- Fiction","Scotland -- Social life and customs -- Fiction"],"text":"THE\n   WASHER OF THE FORD\n\n  LEGENDARY MORALITIES\n   AND BARBARIC TALES\n\n    BY FIONA MACLEOD\n\n\n      [Decoration]\n\n\n        NEW YORK\n    STONE & KIMBALL\n      M DCCC XCVI\n\n\n\n\n    BY THE SAME AUTHOR\n\n    Pharais: _A Romance of the Isles_\n    The Mountain Lovers: _A Romance_\n    The Sin-Eater\n\n\n    IN PREPARATION:\n\n    Green Fire: _A Romance_\n    Lyric Rimes and Founsheen\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                                        PAGE\n    Prologue                                               3\n\n    The Washer of the Ford                                25\n\n    St. Bride of the Isles                                51\n\n    The Fisher of Men                                     97\n\n    The Last Supper                                      117\n\n    The Dark Nameless One                                135\n\n    The Three Marvels of Hy                              149\n\n        I. The Festival of the Birds                     151\n\n       II. The Sabbath of the Fishes and the Flies       161\n\n      III. The Moon-Child                                170\n\n    The Annir-Choille                                    183\n\n    The Shadow-Seers                                     237\n\n        I. The Sight                                     239\n\n       II. The Dark Hour of Fergus                       244\n\n      III. The White Fever                               254\n\n       IV. The Smoothing of the Hand                     260\n\n    Seanachas                                            267\n\n    The Song of the Sword                                271\n\n    The Flight of the Culdees                            289\n\n    Mircath                                              301\n\n    The Laughter of Scathach the Queen                   309\n\n    Ula and Urla                                         321\n\n\n\"Here are told the stories of these pictures of the imagination, of\nmagic and romance. Yet they were gravely chosen withal, and for\nreasons manifold.... What if they be but dreams? 'We are such stuff as\ndreams are made of.' What if they be but magic and romance? These\nthings are not ancient and dead, but modern and increasing. For\nwherever a man learns power over Nature, there is Magic; wherever he\ncarries out an ideal into Life there is Romance.\"\n\n          Patrick Geddes:\n\n              \"_The Interpreter_.\"\n\n\n\n\nPROLOGUE\n\n(TO KATHIA)\n\n    _I find, under the boughs of love and hate,\n    Eternal Beauty wandering on her way._\n\n          The Rose upon the Rood of Time.\n\n\nTo you, in your far-away home in Provence, I send these tales out of\nthe remote North you love so well, and so well understand. The same\nblood is in our veins, a deep current somewhere beneath the tide that\nsustains us. We have meeting-places that none knows of; we understand\nwhat few can understand; and we share in common a strange and\ninexplicable heritage. It is because you, who are called Kathia of the\nSunway, are also Kathia nan Ciar, Kathia of the Shadow, it is because\nyou are what you are that I inscribe this book to you. In it you will\nfind much that is familiar to you, though you may never have read or\nheard anything of the kind; for there is a reality, beneath the\nunfamiliar accident, which may be recognised in a moment as native to\nthe secret life that lives behind the brain and the wise nerves with\ntheir dim ancestral knowledge.\n\nThe greater portion of this book deals with the remote life of a\nremote past. \"The Shadow-Seers,\" however, though of to-day, may\nequally be of yesterday or to-morrow; and as for \"The Last Supper\" or\n\"The Fisher of Men,\" they are of no time or date, for they are founded\nupon elemental facts which are modified but not transformed by the\nchanging years.\n\nIt may be the last of its kind I shall write--at any rate, for a time.\nI would like it to be associated with you, to whom not only the\nmystery but the pagan sentiment and the old barbaric emotion are so\nnear. With the second sight of the imagination we can often see more\nclearly in the perspectives of the past than in the maze of the\npresent; and most clearly when we recognise that, below the accidents\nof time and circumstance, the present is but a reflection of that past\nto which we belong--belong, as intimately and inalienably, as to the\nhour wherein happily content we swing to those anchors which we do not\nsee are linked to us by ropes of sand.\n\nIf I am eager to have my say on other aspects of our Celtic life in\nthe remoter West Highlands and in the Isles: now with the idyllic, now\nwith the tragic, now with the grotesque, the humorous, the pathetic,\nwith all the medley cast from the looms of Life--all that\n\n    \"... from the looms of Life are spun,\n    Warp of shadow and woof of sun--\"\n\nand if, too, I long to express anew something of that wonderful\nhistoric romance in which we of our race and country are so rich, I am\nnot likely to forget those earlier dreams which are no whit less\nrealities--realities of the present seen through an inverted\nglass--which have been, and are, so full of inspiration and of a\nstrange and terrible beauty.\n\nBut one to whom life appeals by a myriad avenues, all alluring and\nfull of wonder and mystery, cannot always abide where the heart longs\nmost to be. It is well to remember that there are shadowy waters even\nin the cities, and that the Fount of Youth is discoverable in the\ndreariest towns as well as in Hy Br\u00e0sil: a truth apt to be forgotten\nby those of us who dwell with ever-wondering delight in that land of\nlost romance which had its own day, as this epoch of a still stranger,\nif a less obvious, romance has its own passing hour.\n\nThe titular piece--with its strange name that will not be unfamiliar\nto you who know our ancient Celtic literature, or may bear in mind the\nstriking use made of it and its vague cognate legend, by Ferguson, in\nhis Irish epic, _Congal_--gives the keynote not only of this book but\nof what has for hundreds of years, and to some extent still is, the\ncharacteristic of the purely Celtic mind in the Highlands and the\nIsles. This characteristic is a strange complexity of paganism and\nChristianity, or rather an apparent complexity arising from the\ngrafting of Christianity upon paganism. Columba, St. Patrick, St.\nRonan, Kentigern, all these militant Christian saints were merely\ntransformed pagans. Even in the famous dialogue between St. Patrick\nand Ois\u00ecn, which is the folk-telling of the passing of the old before\nthe new, the thrill of a pagan sympathy on the part of the\nuncompromising saint is unmistakable. To this day, there are\nChristian rites and superstitions which are merely a gloss upon a\nsurviving antique paganism. I have known an old woman, in no wise\ndifferent from her neighbours, who on the day of Beltane sacrificed a\nhen: though for her propitiatory rite she had no warrant save that of\nvague traditionary lore, the lore of the _teinntean_, of the\nhearth-side--where, in truth, are best to be heard the last echoes of\nthe dim mythologic faith of our ancestors. What is the familiar\n\"clachan,\" now meaning a hamlet with a kirk, but an echo of the\nStones, the circles of the druids or of a more ancient worship still,\nthat perhaps of the mysterious Anait, whose sole record is a _clach_\non a lonely moor, of which from time immemorial the people have spoken\nas the \"Teampull na'n Anait\"? A relative of mine saw, in South Uist,\nless than twenty-five years ago, what may have been the last\nsun-sacrifice in Scotland, when an old Gael secretly and furtively\nslew a lamb on the summit of a conical grassy knoll at sunrise. Those\nwho have the Gaelic have their ears filled with rumours of a day that\nis gone. When an evicted crofter laments, _O mo chreach, mo\nchreach!_[1] or some poor soul on a bed of pain cries, _O mo\nchradshlat_,[2] he who knows the past recognises in the one the\nmournful refrain of the time when the sea-pirates or the hill-robbers\npillaged and devasted quiet homesteads, and, in the other, not the\nmoan of suffering only, but the cry of torment from the victim racked\non the _cradhshlat_, a bitter ignominious torture used by the ancient\nGaels. When, in good fellowship, one man says to another, _Tha, a\nlaochain_ (yes, my dear fellow), he recalls Fionn and the chivalry of\neld, for _laochan_ is merely a contraction for laoch-Fhinn, meaning a\ncompanion in war, a hero, literally Fionn's right-hand man in battle.\nTo this day, women, accompanying a marching regiment, are sometimes\nheard to say in the Gaelic, \"We are going with the dear souls to the\nwars\"--literally an echo of the Ossianic _Siubhlaidh sinn le'n anam\ndo'n araich_, \"We shall accompany their souls to the battle-field.\" A\nthousand instances could be adduced. The language is a herring-net,\nthrough which the unchanging sea filtrates, even though the net be\nclogged with the fish of the hour. Nor is it the pagan atmosphere only\nthat survives: often we breathe the air of that early day when the\nmind of man was attuned to a beautiful piety that was wrought into\nnature itself. Of the several words for the dawn, there is a beautiful\none, _Uinneagachadh_. We have it in the phrase _'nuair a bha an latha\nag uinneagachadh_, \"when the day began to dawn.\" Now this word is\nsimply an extension of _Uinneag_, a window: and the application of the\nimage dates far back to the days of St. Columba, when some devout and\npoetic soul spoke of the _uinneagan Neimh_, the windows of Heaven.\n\n    [1] Oh, alas, alas! (Literally, Oh, my undoing, or Oh, my utter\n    ruin.)\n\n    [2] Alas my torment!\n\nSometimes, among the innumerable \"legendary moralities\" which exist\nfragmentarily in the West Highlands and in the Isles, there is a\ncoherent narrative basis--as, for example, in the Irish and Highland\nfolk-lore about St. Bride, or Bridget, \"Muime Chriosd.\" Sometimes\nthere is simply a phrase survived out of antiquity. I doubt if any now\nliving, either in the Hebrides or in Ireland, has heard any legend of\nthe \"Washer of the Ford.\" The name survives, with its atmosphere of a\nremote past, its dim ancestral memory of a shadowy figure of awe\nhaunting a shadowy stream in a shadowy land. Samuel Ferguson, in\n_Congal_, has done little more than limn an obscure shadow of that\nshadow: yet it haunts the imagination. In the passage of paganism,\nthese old myths were too deep-rooted in the Celtic mind to vanish at\nthe bidding of the Cross: thus came about that strange grafting of the\nsymbolic imagery of the devout Culdee, of the visionary Mariolater,\nupon the surviving Druidic and prehistoric imagination. In a word, the\nWasher of the Ford might well have appeared, to a single generation,\nnow as a terrible and sombre pagan goddess of death, now as a symbolic\nfigure in the new faith, foreshadowing spiritual salvation and the\nmystery of resurrection.\n\nIf in a composition such as \"The Annir-Choille,\" there is the\nexpression of revolt--not ancient only, nor of the hour, but eternal,\nfor the revolt is of the sovereign nature within us whereon all else\nis an accidental superstructure--against the Christian ethic of\nrenunciation, with an echo of our deep primeval longing for\nearth-kinship with every life in nature: if here there is the breath\nof a day that may not come again, there is little or nothing of the\npast, save what is merely accidental, in \"The Fisher of Men\" or \"The\nLast Supper.\" I like to think that these _eachdaireachd Spioradail_,\nthese spiritual chronicles, might as well, in substance, have been\ntold a thousand years ago or be written a thousand years hence. That\nFisher still haunts the invisible shadowy stream of human tears: those\nmystic Spinners still ply their triple shuttles, and the Fair Weaver\nof Hope, now as of yore and for ever, sends his rainbows adrift across\nthe hearts and through the minds of men. What does it matter, again,\nthat the Three Marvels of Hy are set against the background of the\nIona of St. Columba? St. Francis blessed the birds of Assisi, and San\nAntonio had a heart as tender for all winged and gentle creatures: and\nthere are innumerable quiet gardens of peace in the world even now\nwhere the kindred of San Antonio and St. Francis and St. Columba are\nkith to our fellow-beings, knowing them akin one and all to the seals\nwhom St. Molios blessed at the end of his days, and in his new\nhumbleness hailed as likewise of the company of the Sons of God.\n\nBut of this I am sure. If there is spiritual truth in the vision of\nthe Blind Harper who saw the Washer of the Ford, or in that of Molios\nwho hailed the seals as brethren, or in that of Colum who blessed the\nbirds and the fish of the sea and even the vagrant flies of the air,\nand saw the Moon-Child, and in that seeing learned the last mystery of\nthe life of the soul, if in these, as in the \"Fisher of Men\" and \"The\nLast Supper,\" I have given faint utterance to the heart-knowledge we\nall have, I would not have you or any think that the pagan way is\ntherefore to me as the way of darkness. The lost monk who loved the\nAnnir-Choille was doubtless not the less able to see the Uinneagan\nNeimh because he was under ban of Colum and all his kin: and there are\nthose of us who would rather be with Cathal of the Woods, and be\ndrunken with green fire, than gain the paradise of the holy Molios who\nbanned him, if in that gain were involved the forfeiture of the sunny\ngreen world, the joy of life, and the earth-sweet ancient song of the\nblood that is in the veins of youth.\n\nThese tales, let me add, are not legendary \"mysteries\" but legendary\n\"moralities.\" They are reflections from the mirror that is often\nobscured but is never dimmed. There is no mystery in them, or\nanywhere: except the eternal mystery of beauty.\n\nOf the Seanachas, the short barbaric tales, I will say nothing to you,\nwhose favourite echo from Shelley is that thrilling line \"the\ntempestuous loveliness of terror.\"\n\nYou in your far Provence, amid the austere hills that guard an ancient\nland of olive and vine, a land illumined by the blue flowing light of\nthe Rhone, and girt by desert places where sun and wind inhabit, and\nscarce any other--you there and I here have this in common. Everywhere\nwe see the life of man in subservient union with the life of Nature;\nnever, in a word, as a sun beset by tributary stars, but as one planet\namong the innumerous concourse of the sky, nurtured, it may be, by\nlight from other luminaries and other spheres than we know of. That\nwe are intimately at one with Nature is a cosmic truth we are all\nslowly approaching. It is not only the dog, it is not only the wild\nbeast and the wood-dove, that are our close kindred, but the green\ntree and the green grass, the blue wave and the flowing wind, the\nflower of a day and the granite peak of an \u00e6on. And I for one would\nrather have the wind for comrade, and the white stars and green leaves\nas my kith and kin, than many a human companion, whose chief claim is\nthe red blood that differs little from the sap in the grass or in the\npines, and whose \"deathless soul\" is, mayhap, no more than a fugitive\nlight blown idly for an hour betwixt dawn and dark. We are woven in\none loom, and the Weaver thrids our being with the sweet influences,\nnot only of the Pleiades, but of the living world of which each is no\nmore than a multi-coloured thread: as, in turn, He thrids the\nwandering wind with the inarticulate cry, the yearning, the passion,\nthe pain, of that bitter clan, the Human.\n\nTruly, we are all one. It is a common tongue we speak, though the\nwave has its own whisper, and the wind its own sigh, and the lip of\nthe man its word, and the heart of woman its silence.\n\nLong, long ago a desert king, old and blind, but dowered with\nancestral wisdom beyond all men that have lived, heard that the Son of\nGod was born among men. He rose from his place, and on the eve of the\nthird day he came to where Jesus sat among the gifts brought by the\nwise men of the East. The little lad sat in Mary's lap, beneath a tree\nfilled with quiet light; and while the folk of Bethlehem came and went\nHe was only a child as other children are. But when the desert king\ndrew near, the child's eyes deepened with knowledge.\n\n\"What is it, my little son?\" said Mary the Virgin.\n\n\"Sure, Mother dear,\" said Jesus, who had never yet spoken a word, \"it\nis Deep Knowledge that is coming to me.\"\n\n\"And what will that be, O my Wonder and Glory?\"\n\n\"That which will come in at the door before you speak to me again.\"\n\nEven as the child spoke, an old blind man entered, and bowed his\nhead.\n\n\"Come near, O tired old man,\" said Mary that had borne a son to\nJoseph, but whose womb knew him not.\n\nWith that the tears fell into the old man's beard. \"Sorrow of\nSorrows,\" he said, \"but that will be the voice of the Queen of\nHeaven!\"\n\nBut Jesus said to his mother: \"Take up the tears, and throw them into\nthe dark night.\" And Mary did so: and lo! upon the wilderness, where\nno light was, and on the dark wave, where seamen toiled without hope,\nclusters of shining stars rayed downward in a white peace.\n\nThereupon the old king of the desert said:\n\n\"Heal me, O King of the Elements.\"\n\nAnd Jesus healed him. His sight was upon him again, and his gray\nancientness was green youth once more.\n\n\"I have come with Deep Knowledge,\" he said.\n\n\"Ay, sure, I am for knowing that,\" said the King of the Elements, that\nwas a little child.\n\n\"Well, if you will be knowing that, you can tell me who is at my\nright side?\"\n\n\"It is my elder brother the Wind.\"\n\n\"And what colour will the Wind be?\"\n\n\"Now blue as Hope, now green as Compassion.\"\n\n\"And who is on my left?\"\n\n\"The Shadow of Life.\"\n\n\"And what colour will the Shadow be?\"\n\n\"That which is woven out of the bowels of the earth and out of the\nbelly of the sea.\"\n\n\"Truly, thou art the King of the Elements. I am bringing you a great\ngift, I am: I have come with Deep Knowledge.\"\n\nAnd with that the old blind man, whose eyes were now as stars, and\nwhose youth was a green garland about him, chanted nine runes.\n\nThe first rune was the Rune of the Four Winds.\n\nThe second rune was the Rune of the Deep Seas.\n\nThe third rune was the Rune of the Lochs and Rivers and the Rains and\nthe Dews and the many waters.\n\nThe fourth rune was the Rune of the Green Trees and of all things\nthat grow.\n\nThe fifth rune was the Rune of Man and Bird and Beast, and of\neverything that lives and moves, in the air, on the earth, and in the\nsea: all that is seen of man, and all that is unseen of man.\n\nThe sixth rune was the Rune of Birth, from the spawn on the wave to\nthe Passion of Woman.\n\nThe seventh rune was the Rune of Death, from the quenching of a gnat\nto the fading of the stars.\n\nThe eighth rune was the Rune of the Soul that dieth not, and the\nSpirit that is.\n\nThe ninth rune was the Rune of the Mud and the Dross and the Slime of\nEvil--that is the Garden of God, wherein He walks with sunlight\nstreaming from the palms of his hands and with stars springing beneath\nhis feet.\n\nThen when he had done, the old man said: \"I have brought you Deep\nKnowledge.\" But at that Jesus the Child said:\n\n\"All this I heard on my way hither.\"\n\nThe old desert king bowed his head. Then he took a blade of grass,\nand played upon it. It was a wild, strange air that he played.\n\n\"Iosa mac Dhe, tell the woman what song _that_ is,\" cried the desert\nking.\n\n\"It is the secret speech of the Wind that is my Brother,\" cried the\nchild, clapping his hands for joy.\n\n\"And what will this be?\" and with that the old man took a green leaf,\nand played a lovely whispering song.\n\n\"It is the secret speech of the leaves,\" cried Jesus the little lad,\nlaughing low.\n\nAnd thereafter the desert king played upon a handful of dust, and upon\na drop of water, and upon a flame of fire; and the Child laughed for\nthe knowing and the joy. Then he gave the secret speech of the singing\nbird, and the barking fox, and the howling wolf, and the bleating\nsheep: of all and every created kind.\n\n\"O King of the Elements,\" he said then, \"for sure you knew much; but\nnow I have made you to know the secret things of the green Earth that\nis Mother of you and of Mary too.\"\n\nBut while Jesus pondered that one mystery, the old man was gone: and\nwhen he got to his people, they put him alive into a hollow of the\nearth and covered him up, because of his shining eyes, and the green\nyouth that was about him as a garland.\n\nAnd when Christ was nailed upon the Cross, Deep Knowledge went back\ninto the green world, and passed into the grass and the sap in trees,\nand the flowing wind, and the dust that swirls and is gone.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAll this is of the wisdom of the long ago, and you and I are of those\nwho know how ancient it is, how remoter far than when Mary, at the\nbidding of her little son, threw up into the firmament the tears of an\nold man.\n\nIt is old, old--\n\n    \"Thousands of years, thousands of years,\n              If all were told.\"\n\nIs it wholly unwise, wholly the fantasy of a dreamer, to insist, in\nthis late day, when the dust behind and the mist before hide from us\nthe Beauty of the World, that we can regain our birthright only by\nleaving our cloud-palaces of the brain, and becoming consciously at\none with the cosmic life of which, merely as men, we are no more than\na perpetual phosphorescence?\n\n\n\n\nTHE WASHER OF THE FORD\n\n\nWhen Torcall the Harper heard of the death of his friend,\nAodh-of-the-Songs, he made a vow to mourn for him for three seasons--a\ngreen time, an apple time, and a snow time.\n\nThere was sorrow upon him because of that death. True, Aodh was not of\nhis kindred, but the singer had saved the harper's life when his\nfriend was fallen in the Field of Spears.\n\nTorcall was of the people of the north--of the men of Lochlin. His\nsong was of the fjords, and of strange gods, of the sword and the\nwar-galley, of the red blood and the white breast, of Odin and Thor\nand Freya, of Balder and the Dream-God that sits in the rainbow, of\nthe starry North, of the flames of pale blue and flushing rose that\nplay around the Pole, of sudden death in battle, and of Valhalla.\n\nAodh was of the south isles, where these shake under the thunder of\nthe western seas. His clan was of the isle that is now called Barra,\nand was then Iond\u00fb; but his mother was a woman out of a royal rath in\nBanba, as men of old called Eir\u00e9. She was so fair that a man died of\nhis desire of her. He was named Ulad, and was a prince. \"The\nMelancholy of Ulad\" was long sung in his land after his end in the\ndark swamp, where he heard a singing, and went laughing glad to his\ndeath. Another man was made a prince because of her. This was Aodh the\nHarper, out of the Hebrid Isles. He won the heart out of her, and it\nwas his from the day she heard his music and felt his eyes flame upon\nher. Before the child was born, she said, \"He shall be the son of\nlove. He shall be called Aodh. He shall be called Aodh-of-the-Songs.\"\nAnd so it was.\n\nSweet were his songs. He loved, and he sang, and he died.\n\nAnd when Torcall that was his friend knew this sorrow, he arose and\nmade his vow, and went out for evermore from the place where he was.\n\nSince the hour of the Field of Spears he had been blind. Torcall Dall\nhe was upon men's lips thereafter. His harp had a moonshine wind upon\nit from that day, it was said: a beautiful strange harping when he\nwent down through the glen, or out upon the sandy machar by the shore,\nand played what the wind sang, and the grass whispered, and the tree\nmurmured, and the sea muttered or cried hollowly in the dark.\n\nBecause there was no sight to his eyes, men said he saw and he heard.\nWhat was it he heard and he saw that they saw not and heard not? It\nwas in the voice that was in the strings of his harp, so the rumour\nran.\n\nWhen he rose and went away from his place, the Maormor asked him if he\nwent north, as the blood sang; or south, as the heart cried; or west,\nas the dead go; or east, as the light comes.\n\n\"I go east,\" answered Torcall Dall.\n\n\"And why so, Blind Harper?\"\n\n\"For there is darkness always upon me, and I go where the light\ncomes.\"\n\nOn that night of the nights, a fair wind blowing out of the west,\nTorcall the Harper set forth in a galley. It splashed in the moonshine\nas it was rowed swiftly by nine men.\n\n\"Sing us a song, O Torcall Dall!\" they cried.\n\n\"Sing us a song, Torcall of Lochlin,\" said the man who steered. He and\nall his company were of the Gael: the Harper only was of the Northmen.\n\n\"What shall I sing?\" he asked. \"Shall it be of war that you love, or\nof women that twine you like silk o' the kine; or shall it be of death\nthat is your meed; or of your dread, the Spears of the North?\"\n\nA low sullen growl went from beard to beard.\n\n\"We are under _geas_, Blind Harper,\" said the steersman, with downcast\neyes because of his flaming wrath; \"we are under bond to take you safe\nto the mainland, but we have sworn no vow to sit still under the lash\nof your tongue. 'Twas a wind-fleet arrow that sliced the sight out of\nyour eyes: have a care lest a sudden sword-wind sweep the breath out\nof your body.\"\n\nTorcall laughed a low, quiet laugh.\n\n\"Is it death I am fearing now--I who have washed my hands in blood,\nand had love, and known all that is given to man? But I will sing you\na song, I will.\"\n\nAnd with that he took his harp, and struck the strings.\n\n    There is a lonely stream afar in a lone dim land:\n    It hath white dust for shore it has, white bones bestrew the strand:\n    The only thing that liveth there is a naked leaping sword;\n    But I, who a seer am, have seen the whirling hand\n              Of the Washer of the Ford.\n\n    A shadowy shape of cloud and mist, of gloom and dusk, she stands,\n              The Washer of the Ford:\n    She laughs, at times, and strews the dust through the hollow of\n        her hands.\n\n    She counts the sins of all men there, and slays the red-stained\n        horde--\n    The ghosts of all the sins of men must know the whirling sword\n              Of the Washer of the Ford.\n\n    She stoops and laughs when in the dust she sees a writhing limb:\n    \"Go back into the ford,\" she says, \"and hither and thither swim;\n    Then I shall wash you white as snow, and shall take you by the hand,\n    And slay you here in the silence with this my whirling brand,\n    And trample you into the dust of this white windless sand--\"\n              This is the laughing word\n              Of the Washer of the Ford\n              Along that silent strand.\n\nThere was silence for a time after Torcall Dall sang that song. The\noars took up the moonshine and flung it hither and thither like loose\nshining stones. The foam at the prow curled and leaped.\n\nSuddenly one of the rowers broke into a long, low chant--\n\n    _Yo, eily-a-ho, ayah-a-ho, eily-ayah-a-ho,_\n        Singeth the Sword\n    _Eily-a-ho, ayah-a-ho, eily-ayah-a-ho,_\n        Of the Washer of the Ford!\n\nAnd at that all ceased from rowing. Standing erect, they lifted up\ntheir oars against the stars, and the wild voices of them flew out\nupon the night--\n\n    _Yo, eily-a-ho, ayah-a-ho, eily-ayah-a-ho,_\n        Singeth the Sword\n    _Eily-a-ho, ayah-a-ho, eily-ayah-a-ho,_\n        Of the Washer of the Ford!\n\nTorcall Dall laughed. Then he drew his sword from his side and\nplunged it into the sea. When he drew the blade out of the water and\nwhirled it on high, all the white shining drops of it swirled about\nhis head like a sleety rain.\n\nAnd at that the steersman let go the steering-oar and drew his sword,\nand clove a flowing wave. But with the might of his blow the sword\nspun him round, and the sword sliced away the ear of the man who had\nthe sternmost oar. Then there was blood in the eyes of all there. The\nman staggered, and felt for his knife, and it was in the heart of the\nsteersman.\n\nThen because these two men were leaders, and had had a blood-feud, and\nbecause all there, save Torcall, were of one or the other side, swords\nand knives sang a song.\n\nThe rowers dropped their oars; and four men fought against three.\n\nTorcall laughed, and lay back in his place. While out of the wandering\nwave the death of each man clambered into the hollow of the boat, and\nbreathed its chill upon its man, Torcall the Blind took his harp. He\nsang this song, with the swirling spray against his face, and the\nsmell of blood in his nostrils, and the feet of him dabbling in the\nred tide that rose there.\n\n    Oh, 'tis a good thing the red blood, by Odin his word!\n    And a good thing it is to hear it bubbling deep.\n    And when we hear the laughter of the Sword,\n    Oh, the corbies croak, and the old wail, and the women weep!\n    And busy will she be there where she stands,\n    Washing the red out of the sins of all this slaying horde;\n    And trampling the bones of them into white powdery sands,\n    And laughing low at the thirst of her thirsty sword--\n              The Washer of the Ford!\n\nWhen he had sung that song there was only one man whose pulse still\nbeat, and he was at the bow.\n\n\"A bitter black curse upon you, Torcall Dall!\" he groaned out of the\nooze of blood that was in his mouth.\n\n\"And who will you be?\" said the Blind Harper.\n\n\"I am Fergus, the son of Art, the son of Fergus of the D\u00fbns.\"\n\n\"Well, it is a song for your death I will make, Fergus mac Art mhic\nFheargus: and because you are the last.\"\n\nWith that Torcall struck a wild sob out of his harp, and he sang--\n\n    Oh, death of Fergus, that is lying in the boat here,\n      Betwixt the man of the red hair and him of the black beard,\n    Rise now, and out of thy cold white eyes take out the fear,\n      And let Fergus mac Art mhic Fheargus see his weird!\n\n    Sure, now, it's a blind man I am, but I'm thinking I see\n      The shadow of you crawling across the dead.\n    Soon you will twine your arm around his shaking knee,\n      And be whispering your silence into his listless head.\n    And that is why, O Fergus--\n\nBut here the man hurled his sword into the sea, and with a choking cry\nfell forward; and upon the white sands he was, beneath the trampling\nfeet of the Washer of the Ford.\n\n\nII\n\nIt was a fair wind that blew beneath the stars that night. At dawn the\nmountains of Skye were like turrets of a great D\u00fbn against the east.\n\nBut Torcall the Blind Harper did not see that thing. Sleep, too, was\nupon him. He smiled in that sleep, for in his mind he saw the dead\nmen, that were of the alien people, his foes, draw near the stream\nthat was in a far place. The shaking of them, poor, tremulous frostbit\nleaves they were, thin and sere, made the only breath there was in\nthat desert.\n\nAt the ford--this is what he saw in his vision--they fell down like\nstricken deer with the hounds upon them.\n\n\"What is this stream?\" they cried in the thin voice of rain across the\nmoors.\n\n\"The River of Blood,\" said a voice.\n\n\"And who are you that are in the silence?\"\n\n\"I am the Washer of the Ford.\"\n\nAnd with that each red soul was seized and thrown into the water of\nthe ford; and when white as a sheep-bone on the hill, was taken in\none hand by the Washer of the Ford and flung into the air, where no\nwind was and where sound was dead, and was then severed this way and\nthat, in four whirling blows of the sword from the four quarters of\nthe world. Then it was that the Washer of the Ford trampled upon what\nfell to the ground, till under the feet of her was only a white sand,\nwhite as powder, light as the dust of the yellow flowers that grow in\nthe grass.\n\nIt was at that Torcall Dall smiled in his sleep. He did not hear the\nwashing of the sea; no, nor any idle plashing of the unoared boat.\nThen he dreamed, and it was of the woman he had left, seven\nsummer-sailings ago, in Lochlin. He thought her hand was in his, and\nthat her heart was against his.\n\n\"Ah, dear, beautiful heart of woman,\" he said, \"and what is the pain\nthat has put a shadow upon you?\"\n\nIt was a sweet voice that he heard coming out of sleep.\n\n\"Torcall, it is the weary love I have.\"\n\n\"Ah, heart o' me, dear! sure 'tis a bitter pain I have had, too, and\nI away from you all these years.\"\n\n\"There's a man's pain, and there's a woman's pain.\"\n\n\"By the blood of Balder, Hildyr, I would have both upon me to take it\noff the dear heart that is here.\"\n\n\"Torcall!\"\n\n\"Yes, white one.\"\n\n\"We are not alone, we two in the dark.\"\n\nAnd when she had said that thing, Torcall felt two baby arms go round\nhis neck, and two leaves of a wild rose press cool and sweet against\nhis lips.\n\n\"Ah! what is this?\" he cried, with his heart beating, and the blood in\nhis body singing a glad song.\n\nA low voice crooned in his ear: a bitter-sweet song it was,\npassing-sweet, passing-bitter.\n\n\"Ah, white one, white one,\" he moaned; \"ah, the wee fawn o' me! Baby\no' foam, bonnie wee lass, put your sight upon me that I may see the\nblue eyes that are mine too and Hildyr's.\"\n\nBut the child only nestled closer. Like a fledgling in a great nest\nshe was. If God heard her song, He was a glad God that day. The blood\nthat was in her body called to the blood that was in his body. He\ncould say no word. The tears were in his blind eyes.\n\nThen Hildyr leaned into the dark, and took his harp, and played upon\nit. It was of the fonnsheen he had learned, far, far away, where the\nisles are.\n\nShe sang: but he could not hear what she sang.\n\nThen the little lips, that were like a cool wave upon the dry sand of\nhis life, whispered into a low song: and the wavering of it was like\nthis in his brain--\n\n    Where the winds gather\n      The souls of the dead,\n    O Torcall, my father,\n      My soul is led!\n\n    In Hildyr-mead\n      I was thrown, I was sown:\n    Out of thy seed\n      I am sprung, I am blown!\n\n    But where is the way\n      For Hildyr and me,\n    By the hill-moss gray\n      Or the gray sea?\n\n    For a river is here,\n      And a whirling sword--\n    And a Woman washing\n      By a Ford!\n\nWith that, Torcall Dall gave a wild cry, and sheathed an arm about the\nwee white one, and put out a hand to the bosom that loved him. But\nthere was no white breast there, and no white babe: and what was\nagainst his lips was his own hand red with blood.\n\n\"O Hildyr!\" he cried.\n\nBut only the splashing of the waves did he hear.\n\n\"O white one!\" he cried.\n\nBut only the scream of a sea-mew, as it hovered over that boat filled\nwith dead men, made answer.\n\n\nIII\n\nAll day the Blind Harper steered the galley of the dead. There was a\nfaint wind moving out of the west. The boat went before it, slow, and\nwith a low, sighing wash.\n\nTorcall saw the red gaping wounds of the dead, and the glassy eyes of\nthe nine men.\n\n\"It is better not to be blind and to see the dead,\" he muttered, \"than\nto be blind and to see the dead.\"\n\nThe man who had been steersman leaned against him. He took him in his\nshuddering grip and thrust him into the sea.\n\nBut when, an hour later, he put his hand to the coolness of the water,\nhe drew it back with a cry, for it was on the cold, stiff face of the\ndead man that it had fallen. The long hair had caught in a cleft in\nthe leather where the withes had given.\n\nFor another hour Torcall sat with his chin in his right hand, and his\nunseeing eyes staring upon the dead. He heard no sound at all, save\nthe lap of wave upon wave, and the _suss_ of spray against spray, and\na bubbling beneath the boat, and the low, steady swish of the body\nthat trailed alongside the steering oar.\n\nAt the second hour before sundown he lifted his head. The sound he\nheard was the sound of waves beating upon rocks.\n\nAt the hour before sundown he moved the oar rapidly to and fro, and\ncut away the body that trailed behind the boat. The noise of the waves\nupon the rocks was now a loud song.\n\nWhen the last sunfire burned upon his neck and made the long hair upon\nhis shoulders ashine, he smelt the green smell of grass. Then it was\ntoo that he heard the muffled fall of the sea, in a quiet haven, where\nshelves of sand were.\n\nHe followed that sound, and while he strained to hear any voice the\nboat grided upon the sand, and drifted to one side. Taking his harp,\nTorcall drove an oar into the sand, and leaped on to the shore. When\nhe was there, he listened. There was silence. Far, far away he heard\nthe falling of a mountain-torrent, and the thin, faint cry of an\neagle, where the sun-flame dyed its eyrie as with streaming blood.\n\nSo he lifted his harp, and, harping low, with a strange, wild song on\nhis lips, moved away from that place, and gave no more thought to the\ndead.\n\nIt was deep gloaming when he came to a wood. He felt the cold green\nbreath of it.\n\n\"Come,\" said a voice, low and sweet.\n\n\"And who will _you_ be?\" asked Torcall the Harper, trembling because\nof the sudden voice in the stillness.\n\n\"I am a child, and here is my hand, and I will lead you, Torcall of\nLochlin.\"\n\nThe blind man had fear upon him.\n\n\"Who are you that in a strange place are for knowing who I am?\"\n\n\"Come.\"\n\n\"Ay, sure, it is coming I am, white one; but tell me who you are, and\nwhence you came, and whither we go.\"\n\nThen a voice that he knew sang:\n\n    O where the winds gather\n      The souls of the dead,\n    O Torcall, my father,\n      My soul is led!\n\n    But a river is here,\n      And a whirling Sword--\n    And a Woman washing\n      By a Ford!\n\nTorcall Dall was as the last leaf on a tree at that.\n\n\"Were you on the boat?\" he whispered hoarsely.\n\nBut it seemed to him that another voice answered: \"_Yea, even so._\"\n\n\"Tell me, for I have blindness: Is it peace?\"\n\n\"It is peace.\"\n\n\"Are you man, or child, or of the Hidden People?\"\n\n\"I am a shepherd.\"\n\n\"A shepherd? Then, sure, you will guide me through this wood? And what\nwill be beyond this wood?\"\n\n\"A river.\"\n\n\"And what river will that be?\"\n\n\"Deep and terrible. It runs through the Valley of the Shadow.\"\n\n\"And is there no ford there?\"\n\n\"Ay, there is a ford.\"\n\n\"And who will guide me across that ford?\"\n\n\"She.\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"The Washer of the Ford.\"\n\nBut hereat Torcall Dall gave a sore cry and snatched his hand away,\nand fled sidelong into an alley of the wood.\n\nIt was moonshine when he lay down, weary. The sound of flowing water\nfilled his ears.\n\n\"Come,\" said a voice.\n\nSo he rose and went. When the cold breath of the water was upon his\nface, the guide that led him put a fruit into his hand.\n\n\"Eat, Torcall Dall!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe ate. He was no more Torcall Dall. His sight was upon him again. Out\nof the blackness shadows came; out of the shadows, the great boughs of\ntrees; from the boughs, dark branches and dark clusters of leaves;\nabove the branches, white stars; below the branches, white flowers;\nand beyond these, the moonshine on the grass and the moonfire on the\nflowing of a river dark and deep.\n\n\"Take your harp, O Harper, and sing the song of what you see.\"\n\nTorcall heard the voice, but saw no one. No shadow moved. Then he\nwalked out upon the moonlit grass; and at the ford he saw a woman\nstooping and washing shroud after shroud of woven sunbeams: washing\nthem there in the flowing water, and singing a low song that he did\nnot hear. He did not see her face. But she was young, and with long\nblack hair that fell like the shadow of night over a white rock.\n\nSo Torcall took his harp, and he sang:\n\n    Glory to the great Gods, it is no Sword I am seeing:\n    Nor do I see aught but the flowing of a river.\n    And I see shadows on the flow that are ever fleeing,\n    And I see a woman washing shrouds for ever and ever.\n\nThen he ceased, for he heard the woman sing:\n\n    Glory to God on high, and to Mary, Mother of Jesus,\n    Here am I washing away the sins of the shriven,\n    O Torcall of Lochlin, throw off the red sins that ye cherish\n    And I will be giving you the washen shroud that they wear in Heaven.\n\nFilled with a great awe, Torcall bowed his head. Then once more he\ntook his harp, and he sang:\n\n    O well it is I am seeing, Woman of the Shrouds,\n    That you have not for me any whirling of the Sword:\n    I have lost my gods, O woman, so what will the name be\n    Of thee and thy gods, O woman that art Washer of the Ford?\n\nBut the woman did not look up from the dark water, nor did she cease\nfrom washing the shrouds made of the woven moonbeams. But he heard\nthis song above the sighing of the water:\n\n    It is Mary Magdalene my name is, and I loved Christ.\n    And Christ is the son of God, and Mary the Mother of Heaven.\n    And this river is the river of death, and the shadows\n    Are the fleeing souls that are lost if they be not shriven.\n\nThen Torcall drew nigher unto the stream. A melancholy wind was upon\nit.\n\n\"Where are all the dead of the world?\" he said.\n\nBut the woman answered not.\n\n\"And what is the end, you that are called Mary?\"\n\nThen the woman rose.\n\n\"Would you cross the Ford, O Torcall the Harper?\"\n\nHe made no word upon that. But he listened. He heard a woman singing\nfaint and low far away in the dark. He drew more near.\n\n\"Would you cross the Ford, O Torcall?\"\n\nHe made no word upon that. But once more he listened. He heard a\nlittle child crying in the night.\n\n\"Ah, lonely heart of the white one,\" he sighed, and his tears fell.\n\nMary Magdalene turned and looked upon him.\n\nIt was the face of Sorrow she had. She stooped and took up the tears.\n\"They are bells of joy,\" she said. And he heard a wild sweet ringing\nin his ears.\n\nA prayer came out of his heart. A blind prayer it was, but God gave it\nwings. It flew to Mary, who took and kissed it, and gave it song.\n\n\"It is the Song of Peace,\" she said. And Torcall had peace.\n\n\"What is best, O Torcall?\" she asked, rustling-sweet as rain among the\nleaves her voice was--\"What is best? The sword, or peace?\"\n\n\"Peace,\" he answered: and he was white now, and was old.\n\n\"Take your harp,\" Mary said, \"and go in unto the Ford. But lo, now I\nclothe you with a white shroud. And if you fear the drowning flood,\nfollow the bells that were your tears: and if the dark affright you,\nfollow the song of the Prayer that came out of your heart.\"\n\nSo Torcall the Harper moved into the whelming flood, and he played a\nwild strange air, like the laughing of a child.\n\nDeep silence there was. The moonshine lay upon the obscure wood, and\nthe darkling river flowed sighing through the soundless gloom. The\nWasher of the Ford stooped once more. Low and sweet, as of yore and\nfor ever, over the drowning souls, she sang her immemorial song.\n\n\n\n\nMUIME CHRIOSD\n\n\nNote.--This \"legendary romance\" is based upon the ancient and still\ncurrent (though often hopelessly contradictory) legends concerning\nBrighid, or Bride, commonly known as \"Muime Chriosd,\" that is, the\nFoster-Mother of Christ. From the universal honour and reverence in\nwhich she was and is held--second only in this respect to the Virgin\nherself--she is also called \"Mary of the Gael.\" Another name, frequent\nin the West, is \"Brighde-nam-Brat,\" that is, St. Bride of the Mantle,\na name explained in the course of my legendary story. Brighid the\nChristian saint should not, however, as is commonly done, be confused\nwith a much earlier and remoter Brighid, the ancient Celtic muse of\nSong.\n\n\nST. BRIDE OF THE ISLES\n\n\nSLOINNEADH BRIGHDE, MUIME CHRIOSD\n\n    Brighde nighean D\u00f9ghaill Duinn,\n    'Ic Aoidth, 'ic Arta, 'ic Cuinn.\n    Gach la is gach oidhche\n    Ni mi cuimhneachadh air sloinneadh Brighde.\n    Cha mharbhar mi,\n    Cha ghuinear mi,\n    Cha ghonar mi,\n    Cha mho dh' fhagas Criosd an dearmad mi;\n    Cha loisg teine gniomh Shatain mi;\n    'S cha bhath uisge no saile mi;\n    'S mi fo chomraig Naoimh Moire\n    'S mo chaomh mhuime, Brighde.\n\n\nTHE GENEALOGY OF ST. BRIDGET OR ST. BRIDE, FOSTER-MOTHER OF CHRIST.\n\n    St. Bridget, the daughter of D\u00f9ghall Donn,\n    Son of Hugh, son of Art, son of Conn.\n    Each day and each night\n    I will meditate on the genealogy of St. Bridget.\n    [Whereby] I will not be killed,\n    I will not be wounded,\n    I will not be bewitched;\n    Neither will Christ forsake me;\n    Satan's fire will not burn me;\n    Neither water nor sea shall drown me;\n    For I am under the protection of the Virgin Mary,\n    And my meek and gentle foster-mother, St. Bridget.\n\n\nI\n\nBefore ever St. Colum came across the Moyle to the island of Iona,\nthat was then by strangers called Innis-nan-Dhruidhneach, the Isle of\nthe Druids, and by the natives Ioua, there lived upon the southeast\nslope of Dun-I a poor herdsman, named D\u00f9vach. Poor he was, for sure,\nthough it was not for this reason that he could not win back to\nIreland, green Banba, as he called it: but because he was an exile\nthence, and might never again smell the heather blowing over\nSliabh-Gorm in what of old was the realm of Aoimag.\n\nHe was a prince in his own land, though none on Iona save the\nArch-Druid knew what his name was. The high priest, however, knew that\nD\u00f9vach was the royal D\u00f9ghall, called D\u00f9ghall Donn, the son of Hugh the\nKing, the son of Art, the son of Conn. In his youth he had been\naccused of having done a wrong against a noble maiden of the blood.\nWhen her child was born he was made to swear across her dead body that\nhe would be true to the daughter for whom she had given up her life,\nthat he would rear her in a holy place but away from Eir\u00e9, and that he\nwould never set foot within that land again. This was a bitter thing\nfor D\u00f9ghall Donn to do: the more so as, before the King, and the\npriests, and the people, he swore by the Wind, and by the Moon, and by\nthe Sun, that he was guiltless of the thing of which he was accused.\nThere were many there who believed him because of that sacred oath:\nothers, too, forasmuch as that Morna the Princess had herself sworn to\nthe same effect. Moreover, there was Aodh of the Golden Hair, a poet\nand seer, who avowed that Morna had given birth to an immortal, whose\nname would one day be as a moon among the stars for glory. But the\nKing would not be appeased, though he spared the life of his youngest\nson. So it was that, by the advice of Aodh of the Druids, D\u00f9ghall Donn\nwent northwards through the realm of Clanadon and so to the sea-loch\nthat was then called Loch Feobal. There he took boat with some\nwayfarers bound for Alba. But in the Moyle a tempest arose, and the\nfrail galley was driven northward, and at sunrise was cast like a\ngreat fish, spent and dead, upon the south end of Ioua, that is now\nIona. Only two of the mariners survived: D\u00f9ghall Donn and the little\nchild. This was at the place where, on a day of the days in a year\nthat was not yet come, St. Colum landed in his coracle, and gave\nthanks on his bended knees.\n\nWhen, warmed by the sun, they rose, they found themselves in a waste\nplace. Ill was D\u00f9ghall in his mind because of the portents, and now to\nhis astonishment and alarm the child Bridget knelt on the stones, and,\nwith claspt hands, small and pink as the sea-shells round about her,\nsang a song of words which were unknown to him. This was the more\nmarvellous, as she was yet but an infant, and could say no word even\nof Erse, the only tongue she had heard.\n\nAt this portent, he knew that Aodh had spoken seeingly. Truly this\nchild was not of human parentage. So he, too, kneeled, and, bowing\nbefore her, asked if she were of the race of the Tuatha de Danann, or\nof the older gods, and what her will was, that he might be her\nservant. Then it was that the kneeling babe looked at him, and sang in\na low sweet voice in Erse:\n\n    I am but a little child,\n    D\u00f9ghall, son of Hugh, son of Art,\n    But my garment shall be laid\n    On the lord of the world,\n    Yea, surely it shall be that He\n    The King of the Elements Himself\n    Shall lean against my bosom,\n    And I will give him peace,\n    And peace will I give to all who ask\n    Because of this mighty Prince,\n    And because of his Mother that is the Daughter of Peace.\n\nAnd while D\u00f9ghall Donn was still marvelling at this thing, the\nArch-Druid of Iona approached, with his white-robed priests. A grave\nwelcome was given to the stranger, but while the youngest of the\nservants of God was entrusted with the child, the Arch-Druid took\nD\u00f9ghall aside, and questioned him. It was not till the third day that\nthe old man gave his decision. D\u00f9ghall Donn was to abide on Iona if he\nso willed: the child certainly was to stay. His life would be spared,\nnor would he be a bondager of any kind, and a little land to till\nwould be given him, and all that he might need. But of his past he was\nto say no word. His name was to become as naught, and he was to be\nknown simply as D\u00f9vach. The child, too, was to be named Bride, for\nthat was the way the name Bridget was called in the Erse of the Isles.\n\nTo the question of D\u00f9ghall, that was thenceforth D\u00f9vach, as to why he\nlaid so great stress on the child, that was a girl, and the reputed\noffspring of shame at that, Cathal the Arch-Druid replied thus: \"My\nkinsman Aodh of the Golden Hair, who sent you here, was wiser than\nHugh the King and all the Druids of Aoimag. Truly, this child is an\nImmortal. There is an ancient prophecy concerning her: surely of her\nwho is now here, and no other. There shall be, it says, a spotless\nmaid born of a virgin of the ancient immemorial race in Innisfail.\nAnd when for the seventh time the sacred year has come, she will hold\nEternity in her lap as a white flower. Her maiden breasts shall swell\nwith milk for the Prince of the World. She shall give suck to the King\nof the Elements. So I say unto you, D\u00f9vach, go in peace. Take unto\nthyself a wife, and live upon the place I will give thee on the east\nside of Ioua. Treat Bride as though she were thy spirit, but leave her\nmuch alone, and let her learn of the sun and the wind. In the fulness\nof time the prophecy shall be fulfilled.\"\n\nSo was it, from that day of the days. D\u00f9vach took a wife unto himself,\nwho weaned the little Bride, who grew in beauty and grace, so that all\nmen marvelled. Year by year for seven years the wife of D\u00f9vach bore\nhim a son, and these grew apace in strength, so that by the beginning\nof the third year of the seventh cycle of Bride's life there were\nthree stalwart youths to brother her, and three comely and strong\nlads, and one young boy fair to see. Nor did any one, not even Bride\nherself, saving Cathal the Arch-Druid, know that D\u00f9vach the herdsman\nwas D\u00f9ghall Donn, of a princely race in Innisfail.\n\nIn the end, too, D\u00f9vach came to think that he had dreamed, or at the\nleast that Cathal had not interpreted the prophecy aright. For though\nBride was of exceeding beauty, and of a strange piety that made the\nyoung Druids bow before her as though she were a b\u00e0ndia, yet the world\nwent on as before, and the days brought no change. Often, while she\nwas still a child, he had questioned her about the words she had said\nas a babe, but she had no memory of them. Once, in her ninth year, he\ncame upon her on the hillside of Dun-I singing these selfsame words.\nHer eyes dreamed afar away. He bowed his head, and, praying to the\nGiver of light, hurried to Cathal. The old man bade him speak no more\nto the child concerning the mysteries.\n\nBride lived the hours of her days upon the slopes of Dun-I, herding\nthe sheep, or in following the kye upon the green hillocks and grassy\ndunes of what then as now was called the Machar. The beauty of the\nworld was her daily food. The spirit within her was like sunlight\nbehind a white flower. The birdeens in the green bushes sang for joy\nwhen they saw her blue eyes. The tender prayers that were in her heart\nfor all the beasts and birds, for helpless children, and tired women,\nand for all who were old, were often seen flying above her head in the\nform of white doves of sunshine.\n\nBut when the middle of the year came that was, though D\u00f9vach had\nforgotten it, the year of the prophecy, his eldest son, Conn, who was\nnow a man, murmured against the virginity of Bride, because of her\nbeauty and because a chieftain of the mainland was eager to wed her.\n\"I shall wed Bride or raid Ioua\" was the message he had sent.\n\nSo one day, before the great fire of the summer festival, Conn and his\nbrothers reproached Bride.\n\n\"Idle are these pure eyes, O Bride, not to be as lamps at thy\nmarriage-bed.\"\n\n\"Truly, it is not by the eyes that we live,\" replied the maiden\ngently, while to their fear and amazement she passed her hand before\nher face and let them see that the sockets were empty. Trembling with\nawe at this portent, D\u00f9vach intervened.\n\n\"By the Sun I swear it, O Bride, that thou shalt marry whomsoever thou\nwilt and none other, and when thou willest, or not at all if such be\nthy will.\"\n\nAnd when he had spoken, Bride smiled, and passed her hand before her\nface again, and all there were abashed because of the blue light as of\nmorning that was in her shining eyes.\n\n\nII\n\nThe still weather had come, and all the isles lay in beauty. Far\nsouth, beyond vision, ranged the coasts of Eir\u00e9: westward, leagues of\nquiet ocean dreamed into unsailed wastes whose waves at last laved the\nshores of Tirna'n \u00d2g, the Land of Eternal Youth: northward, the\nspell-bound waters sparkled in the sunlight, broken here and there by\npurple shadows, that were the isles of Staffa and Ulva, Lunga and the\nisles of the columns, misty Coll, and Tiree that is the land beneath\nthe wave; with, pale blue in the heat-haze, the mountains of R\u00f9m\ncalled Haleval, Haskeval, and Oreval, and the sheer Scuir-na-Gillian\nand the peaks of the Cuchullins in remote Skye.\n\nAll the sweet loveliness of a late spring remained, to give a\nfreshness to the glory of summer. The birds had song to them still.\n\nIt was while the dew was yet wet on the grass that Bride came out of\nher father's house, and went up the steep slope of Dun-I. The crying\nof the ewes and lambs at the pastures came plaintively against the\ndawn. The lowing of the kye arose from the sandy hollows by the shore,\nor from the meadows on the lower slopes. Through the whole island went\na rapid trickling sound, most sweet to hear: the myriad voices of\ntwittering birds, from the dotterel in the sea-weed to the larks\nclimbing the blue spirals of heaven.\n\nThis was the morning of her birth, and she was clad in white. About\nher waist was a girdle of the sacred rowan, the feathery green leaves\nof it flickering dusky shadows upon her robe as she moved. The light\nupon her yellow hair was as when morning wakes, laughing low with joy\namid the tall corn. As she went she sang, soft as the crooning of a\ndove. If any had been there to hear he would have been abashed, for\nthe words were not in Erse, and the eyes of the beautiful girl were as\nthose of one in a vision.\n\nWhen, at last, a brief while before sunrise, she reached the summit of\nthe Scuir, that is so small a hill and yet seems so big in Iona where\nit is the sole peak, she found three young Druids there, ready to tend\nthe sacred fire the moment the sun-rays should kindle it. Each was\nclad in a white robe, with fillets of oak-leaves; and each had a\ngolden armlet. They made a quiet obeisance as she approached. One\nstepped forward, with a flush in his face because of her beauty, that\nwas as a sea-wave for grace, and a flower for purity, and sunlight for\njoy, and moonlight for peace, and the wind for fragrance.\n\n\"Thou mayst draw near if thou wilt, Bride, daughter of D\u00f9vach,\" he\nsaid, with something of reverence as well as of grave courtesy in his\nvoice: \"for the holy Cathal hath said that the Breath of the Source of\nAll is upon thee. It is not lawful for women to be here at this\nmoment, but thou hast the law shining upon thy face and in thine\neyes. Hast thou come to pray?\"\n\nBut at that moment a low cry came from one of his companions. He\nturned, and rejoined his fellows. Then all three sank upon their\nknees, and with outstretched arms hailed the rising of God.\n\nAs the sun rose, a solemn chant swelled from their lips, ascending as\nincense through the silent air. The glory of the new day came\nsoundlessly. Peace was in the blue heaven, on the blue-green sea, on\nthe green land. There was no wind, even where the currents of the deep\nmoved in shadowy purple. The sea itself was silent, making no more\nthan a sighing slumber-breath round the white sands of the isle, or a\nhushed whisper where the tide lifted the long weed that clung to the\nrocks.\n\nIn what strange, mysterious way, Bride did not see; but as the three\nDruids held their hands before the sacred fire there was a faint\ncrackling, then three thin spirals of blue smoke rose, and soon dusky\nred and wan yellow tongues of flame moved to and fro. The sacrifice of\nGod was made. Out of the immeasurable heaven He had come, in His\ngolden chariot. Now, in the wonder and mystery of His love, He was\nreborn upon the world, reborn a little fugitive flame upon a low hill\nin a remote isle. Great must be His love that He could die thus daily\nin a thousand places: so great His love that He could give up His own\nbody to daily death, and suffer the holy flame that was in the embers\nhe illumined to be lighted and revered and then scattered to the four\nquarters of the world.\n\nBride could bear no longer the mystery of this great love. It moved\nher to an ecstasy. What tenderness of divine love that could thus\nredeem the world daily: what long-suffering for all the evil and\ncruelty done hourly upon the weeping earth, what patience with the\nbitterness of the blind fates! The beauty of the worship of Be'al was\nupon her as a golden glory. Her heart leaped to a song that could not\nbe sung. The inexhaustible love and pity in her soul chanted a hymn\nthat was heard of no Druid or mortal anywhere, but was known of the\nwhite spirits of Life.\n\nBowing her head, so that the glad tears fell warm as thunder-rain\nupon her hands, she rose and moved away.\n\nNot far from the summit of Dun-I is a hidden pool, to this day called\nthe Fountain of Youth. Hitherward she went, as was her wont when upon\nthe hill at the break of day, at noon, or at sundown. Close by the\nhuge boulder, which hides it from above, she heard a pitiful bleating,\nand soon the healing of her eyes was upon a lamb which had become\nfixed in a crevice in the rock. On a crag above it stood a falcon,\nwith savage cries, lusting for warm blood. With swift step Bride drew\nnear. There was no hurt to the lambkin as she lifted it in her arms.\nSoft and warm was it there, as a young babe against the bosom that\nmothers it. Then with quiet eyes she looked at the falcon, who hooded\nhis cruel gaze.\n\n\"There is no wrong in thee, Seobhag,\" she said gently; \"but the law of\nblood shall not prevail for ever. Let there be peace this morn.\"\n\nAnd when she had spoken this word, the wild hawk of the hills flew\ndown upon her shoulder, nor did the heart of the lambkin beat the\nquicker, while with drowsy eyes it nestled as against its dam. When\nshe stood by the pool she laid the little woolly creature among the\nfern. Already the bleating of it was sweet against the forlorn heart\nof a ewe. The falcon rose, circled above her head, and with swift\nflight sped through the blue air. For a time Bride watched its\ntravelling shadow: when it was itself no more than a speck in the\ngolden haze, she turned, and stooped above the Fountain of Youth.\n\nBeyond it stood then, though for ages past there has been no sign of\neither, two quicken-trees. Now they were gold-green in the morning\nlight, and the brown-green berries that had not yet reddened were\nstill small. Fair to see was the flickering of the long finger-shadows\nupon the granite rocks and boulders.\n\nOften had Bride dreamed through their foliage; but now she stared in\namaze. She had put her lips to the water, and had started back because\nshe had seen, beyond her own image, that of a woman so beautiful that\nher soul was troubled within her, and had cried its inaudible cry,\nworshipping. When, trembling, she had glanced again, there was none\nbeside herself. Yet what had happened? For, as she stared at the\nquicken-trees, she saw that their boughs had interlaced, and that they\nnow became a green arch. What was stranger still was that the\nrowan-clusters hung in blood-red masses, although the late heats were\nyet a long way off.\n\nBride rose, her body quivering because of the cool sweet draught of\nthe Fountain of Youth, so that almost she imagined the water was for\nher that day what it could be once in each year to every person who\ncame to it, a breath of new life and the strength and joy of youth.\nWith slow steps she advanced towards the arch of the quickens. Her\nheart beat as she saw that the branches at the summit had formed\nthemselves into the shape of a wreath or crown, and that the scarlet\nberries dropped therefrom a steady rain of red drops as of blood. A\nsigh of joy breathed from her lips when, deep among the red and green,\nshe saw the white merle of which the ancient poets sang, and heard the\nexceeding wonder of its rapture, which was now the pain of joy and now\nthe joy of pain.\n\nThe song of the mystic bird grew wilder and more sweet as she drew\nnear. For a brief while she hesitated. Then, as a white dove drifted\nslow before her under and through the quicken-boughs, a dove white as\nsnow but radiant with sunfire, she moved forward to follow, with a\ndream-smile upon her face and her eyes full of the sheen of wonder and\nmystery, as shadowy waters flooded with moonshine.\n\nAnd this was the passing of Bride, who was not seen again of D\u00f9vach or\nher foster-brothers for the space of a year and a day. Only Cathal,\nthe aged Arch-Druid, who died seven days thence, had a vision of her,\nand wept for joy.\n\n\nIII\n\nWhen the strain of the white merle ceased, though it had seemed to her\nscarce longer than the vanishing song of the swallow on the wing,\nBride saw that the evening was come. Through the violet glooms of dusk\nshe moved soundlessly, save for the crispling of her feet among the\nhot sands. Far as she could see to right or left there were hollows\nand ridges of sand; where, here and there, trees or shrubs grew out of\nthe parched soil, they were strange to her. She had heard the Druids\nspeak of the sunlands in a remote, nigh unreachable East, where there\nwere trees called palms, trees in a perpetual sunflood yet that\nperished not, also tall dark cypresses, black-green as the holy yew.\nThese were the trees she now saw. Did she dream, she wondered? Far\ndown in her mind was some memory, some floating vision only, mayhap,\nof a small green isle far among the northern seas. Voices, words,\nfaces, familiar yet unfamiliar when she strove to bring them near,\nhaunted her.\n\nThe heat brooded upon the land. The sigh of the parched earth was\n\"Water, water.\"\n\nAs she moved onward through the gloaming she descried white walls\nbeyond her: white walls and square white buildings, looming ghostly\nthrough the dark, yet home-sweet as the bells of the cows on the\nsea-pastures, because of the yellow lights every here and there\nagleam.\n\nA tall figure moved towards her, clad in white, even as those figures\nwhich haunted her unremembering memory. When he drew near she gave a\nlow cry of joy. The face of her father was sweet to her.\n\n\"Where will be the pitcher, Brighid?\" he said, though the words were\nnot the words that were near her when she was alone. Nevertheless she\nknew them, and the same manner of words was upon her lips.\n\n\"My pitcher, father?\"\n\n\"Ah, dreamer, when will you be taking heed! It is leaving your pitcher\nyou will be, and by the Well of the Camels, no doubt: though little\nmatter will that be, since there is now no water, and the drought is\nheavy upon the land. But ... Brighid ...\"\n\n\"Yes, my father?\"\n\n\"Sure now it is not safe for you to be on the desert at night. Wild\nbeasts come out of the darkness, and there are robbers and wild men\nwho lurk in the shadow. Brighid ... Brighid ... is it dreaming you are\nstill?\"\n\n\"I was dreaming of a cool green isle in northern seas, where ...\"\n\n\"Where you have never been, foolish lass, and are never like to be.\nSure, if any wayfarer were to come upon us you would scarce be able to\ntell him that yonder village is Bethlehem, and that I am D\u00f9ghall Donn\nthe inn-keeper, D\u00f9ghall the son of Hugh, son of Art, son of Conn.\nWell, well, I am growing old, and they say that the old see wonders.\nBut I do not wish to see this wonder, that my daughter Brighid forgets\nher own town, and the good inn that is there, and the strong sweet ale\nthat is cool against the thirst of the weary. Sure, if the day of my\ndays is near it is near. 'Green be the place of my rest,' I cry, even\nas Ois\u00ecn the son of Fionn of the hero-line of Trenmor cried in his old\nage; though if Ois\u00ecn and the Fi\u00e0nn were here not a green place would\nthey find now, for the land is burned dry as the heather after a\nhill-fire. But now, Brighid, let us go back into Bethlehem, for I have\nthat for the saying which must be said at once.\"\n\nIn silence the twain walked through the gloaming that was already the\nmirk, till they came to the white gate, where the asses and camels\nbreathed wearily in the sultry darkness, with dry tongues moving round\nparched mouths. Thence they fared through narrow streets, where a few\nwhite-robed Hebrews and sons of the desert moved silently, or sat in\nniches. Finally, they came to a great yard, where more than a score of\ncamels lay huddled and growling in their sleep. Beyond this was the\ninn, which was known to all the patrons and friends of D\u00f9ghall Donn as\nthe \"Rest and Be Thankful,\" though formerly as the Rest of\nClan-Ailpean, for was he not himself through his mother MacAlpine of\nthe Isles, as well as blood-kin to the great Carmac the Ard-Righ, to\nwhom his father, Hugh, was feudatory prince?\n\nAs D\u00f9ghall and Bride walked along the stone flags of a passage leading\nto the inner rooms, he stopped and drew her attention to the\nwater-tanks.\n\n\"Look you, my lass,\" he said sorrowfully, \"of these tanks and barrels\nnearly all are empty. Soon there will be no water whatever, which is\nan evil thing though I whisper it in peace, to the Stones be it said.\nNow, already the folk who come here murmur. No man can drink ale all\nday long, and those wayfarers who want to wash the dust of their\njourney from their feet and hands complain bitterly. And ... what is\nthat you will be saying? The kye? Ay, sure, there is the kye, but the\npoor beasts are o'ercome with the heat, and there's not a Cailliach on\nthe hills who could win a drop more of milk from them than we squeeze\nout of their udders now, and that only with rune after rune till all\nthe throats of the milking lassies are as dry as the salt grass by the\nsea.\n\n\"Well, what I am saying is this: 'tis months now since any rain will\nbe falling, and every crock of water has been for the treasuring as\nthough it had been the honey of Moy-Mell itself. The moon has been\nfull twice since we had the good water brought from the\nmountain-springs; and now they are for drying up too. The seers say\nthat the drought will last. If that is a true word, and there be no\nrain till the winter comes, there will be no inn in Bethlehem called\n'The Rest and Be Thankful;' for already there is not enough good water\nto give peace even to your little thirst, my birdeen. As for the ale,\nit is poor drink now for man or maid, and as for the camels and asses,\npoor beasts, they don't understand the drinking of it.\"\n\n\"That is true, father; but what is to be done?\"\n\n\"That's what I will be telling you, my lintie. Now, I have been told\nby an oganach out of Jerusalem, that lives in another place close by\nthe great town, that there is a quenchless well of pure water, cold as\nthe sea with a north wind in it, on a hill there called the Mount of\nOlives. Now, it is to that hill I will be going. I am for taking all\nthe camels, and all the horses, and all the asses, and will lade each\nwith a burthen of water-skins, and come back home again with water\nenough to last us till the drought breaks.\"\n\nThat was all that was said that night. But at the dawn the inn was\nbusy, and all the folk in Bethlehem were up to see the going abroad of\nD\u00f9ghall Donn and Ronald M'Ian, his shepherd, and some Macleans and\nMaccallums that were then in that place. It was a fair sight to see as\nthey went forth through the white gate that is called the Gate of\nNazareth. A piper walked first, playing the Gathering of the Swords:\nthen came D\u00f9ghall Donn on a camel, and M'Ian on a horse, and the\nherdsmen on asses, and then there were the collies barking for joy.\n\nBefore he had gone, D\u00f9ghall took Bride out of the hearing of the\nothers. There was only a little stagnant water, he said; and as for\nthe ale, there was no more than a flagon left of what was good. This\nflagon, and the one jar of pure water, he left with her. On no account\nwas she to give a drop to any wayfarer, no matter how urgent he might\nbe; for he, D\u00f9ghall, could not say when he would get back, and he did\nnot want to find a dead daughter to greet him on his return, let alone\nthere being no maid of the inn to attend to customers. Over and above\nthat, he made her take an oath that she would give no one, no, not\neven a stranger, accommodation at the inn, during his absence.\n\nAfternoon and night came, and dawn and night again, and yet again. It\nwas on the afternoon of the third day, when even the crickets were\ndying of thirst, that Bride heard a clanging at the door of the inn.\n\nWhen she went to the door she saw a weary gray-haired man, dusty and\ntired. By his side was an ass with drooping head, and on the ass was a\nwoman, young, and of a beauty that was as the cool shadow of green\nleaves and the cold ripple of running waters. But beautiful as she\nwas, it was not this that made Bride start: no, nor the heavy womb\nthat showed the woman was with child. For she remembered her of a\ndream--it was a dream, sure--when she had looked into a pool on a\nmountain-side, and seen, beyond her own image, just this fair and\nbeautiful face, the most beautiful that ever man saw since Nais, of\nthe Sons of Usna, beheld Deirdr\u00ea in the forest,--ay, and lovelier far\neven than she, the peerless among women.\n\n\"Gu'm beannaicheadh Dia an tigh,\" said the gray-haired man in a weary\nvoice, \"the blessing of God on this house.\"\n\n\"Soraidh leat,\" replied Bride gently, \"and upon you likewise.\"\n\n\"Can you give us food and drink, and, after that, good rest at this\ninn? Sure it is grateful we will be. This is my wife Mary, upon whom\nis a mystery: and I am Joseph, a carpenter in Arimathea.\"\n\n\"Welcome, and to you, too, Mary: and peace. But there is neither food\nnor drink here, and my father has bidden me give shelter to none who\ncomes here against his return.\"\n\nThe carpenter sighed, but the fair woman on the ass turned her shadowy\neyes upon Bride, so that the maiden trembled with joy and fear.\n\n\"And is it forgetting me you will be, Brighid-Alona,\" she murmured, in\nthe good sweet Gaelic of the Isles, and the voice of her was like the\nrustle of leaves when a soft rain is falling in a wood.\n\n\"Sure, I remember,\" Bride whispered, filled with deep awe. Then\nwithout a word she turned, and beckoned them to follow: which, having\nleft the ass by the doorway, they did.\n\n\"Here is all the ale that I have,\" she said, as she gave the flagon to\nJoseph: \"and here, Mary, is all the water that there is. Little there\nis, but it is you that are welcome to it.\"\n\nThen, when they had quenched their thirst she brought out oatcakes and\nscones and brown bread, and would fain have added milk, but there was\nnone.\n\n\"Go to the byre, Brighid,\" said Mary, \"and the first of the kye shall\ngive milk.\"\n\nSo Bride went, but returned saying that the creature would not give\nmilk without a sian or song, and that her throat was too dry to sing.\n\n\"Say this _sian_,\" said Mary:--\n\n    Give up thy milk to her who calls\n    Across the low green hills of Heaven\n    And stream-cool meads of Paradise!\n\nAnd sure enough, when Bride did this, the milk came: and she soothed\nher thirst, and went back to her guests rejoicing. It was sorrow to\nher not to let them stay where they were, but she could not, because\nof her oath.\n\nThe man Joseph was weary, and said he was too tired to seek far that\nnight, and asked if there was no empty byre or stable where he and\nMary could sleep till morning. At that, Bride was glad: for she knew\nthere was a clean cool stable close to the byre where her kye were:\nand thereto she led them, and returned with peace at her heart.\n\nWhen she was in the inn again, she was afraid once more: for lo,\nthough Mary and Joseph had drunken deep of the jar and the flagon,\neach was now full as it had been. Of the food, too, none seemed to\nhave been taken, though she had herself seen them break the scones and\nthe oatcakes.\n\nIt was dusk when her reverie was broken by the sound of the pipes.\nSoon thereafter D\u00f9ghall Donn and his following rode up to the inn, and\nall were glad because of the cool water, and the grapes, and the green\nfruits of the earth, that they brought with them.\n\nWhile her father was eating and drinking, merry because of the ale\nthat was still in the flagon, Bride told him of the wayfarers. Even as\nshe spoke, he made a sign of silence, because of a strange, unwonted\nsound that he heard.\n\n\"What will that be meaning?\" he asked, in a low, hushed voice.\n\n\"Sure it is the rain at last, father. That is a glad thing. The earth\nwill be green again. The beasts will not perish. Hark, I hear the\nnoise of it coming down from the hills as well.\" But D\u00f9ghall sat\nbrooding.\n\n\"Aye,\" he said at last, \"is it not foretold that the Prince of the\nWorld is to be born in this land, during a heavy falling of rain,\nafter a long drought? And who is for knowing that Bethlehem is not the\nplace, and that this is not the night of the day of the days? Brighid,\nBrighid, the woman Mary must be the mother of the Prince, who is to\nsave all mankind out of evil and pain and death!\"\n\nAnd with that he rose and beckoned to her to follow. They took a\nlantern, and made their way through the drowsing camels and asses and\nhorses, and past the byres where the kye lowed gently, and so to the\nstable.\n\n\"Sure that is a bright light they are having,\" D\u00f9ghall muttered\nuneasily: for, truly, it was as though the shed were a shell filled\nwith the fires of sunrise.\n\nLightly they pushed back the door. When they saw what they saw they\nfell upon their knees. Mary sat with her heavenly beauty upon her like\nsunshine on a dusk land: in her lap, a Babe laughing sweet and low.\n\nNever had they seen a Child so fair. He was as though wrought of\nlight.\n\n\"Who is it?\" murmured D\u00f9ghall Donn, of Joseph, who stood near, with\nrapt eyes.\n\n\"It is the Prince of Peace.\"\n\nAnd with that Mary smiled, and the Child slept.\n\n\"Brighid, my sister dear\"--and, as she whispered this, Mary held the\nlittle one to Bride.\n\nThe fair girl took the Babe in her arms, and covered it with her\nmantle. Therefore it is that she is known to this day as\nBrighde-nam-Brat, St. Bride of the Mantle.\n\nAnd all through that night, while the mother slept, Bride nursed the\nChild, with tender hands and croodling crooning songs. And this was\none of the songs that she sang:\n\n    Ah, Baby Christ, so dear to me,\n      Sang Bridget Bride:\n    How sweet thou art,\n    My baby dear,\n    Heart of my heart!\n\n    Heavy her body was with thee,\n    Mary, beloved of One in Three,\n      Sang Bridget Bride--\n    Mary, who bore thee, little lad:\n    But light her heart was, light and glad\n    With God's love clad.\n\n    Sit on my knee,\n      Sang Bridget Bride:\n    Sit here\n    O Baby dear,\n    Close to my heart, my heart:\n    For I thy foster-mother am,\n    My helpless lamb!\n    O have no fear,\n      Sang good St. Bride.\n\n    None, none,\n    No fear have I:\n    So let me cling\n    Close to thy side\n    Whilst thou dost sing,\n    O Bridget Bride!\n\n    My Lord, my Prince I sing:\n    My baby dear, my King!\n      Sang Bridget Bride.\n\nIt was on this night that, far away in Iona, the Arch-Druid Cathal\ndied. But before the breath went from him he had his vision of joy,\nand his last words were:\n\n    Brighde 'dol air a gl\u00f9n,\n    Righ nan d\u00f9l a shuidh 'na h-uchd!\n    (Bridget Bride upon her knee,\n    The King of the Elements asleep on her breast!)\n\nAt the coming of dawn Mary awoke, and took the Child. She kissed\nBride upon the brows, and said this thing to her: \"Brighid, my sister\ndear, thou shalt be known unto all time as Muime Chriosd.\"\n\n\nIV\n\nNo sooner had Mary spoken than Bride fell into a deep sleep. So\nprofound was this slumber that when D\u00f9ghall Donn came to see to the\nwayfarers, and to tell them that the milk and the porridge were ready\nfor the breaking of their fast, he could get no word of her at all.\nShe lay in the clean, yellow straw beneath the manger, where Mary had\nlaid the Child. D\u00f9ghall stared in amaze. There was no sign of the\nmother, nor of the Babe that was the Prince of Peace, nor of the\ndouce, quiet man that was Joseph the carpenter. As for Bride, she not\nonly slept so sound that no word of his fell against her ears, but she\ngave him awe. For as he looked at her he saw that she was surrounded\nby a glowing light. Something in his heart shaped itself into a\nprayer, and he knelt beside her, sobbing low. When he rose, it was in\npeace. Mayhap an angel had comforted his soul in its dark shadowy\nhaunt of his body.\n\nIt was late when Bride awoke, though she did not open her eyes, but\nlay dreaming. For long she thought she was in Tir-Tairngire, the Land\nof Promise, or wandering on the honey-sweet plain of Magh-Mell; for\nthe wind of dreamland brought exquisite odours to her, and in her ears\nwas a most marvellous sweet singing.\n\nAll round her there was a music of rejoicing. Voices, lovelier than\nany she had ever heard, resounded; glad voices full of praise and joy.\nThere was a pleasant tumult of harps and trumpets, and as from across\nblue hills and over calm water came the sound of the bagpipes. She\nlistened with tears. Loud and glad were the pipes, at times full of\ntriumph, as when the heroes of old marched with Cuculain or went down\nto battle with Fionn: again, they were low and sweet, like humming of\nbees when the heather is heavy with the honey-ooze. The songs and\nwild music of the angels lulled her into peace: for a time no thought\nof the woman Mary came to her, nor of the Child that was her\nfoster-child.\n\nSuddenly it was in her mind as though the pipes played the chant that\nis called the \"Aoibhneas a Shlighe,\" \"the joy of his way,\" a march\nplayed before a bridegroom going to his bride. Out of this glad music\ncame a solitary voice, like a child singing on the hillside.\n\n\"The way of wonder shall be thine, O Brighid-Naomha!\"\n\nThis was what the child-voice sang. Then it was as though all the\nharpers of the west were playing \"air cl\u00e0rsach\": and the song of a\nmultitude of voices was this:\n\n\"Blessed art thou, O Brighid, who nursed the King of the Elements in\nthy bosom: blessed thou, the Virgin Sister of the Virgin Mother, for\nunto all time thou shalt be called Muime Chriosd, the Foster-Mother of\nJesus that is the Christ.\"\n\nWith that, Bride remembered all, and opened her eyes. Naught strange\nwas there to see, save that she lay in the stable. Then as she noted\nthat the gloaming had come, she wondered at the soft light that\nprevailed in the shed, though no lamp or candle burned there. In her\nears, too, still lingered a wild and beautiful music.\n\nIt was strange. Was it all a dream, she pondered. But even as she\nthought thus, she saw half of her mantle lying upon the straw in the\nmanger. Much she marvelled at this, but when she took the garment in\nher hand she wondered more. For though it was no more than a half of\nthe poor mantle wherewith she had wrapped the Babe, it was all wrought\nwith mystic gold lines and with precious stones more glorious than\never Arch-Druid or Island Prince had seen. The marvel gave her awe at\nlast, when, as she placed the garment upon her shoulder, it covered\nher completely.\n\nShe knew now that she had not dreamed, and that a miracle was done. So\nwith gladness she went out of the stable, and into the inn. D\u00f9ghall\nDonn was amazed when he saw her, and then rejoiced exceedingly.\n\n\"Why are you so merry, my father?\" she asked.\n\n\"Sure it is glad that I am. For now the folk will be laughing the\nwrong way. This very morning I was so pleased with the pleasure, that\nwhile the pot was boiling on the peats I went out and told every one I\nmet that the Prince of Peace was come, and had just been born in the\nstable behind the 'Rest and Be Thankful.' Well, that saying was just\nlike a weasel among the rabbits, only it was an old toothless weasel:\nfor all Bethlehem mocked me, some with jeers, some with hard words,\nand some with threats. Sure, I cursed them right and left. No, not for\nall my cursing--and by the blood of my fathers, I spared no man among\nthem, wishing them sword and fire, the black plague and the gray\ndeath--would they believe. So back it was that I came, and going\nthrough the inn I am come to the stable. 'Sorrow is on me like a gray\nmist,' said Ois\u00ecn, mourning for Oscur, and sure it was a gray mist\nthat was on me when not a sign of man, woman, or child was to be seen,\nand you so sound asleep that a March gale in the Moyle wouldn't have\nroused you. Well, I went back and told this thing, and all the people\nin Bethlehem mocked at me. And the Elders of the People came at last,\nand put a fine upon me: and condemned me to pay three barrels of good\nale, and a sack of meal, and three thin chains of gold, each three\nyards long: and this for causing a false rumour, and still more for\nmaking a laughing-stock of the good folk of Bethlehem. There was a man\ncalled Murdoch-Dhu, who is the chief smith in Nazareth, and it's him\nI'm thinking will have laughed the Elders into doing this hard thing.\"\n\nIt was then that Bride was aware of a marvel upon her, for she blew an\nincantation off the palm of her hand, and by that frith she knew where\nthe dues were to be found.\n\n\"By what I see in the air that is blown off the palm of my hand,\nfather, I bid you go into the cellar of the inn. There you will find\nthree barrels full of good ale, and beside them a sack of meal, and\nthe sack is tied with three chains of gold, each three yards long.\"\n\nBut while D\u00f9ghall Donn went away rejoicing, and found that which Bride\nhad foretold, she passed out into the street. None saw her in the\ngloaming, or as she went towards the Gate of the East. When she passed\nby the Lazar-house she took her mantle off her back and laid it in the\nplace of offerings. All the jewels and fine gold passed into invisible\nbirds with healing wings: and these birds flew about the heads of the\nsick all night, so that at dawn every one arose, with no ill upon him,\nand went on his way rejoicing. As each went out of Bethlehem that\nmorning of the mornings he found a clean white robe and new sandals at\nthe first mile; and, at the second, food and cool water; and, at the\nthird, a gold piece and a staff.\n\nThe guard that was at the Eastern Gate did not hail Bride. All the\ngaze of him was upon a company of strange men, shepherd-kings, who\nsaid they had come out of the East led by a star. They carried rare\ngifts with them when they first came to Bethlehem: but no man knew\nwhence they came, what they wanted, or whither they went.\n\nFor a time Bride walked along the road that leads to Nazareth. There\nwas fear in her gentle heart when she heard the howling of hyenas\ndown in the dark hollows, and she was glad when the moon came out and\nshone quietly upon her.\n\nIn the moonlight she saw that there were steps in the dew before her.\nShe could see the black print of feet in the silver sheen on the wet\ngrass, for it was on a grassy hill that she now walked, though a day\nago every leaf and sheath there had lain brown and withered. The\nfootprints she followed were those of a woman and of a child.\n\nAll night through she tracked those wandering feet in the dew. They\nwere always fresh before her, and led her away from the villages, and\nalso where no wild beasts prowled through the gloom. There was no\nweariness upon her, though often she wondered when she should see the\nfair wondrous face she sought. Behind her also were footsteps in the\ndew, though she knew nothing of them. They were those of the Following\nLove. And this was the Lorgadh-Brighde of which men speak to this day:\nthe Quest of the holy St. Bride.\n\nAll night she walked; now upon the high slopes of a hill. Never once\ndid she have a glimpse of any figure in the moonlight, though the\nsteps in the dew before her were newly made, and none lay in the\nglisten a short way ahead.\n\nSuddenly she stopped. There were no more footprints. Eagerly she\nlooked before her. On a hill beyond the valley beneath her she saw the\ngleaming of yellow stars. These were the lights of a city. \"Behold, it\nis Jerusalem,\" she murmured, awe-struck, for she had never seen the\ngreat town.\n\nSweet was the breath of the wind that stirred among the olives on the\nmount where she stood. It had the smell of heather, and she could hear\nthe rustle of it among the bracken on a hill close by.\n\n\"Truly, this must be the Mount of Olives,\" she whispered. \"The Mount\nof which I have heard my father speak, and that must be the hill\ncalled Calvary.\"\n\nBut even as she gazed marvelling, she sighed with new wonder; for now\nshe saw that the yellow stars were as the twinkling of the fires of\nthe sun along the crest of a hill that is set in the east. There was a\nliving joy in the dawntide. In her ears was a sweet sound of the\nbleating of ewes and lambs. From the hollows in the shadows came the\nswift singing rush of the flowing tide. Faint cries of the herring\ngulls filled the air; from the weedy boulders by the sea the skuas\ncalled wailingly.\n\nBewildered, she stood intent. If only she could see the footprints\nagain, she thought. Whither should she turn, whither go? At her feet\nwas a yellow flower. She stooped and plucked it.\n\n\"Tell me, O little sun-flower, which way shall I be going?\" and as she\nspoke a small golden bee flew up from the heart of it, and up the hill\nto the left of her. So it is that from that day the dandelion is\ncalled am-B\u00e8arn\u00e0n-Bhrighde.\n\nStill she hesitated. Then a sea-bird flew by her with a loud whistling\ncry.\n\n\"Tell me, O eisire\u00f9n,\" she called, \"which way shall I be going?\"\n\nAnd at this the eisire\u00f9n swerved in its flight, and followed the\ngolden bee, crying, \"This way, O Bride, Bride, Bride, Bride,\nBri-i-i-ide!\"\n\nSo it is that from that day the oyster-catcher has been called the\nGille-Brighde, the Servant of St. Bridget.\n\nThen it was that Bride said this sian:\n\n    Dia romham;\n    Moire am dheaghuidh;\n    'S am Mac a thug Righ nan Dul!\n    Mis' air do shlios, a Dhia,\n    Is Dia ma'm luirg.\n    Mac' 'oire, a's Righ nan Dul,\n    A shoillseachadh gach ni dheth so,\n    Le a ghras, mu'm choinneamh.\n\n    God before me;\n    The Virgin Mary after me;\n    And the Son sent by the King of the Elements.\n    I am to windward of thee, O God!\n    And God on my footsteps.\n    May the Son of Mary, King of the Elements,\n    Reveal the meaning of each of these things\n    Before me, through His grace.\n\nAnd as she ended she saw before her two quicken-trees, of which the\nboughs were interwrought so that they made an arch. Deep in the green\nfoliage was a white merle that sang a wondrous sweet song. Above it\nthe small branches were twisted into the shape of a wreath or crown,\nlovely with the sunlit rowan-clusters, from whose scarlet berries red\ndrops as of blood fell.\n\nBefore her flew a white dove, all aglow as with golden light.\n\nShe followed, and passed beneath the quicken arch.\n\nSweet was the song of the merle, that was then no more; sweet the\ngreen shadow of the rowans, that now grew straight as young pines.\nSweet the far song in the sky, where the white dove flew against the\nsun.\n\nBride looked, and her eyes were glad. Bonnie the blooming of the\nheather on the slopes of Dun-I. Iona lay green and gold, isled in her\nblue waters. From the sheiling of D\u00f9vach, her father, rose a thin\ncolumn of pale blue smoke. The collies, seeing her, barked loudly with\nwelcoming joy.\n\nThe bleating of the sheep, the lowing of the kye, the breath of the\nsalt wind from the open sea beyond, the song of the flowing tide in\nthe Sound beneath: dear the homing.\n\nWith a strange light in her eyes she moved down through the heather\nand among the green bracken: white, wonderful, fair to see.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FISHER OF MEN\n\n    \"But now I have grown nothing, being all,\n    And the whole world weighs down upon my heart.\"\n\n          Fergus and the Druid.\n\n\nWhen old Sine nic Le\u00f2id came back to the croft, after she had been to\nthe burn at the edge of the green airidh, where she had washed the\n_claar_ that was for the potatoes at the peeling, she sat down before\nthe peats.\n\nShe was white with years. The mountain wind was chill, too, for all\nthat the sun had shone throughout the midsummer day. It was well to\nsit before the peat-fire.\n\nThe croft was on the slope of a mountain, and had the south upon it.\nNorth, south, east, and west, other great slopes reached upward, like\nhollow green waves frozen into silence by the very wind that curved\nthem so, and freaked their crests into peaks and jagged pinnacles.\nStillness was in that place for ever and ever. What though the\nGorromalt Water foamed down Ben Nair, where the croft was, and made a\nhoarse voice for aye surrendering sound to silence? What though at\ntimes the stones fell from the ridges of Ben Chaisteal and Maolm\u00f2r,\nand clattered down the barren declivities till they were slung in the\ntangled meshes of whin and juniper? What though on stormy dawns the\neagle screamed as he fought against the wind that graved a thin line\nupon the aged front of Ben Mulad, where his eyrie was: or that the\nkestrel cried above the rabbit-burrows in the strath: or that the\nhill-fox barked, or that the curlew wailed, or that the scattered\nsheep made an endless mournful crying? What were these but the\nministers of silence?\n\nThere was no blue smoke in the strath except from the one turf cot. In\nthe hidden valley beyond Ben Nair there was a hamlet, and nigh upon\nthree-score folk lived there: but that was over three miles away. Sine\nMacleod was alone in that solitary place, save for her son Alasdair\nM\u00f2r \u00d2g. \"Young Alasdair\" he was still, though the gray feet of fifty\nyears had marked his hair. Alasdair \u00d2g he was while Alasdair Ruadh mac\nChalum mhic Le\u00f2id, that was his father, lived. But when Alasdair Ruadh\nchanged, and Sine was left a mourning woman, he that was their son\nwas Alasdair \u00d2g still.\n\nShe had sore weariness that day. For all that, it was not the weight\nof the burden that made her go in out of the afternoon sun, and sit by\nthe red glow of the peats, brooding deep.\n\nWhen, nigh upon an hour later, Alasdair came up the slope and led the\nkye to the byre, she did not hear him: nor had she sight of him, when\nhis shadow flickered in before him and lay along the floor.\n\n\"Poor old woman,\" he said to himself, bending his head because of the\nbig height that was his, and he there so heavy and strong, and tender,\ntoo, for all the tangled black beard and the wild hill-eyes that\nlooked out under bristling gray-black eyebrows.\n\n\"Poor old woman, and she with the tired heart that she has. Ay, ay,\nfor sure the weeks lap up her shadow, as the sayin' is. She will be\nthinking of him that is gone. Ay, or maybe the old thoughts of her are\ngoin' back on their own steps, down this glen an' over that hill an'\naway beyont that strath, an' this corrie an' that moor. Well, well,\nit is a good love, that of the mother. Sure a bitter pain it will be\nto me when there's no old gray hair there to stroke. It's quiet here,\nterrible quiet, God knows, to Himself be the blessin' for this an' for\nthat: but when she has the white sleep at last, then it'll be a sore\nday for me, an' one that I will not be able to bear to hear the sheep\ncallin', callin', callin' through the rain on the hills here, and\nGorromalt Water an' no other voice to be with me on that day of the\ndays.\"\n\nShe heard a faint sigh, and stirred a moment, but did not look round.\n\n\"Muim'-\u00e0-ghraidh, is it tired you are, an' this so fine a time, too?\"\n\nWith a quick gesture, the old woman glanced at him.\n\n\"Ah, child, is that you indeed? Well, I am glad of that, for I have\nthe trouble again.\"\n\n\"What trouble, Muim'-ghaolaiche?\"\n\nBut the old woman did not answer. Wearily she turned her face to the\npeat-glow again.\n\nAlasdair seated himself on the big wooden chair to her right. For a\ntime he stayed silent thus, staring into the red heart of the peats.\nWhat was the gloom upon the old heart that he loved? What trouble was\nit?\n\nAt last he rose and put meal and water into the iron pot, and stirred\nthe porridge while it seethed and sputtered. Then he poured boiling\nwater upon the tea in the brown jenny, and put the new bread and the\nsweet-milk scones on the rude deal board that was the table.\n\n\"Come, dear tired old heart,\" he said, \"and let us give thanks to the\nBeing.\"\n\n\"Blessings and thanks,\" she said, and turned round.\n\nAlasdair poured out the porridge, and watched the steam rise. Then he\nsat down, with a knife in one hand and the brown-white loaf in the\nother.\n\n\"O God,\" he said, in the low voice he had in the kirk when the bread\nand wine were given--\"O God, be giving us now thy blessing, and have\nthe thanks. And give us peace.\"\n\nPeace there was in the sorrowful old eyes of the mother. The two ate\nin silence. The big clock that was by the bed _tick-tacked_,\n_tick-tacked_. A faint sputtering came out of a peat that had bog-gas\nin it. Shadows moved in the silence, and met and whispered and moved\ninto deep, warm darkness. There was peace.\n\nThere was still a red flush above the hills in the west when the\nmother and son sat in the ingle again.\n\n\"What is it, mother-my-heart?\" Alasdair asked at last, putting his\ngreat red hand upon the woman's knee.\n\nShe looked at him for a moment. When she spoke she turned away her\ngaze again.\n\n\"Foxes have holes, and the fowls of the air have their places of rest,\nbut the Son of Man hath not where to lay his head.\"\n\n\"And what then, dear? Sure, it is the deep meaning you have in that\ngray old head that I'm loving so.\"\n\n\"Ay, lennav-aghray, there is meaning to my words. It is old I am, and\nthe hour of my hours is near. I heard a voice outside the window last\nnight. It is a voice I will not be hearing, no, not for seventy years.\nIt was cradle-sweet, it was.\"\n\nShe paused, and there was silence for a time.\n\n\"Well, dear,\" she began again, wearily, and in a low, weak voice, \"it\nis more tired and more tired I am every day now this last month. Two\nSabbaths ago I woke, and there were bells in the air: and you are for\nknowing well, Alasdair, that no kirk-bells ever rang in Strath Nair.\nAt edge o' dark on Friday, and by the same token the thirteenth day it\nwas, I fell asleep, and dreamed the mools were on my breast, and that\nthe roots of the white daisies were in the hollows where the eyes were\nthat loved you, Alasdair, my son.\"\n\nThe man looked at her with troubled gaze. No words would come. Of what\navail to speak when there is nothing to be said? God sends the gloom\nupon the cloud, and there is rain: God sends the gloom upon the hill,\nand there is mist: God sends the gloom upon the sun, and there is\nwinter. It is God, too, sends the gloom upon the soul, and there is\nchange. The swallow knows when to lift up her wing over against the\nshadow that creeps out of the north: the wild swan knows when the\nsmell of snow is behind the sun: the salmon, lone in the brown pool\namong the hills, hears the deep sea, and his tongue pants for salt,\nand his fins quiver, and he knows that his time is come, and that the\nsea calls. The doe knows when the fawn hath not yet quaked in her\nbelly: is not the violet more deep in the shadowy dewy eyes? The woman\nknows when the babe hath not yet stirred a little hand: is not the\nwild-rose on her cheek more often seen, and are not the shy tears\nmoist on quiet hands in the dusk? How, then, shall the soul not know\nwhen the change is nigh at last? Is it a less thing than a reed, which\nsees the yellow birch-gold adrift on the lake, and the gown of the\nheather grow russet when the purple has passed into the sky, and the\nwhite bog-down wave gray and tattered where the loneroid grows dark\nand pungent--which sees, and knows that the breath of the Death-Weaver\nat the Pole is fast faring along the frozen norland peaks? It is more\nthan a reed, it is more than a wild doe on the hills, it is more than\na swallow lifting her wing against the coming of the shadow, it is\nmore than a swan drunken with the savour of the blue wine of the waves\nwhen the green Arctic lawns are white and still. It is more than\nthese, which has the Son of God for brother, and is clothed with\nlight. God doth not extinguish at the dark tomb what he hath litten in\nthe dark womb.\n\nWho shall say that the soul knows not when the bird is aweary of the\nnest, and the nest is aweary of the wind? Who shall say that all\nportents are vain imaginings? A whirling straw upon the road is but a\nwhirling straw; yet the wind is upon the cheek almost ere it is gone.\n\nIt was not for Alasdair \u00d2g, then, to put a word upon the saying of the\nwoman that was his mother, and was age-white, and could see with the\nseeing of old wise eyes.\n\nSo all that was upon his lips was a sigh, and the poor prayer that is\nonly a breath out of the heart.\n\n\"You will be telling me, gray sweetheart,\" he said lovingly, at\nlast--\"you will be telling me what was behind the word that you said:\nthat about the foxes that have holes for the hiding, poor beasts, and\nthe birdeens wi' their nests, though the Son o' Man hath not where to\nlay his head?\"\n\n\"Ay, Alasdair, my son that I bore long syne an' that I'm leaving\nsoon, I will be for telling you that thing, an' now too, for I am\nknowing what is in the dark this night o' the nights.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOld Sine put her head back wearily on the chair, and let her hands\nlie, long and white, palm-downward upon her knees. The peat-glow\nwarmed the dull gray that lurked under her closed eyes and about her\nmouth, and in the furrowed cheeks. Alasdair moved nearer, and took her\nright hand in his, where it lay like a tired sheep between two scarped\nrocks. Gently he smoothed her hand, and wondered why so frail and\nslight a creature as this small old wizened woman could have mothered\na great swarthy man like himself--he a man, now, with his two score\nand ten years, and yet but a boy there at the dear side of her.\n\n\"It was this way, Alasdair-mochree,\" she went on in her low thin\nvoice,--like a wind-worn leaf, the man that was her son thought. \"It\nwas this way. I went down to the burn to wash the _claar_, and when I\nwas there I saw a wounded fawn in the bracken. The big sad eyes of it\nwere like those of Maisie, poor lass, when she had the birthing that\nwas her going-call. I went through the bracken, and down by the\nGorromalt, and into the Shadowy Glen.\n\n\"And when I was there, and standing by the running water, I saw a man\nby the stream-side. He was tall, but spare and weary: and the clothes\nupon him were poor and worn. He had sorrow. When he lifted his head at\nme, I saw the tears. Dark, wonderful, sweet eyes they were. His face\nwas pale. It was not the face of a man of the hills. There was no red\nin it, and the eyes looked in upon themselves. He was a fair man, with\nthe white hands that a woman has, a woman like the Bantighearna of\nGlenchaisteal over yonder. His voice, too, was a voice like that: in\nthe softness, and the sweet, quiet sorrow, I am meaning.\n\n\"The word that I gave him was in the English: for I thought he was\nlike a man out of Sasunn, or of the southlands somewhere. But he\nanswered me in the Gaelic: sweet, good Gaelic like that of the Bioball\nover there, to Himself be the praise.\n\n\"'And is it the way down the Strath you are seeking?' I asked: 'and\nwill you not be coming up to the house yonder, poor cot though it is,\nand have a sup of milk, and a rest if it's weary you are?'\n\n\"'You are having my thanks for that,' he said, 'and it is as though I\nhad both the good rest and the cool sweet drink. But I am following\nthe flowing water here.'\n\n\"'Is it for the fishing?' I asked.\n\n\"'I am a Fisher,' he said, and the voice of him was low and sad. He\nhad no hat on his head, and the light that streamed through a\nrowan-tree was in his long hair. He had the pity of the poor in his\nsorrowful gray eyes.\n\n\"'And will you not sleep with us?' I asked again: 'that is, if you\nhave no place to go to, and are a stranger in this country, as I am\nthinking you are; for I have never had sight of you in the\nhome-straths before.'\n\n\"'I am a stranger,' he said, 'and I have no home, and my father's\nhouse is a great way off.'\n\n\"'Do not tell me, poor man,' I said gently, for fear of the pain, 'do\nnot tell me if you would fain not; but it is glad I will be if you\nwill give me the name you have.'\n\n\"'My name is Mac-an-t'-Saoir,' he answered with the quiet deep gaze\nthat was his. And with that he bowed his head, and went on his way,\nbrooding deep.\n\n\"Well, it was with a heavy heart I turned, and went back through the\nbracken. A heavy heart, for sure, and yet, oh peace too, cool dews of\npeace. And the fawn was there: healed, Alasdair, healed, and\nwhinny-bleating for its doe, that stood on a rock wi' lifted hoof an'\nstared down the glen to where the Fisher was.\n\n\"When I was at the burnside, a woman came down the brae. She was fair\nto see, but the tears were upon her.\n\n\"'Oh,' she cried, 'have you seen a man going this way?'\n\n\"'Ay, for sure,' I answered, 'but what man would he be?'\n\n\"'He is called Mac-an-t'-Saoir.'\n\n\"'Well, there are many men that are called Son of the Carpenter. What\nwill his own name be?'\n\n\"'Iosa,' she said.\n\n\"And when I looked at her, she was weaving the wavy branches of a\nthorn near by, and sobbing low, and it was like a wreath or crown that\nshe made.\n\n\"'And who will you be, poor woman?' I asked.\n\n\"'O my Son, my Son,' she said, and put her apron over her head and\nwent down into the Shadowy Glen, she weeping sore, too, at that, poor\nwoman.\n\n\"So now, Alasdair, my son, tell me what thought you have about this\nthing that I have told you. For I know well whom I met on the brae\nthere, and who the Fisher was. And when I was at the peats here once\nmore I sat down, and my mind sank into myself. And it is knowing the\nknowledge I am.\"\n\n\"Well, well, dear, it is sore tired you are. Have rest now. But sure\nthere are many men called Macintyre.\"\n\n\"Ay, and what Gael that you know will be for giving you his surname\nlike that?\"\n\nAlasdair had no word for that. He rose to put some more peats on the\nfire. When he had done this, he gave a cry.\n\nThe whiteness that was on the mother's hair was now in the face.\nThere was no blood there, or in the drawn lips. The light in the old,\ndim eyes was like water after frost.\n\nHe took her hand in his. Clay-cold it was. He let it go, and it fell\nstraight by the chair, stiff as the cromak he carried when he was with\nthe sheep.\n\n\"O my God and my God,\" he whispered, white with the awe, and the\nbitter cruel pain.\n\nThen it was that he heard a knocking at the door.\n\n\"Who is there?\" he cried hoarsely.\n\n\"Open, and let me in.\" It was a low, sweet voice; but was that gray\nhour the time for a welcome?\n\n\"Go, but go in peace, whoever you are. There is death here.\"\n\n\"Open, and let me in.\"\n\nAt that, Alasdair, shaking like a reed in the wind, unclasped the\nlatch. A tall, fair man, ill-clad and weary, pale, too, and with\ndreaming eyes, came in.\n\n\"_Beannachd Dhe an Tigh_,\" he said; \"God's blessing on this house, and\non all here.\"\n\n\"The same upon yourself,\" Alasdair said, with a weary pain in his\nvoice. \"And who will you be? and forgive the asking.\"\n\n\"I am called Mac-an-t'-Saoir, and Iosa is the name I bear--Jesus, the\nSon of the Carpenter.\"\n\n\"It is a good name. And is it good you are seeking this night?\"\n\n\"I am a Fisher.\"\n\n\"Well, that's here an' that's there. But will you go to the Strath\nover the hill, and tell the good man that is there, the minister,\nLachlan MacLachlan, that old Sine nic Le\u00f2id, wife of Alasdair Ruadh,\nis dead.\"\n\n\"I know that, Alasdair \u00d2g.\"\n\n\"And how will you be knowing that, and my name, too, you that are\ncalled Macintyre?\"\n\n\"I met the white soul of Sine as it went down by the Shadowy Glen a\nbrief while ago. She was singing a glad song, she was. She had green\nyouth in her eyes. And a man was holding her by the hand. It was\nAlasdair Ruadh.\"\n\nAt that Alasdair fell on his knees. When he looked up, there was no\none there. Through the darkness outside the door, he saw a star\nshining white, and leaping like a pulse.\n\nIt was three days after that day of shadow that Sine Macleod was put\nunder the green turf.\n\nOn each night, Alasdair \u00d2g walked in the Shadowy Glen, and there he\nsaw a man fishing, though ever afar off. Stooping he was, always, and\nlike a shadow at times. But he was the man that was called Iosa\nMac-an-t'-Saoir--Jesus, the Son of the Carpenter.\n\nAnd on the night of the earthing he saw the Fisher close by.\n\n\"Lord God,\" he said, with the hush on his voice, and deep awe in his\nwondering eyes: \"Lord God!\"\n\nAnd the Man looked at him.\n\n\"Night and day, Alasdair MacAlasdair,\" he said, \"night and day I fish\nin the waters of the world. And these waters are the waters of grief,\nand the waters of sorrow, and the waters of despair. And it is the\nsouls of the living I fish for. And lo, I say this thing unto you, for\nyou shall not see me again: _Go in peace._ Go in peace, good soul of a\npoor man, for thou hast seen the Fisher of Men.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAST SUPPER\n\n    \"... and there shall be\n    Beautiful things made new....\"\n\n          Hyperion.\n\n\nThe last time that the Fisher of Men was seen in Strath Nair was not\nof Alasdair Macleod but of the little child, Art Macarthur, him that\nwas born of the woman Mary Gilchrist, that had known the sorrow of\nwomen.\n\nHe was a little child, indeed, when, because of his loneliness and\nhaving lost his way, he lay sobbing among the bracken by the\nstream-side in the Shadowy Glen.\n\nWhen he was a man, and had reached the gloaming of his years, he was\nloved of men and women, for his songs are many and sweet, and his\nheart was true, and he was a good man and had no evil against any one.\n\nIt is he who saw the Fisher of Men, when he was but a little lad; and\nsome say that it was on the eve of the day that Alasdair \u00d2g died,\nthough of this I know nothing. And what he saw, and what he heard, was\na moonbeam that fell into the dark sea of his mind, and sank therein,\nand filled it with light for all the days of his life. A moonlit mind\nwas that of Art Macarthur: him that is known best as Ian M\u00f2r, Ian M\u00f2r\nof the Hills, though why he took the name of Ian Cameron is known to\nnone now but one person, and that need not be for the telling here. He\nhad music always in his mind. I asked him once why he heard what so\nfew heard, but he smiled and said only: \"When the heart is full of\nlove, cool dews of peace rise from it and fall upon the mind: and that\nis when the song of Joy is heard.\" It must have been because of this\nshining of his soul that some who loved him thought of him as one\nillumined. His mind was a shell that held the haunting echo of the\ndeep seas: and to know him was to catch a breath of the infinite ocean\nof wonder and mystery and beauty of which he was the quiet oracle. He\nhas peace now, where he lies under the heather upon a hillside far\naway: but the Fisher of Men will send him hitherward again, to put a\nlight upon the wave, and a gleam upon the brown earth.\n\nI will tell this _sgeul_ as Ian M\u00f2r, that was the little child Art\nMacarthur, told it to me.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOften and often it is to me all as a dream that comes unawares. Often\nand often have I striven to see into the green glens of the mind\nwhence it comes, and whither, in a flash, in a rainbow gleam, it\nvanishes. When I seek to draw close to it, to know whether it is a\nwinged glory out of the soul, or was indeed a thing that happened to\nme in my tender years, lo--it is a dawn drowned in day, a star lost in\nthe sun, the falling of dew.\n\nBut I will not be forgetting: no, never; no, not till the silence of\nthe grass is over my eyes: I will not be forgetting that gloaming.\n\nBitter tears are those that children have. All that we say with vain\nwords is said by them in this welling spray of pain. I had the sorrow\nthat day. Strange hostilities lurked in the familiar bracken. The\nsoughing of the wind among the trees, the wash of the brown water by\nmy side, that had been companionable, were voices of awe. The quiet\nlight upon the grass flamed.\n\nThe fierce people that lurked in shadow had eyes for my helplessness.\nWhen the dark came I thought I should be dead, devoured of I knew not\nwhat wild creature. Would mother never come, never come with saving\narms, with eyes like soft candles of home?\n\nThen my sobs grew still, for I heard a step. With dread upon me, poor\nwee lad that I was, I looked to see who came out of the wilderness. It\nwas a man, tall and thin and worn, with long hair hanging adown his\nface. Pale he was as a moonlit cot on the dark moor, and his voice was\nlow and sweet. When I saw his eyes, I had no fear upon me at all. I\nsaw the mother-look in the gray shadow of them.\n\n\"And is that you, Art lennavan-mo?\" he said, as he stooped and lifted\nme.\n\nI had no fear. The wet was out of my eyes.\n\n\"What is it you will be listening to, now, my little lad?\" he\nwhispered, as he saw me lean, intent, to catch I know not what.\n\n\"Sure,\" I said, \"I am not for knowing; but I thought I heard a music\naway down there in the wood.\"\n\nI heard it, for sure. It was a wondrous sweet air, as of one playing\nthe feadan in a dream. Callum Dall, the piper, could give no rarer\nmusic than that was; and Callum was a seventh son, and was born in the\nmoonshine.\n\n\"Will you come with me this night of the nights, little Art?\" the man\nasked me, with his lips touching my brow and giving me rest.\n\n\"That I will indeed and indeed,\" I said. And then I fell asleep.\n\nWhen I woke we were in the huntsman's booth that is at the far end of\nthe Shadowy Glen.\n\nThere was a long rough-hewn table in it, and I stared when I saw bowls\nand a great jug of milk and a plate heaped with oatcakes, and beside\nit a brown loaf of rye-bread.\n\n\"Little Art,\" said he who carried me, \"are you for knowing now who I\nam?\"\n\n\"You are a prince, I'm thinking,\" was the shy word that came to my\nmouth.\n\n\"Sure, lennav-aghray, that is so. It is called the Prince of Peace I\nam.\"\n\n\"And who is to be eating all this?\" I asked.\n\n\"This is the last supper,\" the prince said, so low that I could scarce\nhear; and it seemed to me that he whispered, \"for I die daily, and\never ere I die the Twelve break bread with me.\"\n\nIt was then I saw that there were six bowls of porridge on the one\nside and six on the other.\n\n\"What is your name, O Prince?\"\n\n\"Iosa.\"\n\n\"And will you have no other name than that?\"\n\n\"I am called Iosa mac Dhe.\"\n\n\"And is it living in this house you are?\"\n\n\"Ay. But Art, my little lad, I will kiss your eyes, and you shall see\nwho sup with me.\"\n\nAnd with that the prince that was called Iosa kissed me on the eyes,\nand I saw.\n\n\"You will never be quite blind again,\" he whispered, and that is why\nall the long years of my years I have been glad in my soul.\n\nWhat I saw was a thing strange and wonderful. Twelve men sat at that\ntable, and all had eyes of love upon Iosa. But they were not like any\nmen I had ever seen. Tall and fair and terrible they were, like\nmorning in a desert place; all save one, who was dark, and had a\nshadow upon him and in his wild eyes.\n\nIt seemed to me that each was clad in radiant mist. The eyes of them\nwere as stars through that mist.\n\nAnd each, before he broke bread, or put spoon to the porridge that was\nin the bowl before him, laid down upon the table three shuttles. Long\nI looked upon that company, but Iosa held me in his arms, and I had no\nfear.\n\n\"Who are these men?\" he asked me.\n\n\"The Sons of God,\" I said; I not knowing what I said, for it was but a\nchild I was.\n\nHe smiled at that. \"Behold,\" he spoke to the twelve men who sat at the\ntable, \"behold the little one is wiser than the wisest of ye.\" At that\nall smiled with the gladness and the joy, save one: him that was in\nthe shadow. He looked at me, and I remembered two black lonely tarns\nupon the hillside, black with the terror because of the kelpie and the\ndrowner.\n\n\"Who are these men?\" I whispered, with the tremor on me, that was\ncome of the awe I had.\n\n\"They are the Twelve Weavers, Art, my little child.\"\n\n\"And what is their weaving?\"\n\n\"They weave for my Father, whose web I am.\"\n\nAt that I looked upon the prince, but I could see no web.\n\n\"Are you not Iosa the Prince?\"\n\n\"I am the Web of Life, Art lennavan-mo.\"\n\n\"And what are the three shuttles that are beside each Weaver?\"\n\nI know now that when I turned my child's eyes upon these shuttles I\nsaw that they were alive and wonderful, and never the same to the\nseeing.\n\n\"They are called _Beauty_ and _Wonder_ and _Mystery_.\"\n\nAnd with that Iosa mac Dhe sat down and talked with the Twelve. All\nwere passing fair, save him who looked sidelong out of dark eyes. I\nthought each, as I looked at him, more beautiful than any of his\nfellows; but most I loved to look at the twain who sat on either side\nof Iosa.\n\n\"He will be a Dreamer among men,\" said the prince; \"so tell him who\nye are.\"\n\nThen he who was on the right turned his eyes upon me. I leaned to him,\nlaughing low with the glad pleasure I had because of his eyes and\nshining hair, and the flame as of the blue sky that was his robe.\n\n\"I am the Weaver of Joy,\" he said. And with that he took his three\nshuttles that were called Beauty and Wonder and Mystery, and he wove\nan immortal shape, and it went forth of the room and out into the\ngreen world, singing a rapturous sweet song.\n\nThen he that was upon the left of Iosa the Life, looked at me, and my\nheart leaped. He, too, had shining hair, but I could not tell the\ncolour of his eyes for the glory that was in them. \"I am the Weaver of\nLove,\" he said; \"and I sit next the heart of Iosa.\" And with that he\ntook his three shuttles that were called Beauty and Wonder and\nMystery, and he wove an immortal shape, and it went forth of the room\nand out into the green world, singing a rapturous sweet song.\n\nEven then, child as I was, I wished to look on no other. None could\nbe so passing fair, I thought, as the Weaver of Joy and the Weaver of\nLove.\n\nBut a wondrous sweet voice sang in my ears, and a cool, soft hand laid\nitself upon my head, and the beautiful lordly one who had spoken said,\n\"I am the Weaver of Death,\" and the lovely whispering one who had\nlulled me with rest said, \"I am the Weaver of Sleep.\" And each wove\nwith the shuttles of Beauty and Wonder and Mystery, and I knew not\nwhich was the more fair, and Death seemed to me as Love, and in the\neyes of Dream I saw Joy.\n\nMy gaze was still upon the fair wonderful shapes that went forth from\nthese twain,--from the Weaver of Sleep, an immortal shape of star-eyed\nSilence, and from the Weaver of Death a lovely Dusk with a heart of\nhidden flame--when I heard the voice of two others of the Twelve. They\nwere like the laughter of the wind in the corn, and like the golden\nfire upon that corn. And the one said, \"I am the Weaver of Passion,\"\nand when he spoke I thought that he was both Love and Joy, and Death\nand Life, and I put out my hands. \"It is Strength I give,\" he said;\nand he took and kissed me. Then, while Iosa took me again upon his\nknee, I saw the Weaver of Passion turn to the white glory beside\nhim,--him that Iosa whispered to me was the secret of the world, and\nthat was called \"The Weaver of Youth.\" I know not whence nor how it\ncame, but there was a singing of skyey birds when these twain took the\nshuttles of Beauty and Wonder and Mystery and wove each an immortal\nshape, and bade it go forth out of the room into the green world, to\nsing there for ever and ever in the ears of man a rapturous sweet\nsong.\n\n\"O Iosa,\" I cried, \"are these all thy brethren? for each is fair as\nthee, and all have lit their eyes at the white fire I see now in thy\nheart.\"\n\nBut, before he spake, the room was filled with music. I trembled with\nthe joy, and in my ears it has lingered ever, nor shall ever go. Then\nI saw that it was the breathing of the seventh and eighth, of the\nninth and the tenth of those star-eyed ministers of Iosa whom he\ncalled the Twelve: and the names of them were the Weaver of Laughter,\nthe Weaver of Tears, the Weaver of Prayer, and the Weaver of Peace.\nEach rose and kissed me there. \"We shall be with you to the end,\nlittle Art,\" they said: and I took hold of the hand of one, and cried,\n\"O beautiful one, be likewise with the woman my mother,\" and there\ncame back to me the whisper of the Weaver of Tears: \"I will, unto the\nend.\"\n\nThen, wonderingly, I watched him likewise take the shuttles that were\never the same and yet never the same, and weave an immortal shape. And\nwhen this soul of Tears went forth of the room, I thought it was my\nmother's voice singing that rapturous sweet song, and I cried out to\nit.\n\nThe fair immortal turned and waved to me. \"I shall never be far from\nthee, little Art,\" it sighed, like summer rain falling on leaves: \"but\nI go now to my home in the heart of women.\"\n\nThere were now but two out of the Twelve. Oh the gladness and the joy\nwhen I looked at him who had his eyes fixed on the face of Iosa that\nwas the Life! He lifted the three shuttles of Beauty and Wonder and\nMystery, and he wove a Mist of Rainbows in that room; and in the\nglory I saw that even the dark twelfth one lifted up his eyes and\nsmiled.\n\n\"O what will the name of you be!\" I cried, straining my arms to the\nbeautiful lordly one. But he did not hear, for he wrought Rainbow\nafter Rainbow out of the mist of glory that he made, and sent each out\ninto the green world, to be for ever before the eyes of men.\n\n\"He is the Weaver of Hope,\" whispered Iosa mac Dhe, \"and he is the\nsoul of each that is here.\"\n\nThen I turned to the twelfth, and said, \"Who art thou, O lordly one\nwith the shadow in the eyes?\"\n\nBut he answered not, and there was silence in the room. And all there,\nfrom the Weaver of Joy to the Weaver of Peace, looked down, and said\nnought. Only the Weaver of Hope wrought a rainbow, and it drifted into\nthe heart of the lonely Weaver that was twelfth.\n\n\"And who will this man be, O Iosa mac Dhe?\" I whispered.\n\n\"Answer the little child,\" said Iosa, and his voice was sad.\n\nThen the Weaver answered.\n\n\"I am the Weaver of Glory\"--he began, but Iosa looked at him, and he\nsaid no more.\n\n\"Art, little lad,\" said the Prince of Peace, \"he is the one who\nbetrayeth me for ever. He is Judas, the Weaver of Fear.\"\n\nAnd at that the sorrowful shadow-eyed man that was the twelfth took up\nthe three shuttles that were before him.\n\n\"And what are these, O Judas?\" I cried eagerly, for I saw that they\nwere black.\n\nWhen he answered not one of the Twelve leaned forward and looked at\nhim. It was the Weaver of Death who did this thing.\n\n\"The three shuttles of Judas the Fear-Weaver, O little Art,\" said the\nWeaver of Death, \"are called Mystery, and Despair, and the Grave.\"\n\nAnd with that Judas rose and left the room. But the shape that he had\nwoven went forth with him as his shadow: and each fared out into the\ndim world, and the Shadow entered into the minds and into the hearts\nof men, and betrayed Iosa that was the Prince of Peace.\n\nThereupon, Iosa rose, and took me by the hand and led me out of that\nroom. When, once, I looked back I saw none of the Twelve save only the\nWeaver of Hope, and he sat singing a wild sweet song that he had\nlearned of the Weaver of Joy, sat singing amid a mist of rainbows and\nweaving a radiant glory that was dazzling as the sun.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd at that I woke, and was against my mother's heart, and she with\nthe tears upon me, and her lips moving in a prayer.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DARK NAMELESS ONE\n\n\nOne day this summer I sailed with Padruic Macrae and Ivor McLean,\nboatmen of Iona, along the southwestern reach of the Ross of Mull.\n\nThe whole coast of the Ross is indescribably wild and desolate. From\nFeenafort (Fhionn-phort) opposite Balliemore of Icolmkill, to the\nhamlet of Earraid Lighthouse, it were hardly exaggeration to say that\nthe whole tract is uninhabited by man and unenlivened by any green\nthing. It is the haunt of the cormorant and the seal.\n\nNo one who has not visited this region can realise its barrenness. Its\none beauty is the faint bloom which lies upon it in the sunlight--a\nbloom which becomes as the glow of an inner flame when the sun westers\nwithout cloud or mist. This is from the ruddy hue of the granite, of\nwhich all that wilderness is wrought.\n\nIt is a land tortured by the sea, scourged by the sea-wind. A myriad\nlochs, fiords, inlets, passages, serrate its broken frontiers.\nInnumerable islets and reefs, fanged like ravenous wolves, sentinel\nevery shallow, lurk in every strait. He must be a skilled boatman who\nwould take the Sound of Earraid and penetrate the reaches of the Ross.\n\nThere are many days in the months of peace, as the islanders call the\nperiod from Easter till the autumnal equinox, when Earraid and the rest\nof Ross seem under a spell. It is the spell of beauty. Then the yellow\nlight of the sun is upon the tumbled masses and precipitous shelves and\nledges, ruddy petals or leaves of that vast Flower of Granite. Across\nit the cloud shadows trail their purple elongations, their scythe-sweep\ncurves, and abrupt evanishing floodings of warm dusk. From wet boulder\nto boulder, from crag to shelly crag, from fissure to fissure, the sea\nceaselessly weaves a girdle of foam. When the wide luminous stretch of\nwaters beyond--green near the land, and farther out all of a living\nblue, interspersed with wide alleys of amethyst--is white with the\nsea-horses, there is such a laughter of surge and splash all the way\nfrom Slugan-dubh to the Rudha-nam-Maol-M\u00f2ra, or to the tide-swept\npromontory of the Sgeireig-a'-Bhochdaidh, that, looking inland, one\nsees through a rainbow-shimmering veil of ever-flying spray.\n\nBut the sun spell is even more fugitive upon the face of this wild\nland than the spell of beauty upon a woman. So runs one of our\nproverbs: as the falling of the wave, as the fading of the leaf, so is\nthe beauty of a woman, unless--ah, that _unless_, and the\nindiscoverable fount of joy that can only be come upon by hazard once\nin life, and thereafter only in dreams, and the Land of the Rainbow\nthat is never reached, and the green sea-doors of Tir-na-thonn, that\nopen now no more to any wandering wave!\n\nIt was from Ivor McLean, on that day, I heard the strange tale of his\nkinsman Murdoch, the tale of \"The Ninth Wave\" that I have told\nelsewhere. It was Padruic, however, who told me of the Sea-witch of\nEarraid.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"I have heard of the _uisge-each_\" (the sea-beast,\nsea-kelpie, or water-horse), \"but I have never seen it with the eyes.\nMy father and my brother knew of it. But this thing I know, and this\nwhat we call _an-cailleach-uisge_\" (the siren or water-witch); \"the\n_cailliach_, mind you, not the _maighdeann-mh\u00e0ra_\" (the mermaid), \"who\nmeans no harm. May she hear my saying it! The cailliach is old and\nclad in weeds, but her voice is young, and she always sits so that the\nlight is in the eyes of the beholder. She seems to him young also, and\nfair. She has two familiars in the form of seals, one black as the\ngrave, and the other white as the shroud that is in the grave; and\nthese sometimes upset a boat, if the sailor laughs at the\nuisge-cailliach's song.\n\n\"A man netted one of those seals, more than a hundred years ago, with\nhis herring-trawl, and dragged it into the boat; but the other seal\ntore at the net so savagely, with its head and paws over the bows,\nthat it was clear no net would long avail. The man heard them crying\nand screaming, and then talking low and muttering, like women in a\nfrenzy. In his fear he cast the nets adrift, all but a small portion\nthat was caught in the thwarts. Afterwards, in this portion, he found\na tress of woman's hair. And that is just so: to the Stones be it\nsaid.\n\n\"The grandson of this man, Tomais McNair, is still living, a shepherd\non Eilean-Uamhain, beyond Lunga in the Cairnburg Isles. A few years\nago, off Callachan Point, he saw the two seals, and heard, though he\ndid not see, the cailliach. And that which I tell you,--Christ's Cross\nbefore me--is a true thing.\"\n\nAll the time that Padruic was speaking I saw that Ivor McLean looked\naway: either as though he heard nothing, or did not wish to hear.\nThere was dream in his eyes; I saw that, so said nothing for a time.\n\n\"What is it, Ivor?\" I asked at last, in a low voice. He started, and\nlooked at me strangely.\n\n\"What will you be asking that for? What are you doing in my mind, that\nis secret?\"\n\n\"I see that you are brooding over something. Will you not tell me?\"\n\n\"Tell her,\" said Padruic quietly.\n\nBut Ivor kept silent. There was a look in his eyes which I\nunderstood. Thereafter we sailed on, with no word in the boat at all.\n\nThat night, a dark, rainy night it was, with an uplift wind beating\nhigh over against the hidden moon, I went to the cottage where Ivor\nMcLean lived with his old deaf mother,--deaf nigh upon twenty years,\never since the night of the nights when she heard the women whisper\nthat Callum, her husband, was among the drowned, after a death-wind\nhad blown.\n\nWhen I entered, he was sitting before the flaming coal-fire; for on\nIona, now, by decree of MacCailin M\u00f2r, there is no more peat burned.\n\n\"You will tell me now, Ivor?\" was all I said.\n\n\"Yes; I will be telling you now. And the reason why I did not tell you\nbefore was because it is not a wise or a good thing to tell ancient\nstories about the sea while still on the running wave. Macrae should\nnot have done that thing. It may be we shall suffer for it when next\nwe go out with the nets. We were to go to-night: but no, not I, no,\nno, for sure, not for all the herring in the Sound.\"\n\n\"Is it an ancient _sgeul_, Ivor?\"\n\n\"Ay. I am not for knowing the age of these things. It may be as old as\nthe days of the F\u00e9inn for all I know. It has come down to us. Alasdair\nMacAlasdair of Tiree, him that used to boast of having all the stories\nof Colum and Brighde, it was he told it to the mother of my mother,\nand she to me.\"\n\n\"What is it called?\"\n\n\"Well, this and that; but there is no harm in saying it is called the\nDark Nameless One.\"\n\n\"The Dark Nameless One!\"\n\n\"It is this way. But will you ever have been hearing of the MacOdrums\nof Uist?\"\n\n\"Ay: the Sliochd-nan-r\u00f2n.\"\n\n\"That is so. God knows. The Sliochd-nan-r\u00f2n ... the progeny of the\nSeal.... Well, well, no man knows what moves in the shadow of life.\nAnd now I will be telling you that old ancient tale, as it was given\nto me by the mother of my mother.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn a day of the days, Colum was walking alone by the sea-shore. The\nmonks were at the hoe or the spade, and some milking the kye, and some\nat the fishing. They say it was on the first day of the _Faoilleach\nGeamhraidh_, the day that is called _Am fheill Brighde_.\n\nThe holy man had wandered on to where the rocks are, opposite to Soa.\nHe was praying and praying, and it is said that whenever he prayed\naloud, the barren egg in the nest would quicken, and the blighted bud\nunfold, and the butterfly cleave its shroud.\n\nOf a sudden he came upon a great black seal, lying silent on the\nrocks, with wicked eyes.\n\n\"My blessing upon you, O R\u00f2n,\" he said with the good kind\ncourteousness that was his.\n\n\"_Droch spadadh ort_,\" answered the seal. \"A bad end to you, Colum of\nthe Gown.\"\n\n\"Sure, now,\" said Colum angrily, \"I am knowing by that curse that you\nare no friend of Christ, but of the evil pagan faith out of the north.\nFor here I am known ever as Colum the White, or as Colum the Saint:\nand it is only the Picts and the wanton Normen who deride me because\nof the holy white robe I wear.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" replied the seal, speaking the good Gaelic as though it\nwere the tongue of the deep sea, as God knows it may be for all you,\nI, or the blind wind can say: \"Well, well, let that thing be: it's a\nwave-way here or a wave-way there. But now if it is a Druid you are,\nwhether of Fire or of Christ, be telling me where my woman is, and\nwhere my little daughter.\"\n\nAt this, Colum looked at him for a long while. Then he knew.\n\n\"It is a man you were once, O R\u00f2n?\"\n\n\"Maybe ay and maybe no.\"\n\n\"And with that thick Gaelic that you have, it will be out of the north\nIsles you come?\"\n\n\"That is a true thing.\"\n\n\"Now I am for knowing at last who and what you are. You are one of the\nrace of Odrum the Pagan.\"\n\n\"Well, I am not denying it, Colum. And what is more, I am Angus\nMacOdrum, Aonghas mac Torcall mhic Odrum, and the name I am known by\nis Black Angus.\"\n\n\"A fitting name too,\" said Colum the Holy, \"because of the black sin\nin your heart, and the black end God has in store for you.\"\n\nAt that Black Angus laughed.\n\n\"Why is there laughter upon you, Man-Seal?\"\n\n\"Well, it is because of the good company I'll be having. But, now,\ngive me the word: are you for having seen or heard aught of a woman\ncalled Kirsteen McVurich?\"\n\n\"Kirsteen--Kirsteen--that is the good name of a nun it is, and no\nsea-wanton!\"\n\n\"Oh, a name here or a name there is soft sand. And so you cannot be\nfor telling me where my woman is?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then a stake for your belly, and the nails through your hands, thirst\non your tongue, and the corbies at your eyne!\"\n\nAnd, with that, Black Angus louped into the green water, and the\nhoarse wild laugh of him sprang into the air and fell dead against the\ncliff like a wind-spent mew.\n\nColum went slowly back to the brethren, brooding deep. \"God is good,\"\nhe said in a low voice, again and again; and each time that he spoke\nthere came a fair sweet daisy into the grass, or a yellow bird rose\nup, with song to it for the first time, wonderful and sweet to hear.\n\nAs he drew near to the House of God, he met Murtagh, an old monk of\nthe ancient old race of the isles.\n\n\"Who is Kirsteen McVurich, Murtagh?\" he asked.\n\n\"She was a good servant of Christ, she was, in the south isles, O\nColum, till Black Angus won her to the sea.\"\n\n\"And when was that?\"\n\n\"Nigh upon a thousand years ago.\"\n\nAt that, Colum stared in amaze. But Murtagh was a man of truth, nor\ndid he speak in allegories. \"Ay, Colum my father, nigh upon a thousand\nyears ago.\"\n\n\"But can mortal sin live as long as that?\"\n\n\"Ay, it endureth. Long, long ago, before Ois\u00ecn sang, before Fionn,\nbefore Cuchullin was a glorious great prince, and in the days when\nthe Tuatha De Danann were sole lords in all green Banba, Black Angus\nmade the woman Kirsteen McVurich leave the place of prayer and go down\nto the sea-shore, and there he leaped upon her, and made her his prey,\nand she followed him into the sea.\"\n\n\"And is death above her now?\"\n\n\"No. She is the woman that weaves the sea-spells at the wild place out\nyonder that is known as Earraid: she that is called _an-Cailleach-uisge_,\nthe sea-witch.\"\n\n\"Then why was Black Angus for the seeking her here and the seeking her\nthere?\"\n\n\"It is the Doom. It is Adam's first wife she is, that sea-witch over\nthere, where the foam is ever in the sharp fangs of the rocks.\"\n\n\"And who will he be?\"\n\n\"His body is the body of Angus the son of Torcall of the race of\nOdrum, for all that a seal he is to the seeming; but the soul of him\nis Judas.\"\n\n\"Black Judas, Murtagh?\"\n\n\"Ay, Black Judas, Colum.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut with that, Ivor McLean rose abruptly from before the fire, saying\nthat he would speak no more that night. And truly enough there was a\nwild, lone, desolate cry in the wind, and a slapping of the waves one\nupon the other with an eerie laughing sound, and the screaming of a\nsea-mew that was like a human thing.\n\nSo I touched the shawl of his mother, who looked up with startled eyes\nand said, \"God be with us;\" and then I opened the door, and the salt\nsmell of the wrack was in my nostrils, and the great drowning\nblackness of the night.\n\n\n\n\nTHE THREE MARVELS OF HY\n\n    _I. THE FESTIVAL OF THE BIRDS._\n\n   _II. THE SABBATH OF THE FISHES AND THE FLIES._\n\n  _III. THE MOON-CHILD._\n\n\nI\n\nTHE FESTIVAL OF THE BIRDS\n\nBefore dawn, on the morning of the hundredth Sabbath after Colum the\nWhite had made glory to God in Hy, that was theretofore called Ioua\nand thereafter I-shona and is now Iona, the Saint beheld his own Sleep\nin a vision.\n\nMuch fasting and long pondering over the missals, with their golden\nand azure and sea-green initials and earth-brown branching letters,\nhad made Colum weary. He had brooded much of late upon the mystery of\nthe living world that was not man's world.\n\nOn the eve of that hundredth Sabbath, which was to be a holy festival\nin Iona, he had talked long with an ancient graybeard out of a remote\nisle in the north, the wild Isle of the Mountains where Scathach the\nQueen hanged the men of Lochlin by their yellow hair.\n\nThis man's name was Ardan, and he was of the ancient people. He had\ncome to Hy because of two things. Maolm\u00f2r, the King of the northern\nPicts, had sent him to learn of Colum what was this god-teaching he\nhad brought out of Eir\u00e9: and for himself he had come, with his age\nupon him, to see what manner of man this Colum was, who had made Ioua,\nthat was \"Innis-nan-Dhruidhneach\"--the Isle of the Druids--into a\nplace of new worship.\n\nFor three hours Ardan and Colum had walked by the sea-shore. Each\nlearned of the other. Ardan bowed his head before the wisdom. Colum\nknew in his heart that the Druid saw mysteries. In the first hour they\ntalked of God. Colum spake, and Ardan smiled in his shadowy eyes. \"It\nis for the knowing,\" he said, when Colum ceased.\n\n\"Ay, sure,\" said the Saint: \"and now, O Ardan the wise, is my God thy\nGod?\"\n\nBut at that Ardan smiled not. He turned the grave, sad eyes of him to\nthe west. With his right hand he pointed to the Sun that was like a\ngreat golden flower. \"Truly, He is thy God and my God.\" Colum was\nsilent. Then he said: \"Thee and thine, O Ardan, from Maolm\u00f2r the\nPictish king to the least of thy slaves, shall have a long weariness\nin Hell. That fiery globe yonder is but the Lamp of the World: and sad\nis the case of the man who knows not the torch from the torch-bearer.\"\n\nAnd in the second hour they talked of Man. Ardan spake, and Colum\nsmiled in his deep, gray eyes.\n\n\"It is for laughter that,\" he said, when Ardan ceased.\n\n\"And why will that be, O Colum of Eir\u00e9?\" said Ardan. Then the smile\nwent out of Colum's gray eyes, and he turned and looked about him.\n\nHe beheld, near, a crow, a horse, and a hound.\n\n\"These are thy brethren,\" he said scornfully.\n\nBut Ardan answered quietly, \"Even so.\"\n\nThe third hour they talked about the beasts of the earth and the fowls\nof the air.\n\nAt the last Ardan said: \"The ancient wisdom hath it that these are the\nsouls of men and women, that have been, or are to be.\"\n\nWhereat Colum answered: \"The new wisdom, that is old as eternity,\ndeclareth that God created all things in love. Therefore are we at\none, O Ardan, though we sail to the Isle of Truth from the West and\nthe East. Let there be peace between us.\"\n\n\"Peace,\" said Ardan.\n\nThat eve, Ardan of the Picts sat with the monks of Iona. Colum blessed\nhim and said a saying. Oran of the Songs sang a hymn of beauty. Ardan\nrose, and put the wine of guests to his lips, and chanted this rune:\n\n    O Colum and monks of Christ,\n    It is peace we are having this night:\n    Sure, peace is a good thing,\n    And I am glad with the gladness.\n\n    We worship one God,\n    Though ye call him D\u00e8--\n    And I say not, _O Dia!_\n    But cry _Bea'uil!_\n\n    For it is one faith for man,\n    And one for the living world,\n    And no man is wiser than another--\n    And none knoweth much.\n\n    None knoweth a better thing than this:\n    The Sword, Love, Song, Honour, Sleep.\n    None knoweth a surer thing than this:\n    Birth, Sorrow, Pain, Weariness, Death.\n\n    Sure, peace is a good thing;\n    Let us be glad of Peace:\n    We are not men of the Sword,\n    But of the Rune and the Wisdom.\n\n    I have learned a truth of Colum,\n    He hath learned of me:\n    All ye on the morrow shall see\n    A wonder of the wonders.\n\n    The thought is on you, that the Cross\n    Is known only of you:\n    Lo, I tell you the birds know it\n    That are marked with the Sorrow.\n\n    Listen to the Birds of Sorrow,\n    They shall tell you a great Joy:\n    It is Peace you will be having,\n    With the Birds.\n\nNo more would Ardan say after that, though all besought him.\n\nMany pondered long that night. Oran made a song of mystery. Colum\nbrooded through the dark; but before dawn he slept upon the fern that\nstrewed his cell. At dawn, with waking eyes, and weary, he saw his\nSleep in a vision.\n\nIt stood gray and wan beside him.\n\n\"What art thou, O Spirit?\" he said.\n\n\"I am thy Sleep, Colum.\"\n\n\"And is it peace?\"\n\n\"It is peace.\"\n\n\"What wouldest thou?\"\n\n\"I have wisdom. Thy heart and thy brain were closed. I could not give\nyou what I brought. I brought wisdom.\"\n\n\"Give it.\"\n\n\"Behold!\"\n\nAnd Colum, sitting upon the strewed fern that was his bed, rubbed his\neyes that were heavy with weariness and fasting and long prayer. He\ncould not see his Sleep now. It was gone, as smoke that is licked up\nby the wind.\n\nBut on the ledge of the hole that was in the eastern wall of his cell\nhe saw a bird. He leaned his elbow upon the leabhar-aifrionn that was\nby his side.[3] Then he spoke.\n\n    [3] The \"leabhar-aifrionn\" (pron. lyo-ur-eff-runn) is a missal:\n    literally a mass-book, or chapel-book. Bru-dhearg is literally\n    red-breast.\n\n\"Is there song upon thee, O Bru-dhearg?\"\n\nThen the Redbreast sang, and the singing was so sweet that tears came\ninto the eyes of Colum, and he thought the sunlight that was\nstreaming from the east was melted into that lilting sweet song. It\nwas a hymn that the Bru-dhearg sang, and it was this:\n\n    Holy, Holy, Holy,\n      Christ upon the Cross;\n    My little nest was near,\n      Hidden in the moss.\n\n    Holy, Holy, Holy,\n      Christ was pale and wan:\n    His eyes beheld me singing\n      _Bron, Bron, mo Bron_![4]\n\n    Holy, Holy, Holy,\n      \"Come near, O wee brown bird!\"\n    Christ spake: and low I lighted\n      Upon the Living World.\n\n    Holy, Holy, Holy,\n      I heard the mocking scorn!\n    But _Holy, Holy, Holy_,\n      I sang against a thorn!\n\n    Holy, Holy, Holy,\n      Ah, his brow was bloody;\n    Holy, Holy, Holy,\n      All my breast was ruddy.\n\n    Holy, Holy, Holy,\n      Christ's-Bird shalt thou be:\n    Thus said Mary Virgin\n      There on Calvary.\n\n    Holy, Holy, Holy,\n      A wee brown bird am I:\n    But my breast is ruddy\n      For I saw Christ die.\n\n    Holy, Holy, Holy,\n      By this ruddy feather,\n    Colum, call thy monks, and\n      All the birds together.\n\n    [4] \"O my Grief, my Grief!\"\n\nAnd at that Colum rose. Awe was upon him, and joy.\n\nHe went out, and told all to the monks. Then he said Mass out on the\ngreen sward. The yellow sunshine was warm upon his gray hair. The love\nof God was warm in his heart.\n\n\"Come, all ye birds!\" he cried.\n\nAnd lo, all the birds of the air flew nigh. The golden eagle soared\nfrom the Cuchullins in far-off Skye, and the osprey from the wild\nlochs of Mull; the gannet from above the clouds, and the fulmar and\npetrel from the green wave: the cormorant and the skua from the weedy\nrock, and the plover and the kestrel from the machar: the corbie and\nthe raven from the moor, and the snipe and the bittern and the heron:\nthe cuckoo and cushat from the woodland; the crane from the swamps,\nthe lark from the sky, and the mavis and the merle from the green\nbushes: the yellowyite, the shilfa, and the lintie, the gyalvonn and\nthe wren and the redbreast, one and all, every creature of the wings,\nthey came at the bidding.\n\n\"Peace!\" cried Colum.\n\n\"Peace!\" cried all the Birds, and even the Eagle, the Kestrel, the\nCorbie, and the Raven cried _Peace, Peace!_\n\n\"I will say the Mass,\" said Colum the White.\n\nAnd with that he said the Mass. And he blessed the birds. When the\nlast chant was sung, only Bru-dhearg remained.\n\n\"Come, O Ruddy-Breast,\" said Colum, \"and sing to us of the Christ.\"\n\nThrough a golden hour thereafter the Redbreast sang. Sweet was the joy\nof it.\n\nAt the end, Colum said \"Peace! In the Name of the Father, the Son, and\nthe Holy Ghost.\"\n\nThereat Ardan the Pict bowed his head, and in a loud voice\nrepeated--\"_S\u00ecth_ (shee)! _An ainm an Athar, 's an mhic, 's an\nSpioraid Naoimh!_\"\n\nAnd to this day the song of the Birds of Colum, as they are called in\nHy, is _S\u00ecth--S\u00ecth--S\u00ecth--an--ainm--Chriosd_--\"Peace--Peace--Peace--in\nthe name of Christ!\"\n\n\nII\n\nTHE SABBATH OF THE FISHES AND THE FLIES\n\nFor three days Colum had fasted, save for a mouthful of meal at dawn,\na piece of rye-bread at noon, and a mouthful of dulse and spring-water\nat sundown. On the night of the third day, Oran and Keir came to him\nin his cell. Colum was on his knees, lost in prayer. There was no\nsound there, save the faint whispered muttering of his lips, and on\nthe plastered wall the weary buzzing of a fly.\n\n\"Master!\" said Oran in a low voice, soft with pity and awe, \"Master!\"\n\nBut Colum took no notice. His lips still moved, and the tangled hairs\nbelow his nether lip shivered with his failing breath.\n\n\"Father!\" said Keir, tender as a woman, \"Father!\"\n\nColum did not turn his eyes from the wall. The fly droned his drowsy\nhum upon the rough plaster. It crawled wearily for a space, then\nstopped. The slow hot drone filled the cell.\n\n\"Master,\" said Oran, \"it is the will of the brethren that you break\nyour fast. You are old, and God has your glory. Give us peace.\"\n\n\"Father,\" urged Keir, seeing that Colum kneeled unnoticingly, his lips\nstill moving above his black beard, with the white hair of him falling\nabout his head like a snowdrift slipping from a boulder. \"Father, be\npitiful! We hunger and thirst for your presence. We can fast no\nlonger, yet have we no heart to break our fast if you are not with us.\nCome, holy one, and be of our company, and eat of the good broiled\nfish that awaiteth us. We perish for the benediction of thine eyes.\"\n\nThen it was that Colum rose, and walked slowly towards the wall.\n\n\"Little black beast,\" he said to the fly that droned its drowsy hum\nand moved not at all; \"little black beast, sure it is well I am\nknowing what you are. You are thinking you are going to get my\nblessing, you that have come out of hell for the soul of me!\"\n\nAt that the fly flew heavily from the wall, and slowly circled round\nand round the head of Colum the White.\n\n\"What think you of that, brother Oran, brother Keir?\" he asked in a\nlow voice, hoarse because of his long fast and the weariness that was\nupon him.\n\n\"It is a fiend,\" said Oran.\n\n\"It is an angel,\" said Keir.\n\nThereupon the fly settled upon the wall again, and again droned his\ndrowsy hot hum.\n\n\"Little black beast,\" said Colum, with the frown coming down into his\neyes, \"is it for peace you are here, or for sin? Answer, I conjure you\nin the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!\"\n\n\"_An ainm an Athar, 's an Mhic, 's an Spioraid Naoimh_,\" repeated Oran\nbelow his breath.\n\n\"_An ainm an Athar, 's an Mhic, 's an Spioraid Naoimh_,\" repeated Keir\nbelow his breath.\n\nThen the fly that was upon the wall flew up to the roof and circled\nto and fro. And it sang a beautiful song, and its song was this:\n\n    I\n\n    Praise be to God, and a blessing too at that, and a blessing!\n    For Colum the White, Colum the Dove, hath worshipped;\n    Yea, he hath worshipped and made of a desert a garden,\n    And out of the dung of men's souls hath made a sweet savour of\n        burning.\n\n    II\n\n    A savour of burning, most sweet, a fire for the altar,\n    This he hath made in the desert; the hell-saved all gladden.\n    Sure he hath put his benison, too, on milch-cow and bullock,\n    On the fowls of the air, and the man-eyed seals, and the otter.\n\n    III\n\n    But where in his D\u00fbn in the great blue mainland of Heaven\n    God the All-Father broodeth, where the harpers are harping his\n        glory;\n    There where He sitteth, where a river of ale poureth ever,\n    His great sword broken, His spear in the dust, He broodeth.\n\n    IV\n\n    And this is the thought that moves in his brain, as a cloud filled\n        with thunder\n    Moves through the vast hollow sky filled with the dust of the stars:\n    _What boots it the glory of Colum, since he maketh a Sabbath to\n        bless me,\n    And hath no thought of my sons in the deeps of the air and the sea?_\n\nAnd with that the fly passed from their vision. In the cell was a most\nwondrous sweet song, like the sound of far-off pipes over water.\n\nOran said in a low voice of awe, \"O our God!\"\n\nKeir whispered, white with fear, \"O God, my God!\"\n\nBut Colum rose, and took a scourge from where it hung on the wall. \"It\nshall be for peace, Oran,\" he said, with a grim smile flitting like a\nbird above the nest of his black beard; \"it shall be for peace, Keir!\"\n\nAnd with that he laid the scourge heavily upon the bent backs of Keir\nand Oran, nor stayed his hand, nor let his three days' fast weaken the\ndeep piety that was in the might of his arm, and because of the glory\nto God.\n\nThen, when he was weary, peace came into his heart, and he sighed\n\"_Amen!_\"\n\n\"Amen!\" said Oran the monk.\n\n\"Amen!\" said Keir the monk.\n\n\"And this thing hath been done,\" said Colum, \"because of the evil wish\nof you and the brethren, that I should break my fast, and eat of fish,\ntill God willeth it. And lo, I have learned a mystery. Ye shall all\nwitness to it on the morrow, which is the Sabbath.\"\n\nThat night the monks wondered much. Only Oran and Keir cursed the\nfishes in the deeps of the sea and the flies in the deeps of the air.\n\nOn the morrow, when the sun was yellow on the brown sea-weed, and\nthere was peace on the isle and upon the waters, Colum and the\nbrotherhood went slowly towards the sea.\n\nAt the meadows that are close to the sea, the Saint stood still. All\nbowed their heads.\n\n\"O winged things of the air,\" cried Colum, \"draw near!\"\n\nWith that the air was full of the hum of innumerous flies, midges,\nbees, wasps, moths, and all winged insects. These settled upon the\nmonks, who moved not, but praised God in silence. \"Glory and praise to\nGod,\" cried Colum, \"behold the Sabbath of the children of God that\ninhabit the deeps of the air! Blessing and peace be upon them.\"\n\n\"Peace! Peace!\" cried the monks, with one voice.\n\n\"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!\" cried Colum\nthe White, glad because of the glory to God.\n\n\"_An ainm an Athar, 's an Mhic, 's an Spioraid Naoimh_,\" cried the\nmonks, bowing reverently, and Oran and Keir deepest of all, because\nthey saw the fly that was of Colum's cell leading the whole host, as\nthough it were their captain, and singing to them a marvellous sweet\nsong.\n\nOran and Keir testified to this thing, and all were full of awe and\nwonder, and Colum praised God.\n\nThen the Saints and the brotherhood moved onward and went upon the\nrocks. When all stood ankle-deep in the sea-weed that was swaying in\nthe tide, Colum cried:\n\n\"O finny creatures of the deep, draw near!\"\n\nAnd with that the whole sea shimmered as with silver and gold.\n\nAll the fishes of the sea, and the great eels, and the lobsters and\nthe crabs, came in a swift and terrible procession. Great was the\nglory.\n\nThen Colum cried, \"O fishes of the Deep, who is your king?\"\n\nWhereupon the herring, the mackerel, and the dog-fish swam forward,\nand each claimed to be king. But the echo that ran from wave to wave\nsaid, _The Herring is King_.\n\nThen Colum said to the mackerel: \"Sing the song that is upon you!\"\n\nAnd the mackerel sang the song of the wild rovers of the sea, and the\nlust of pleasure.\n\nThen Colum said, \"But for God's mercy, I would curse you, O false\nfish.\"\n\nThen he spake likewise to the dog-fish: and the dog-fish sang of\nslaughter and the chase, and the joy of blood.\n\nAnd Colum said: \"Hell shall be your portion.\"\n\nAnd there was peace. And the Herring said:\n\n\"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!\"\n\nWhereat all that mighty multitude, ere they sank into the deep, waved\ntheir fins and their claws, each after his kind, and repeated as with\none voice:\n\n\"_An ainm an Athar, 's an Mhic, 's an Spioraid Naoimh!_\"\n\nAnd the glory that was upon the Sound of Iona was as though God\ntrailed a starry net upon the waters, with a shining star in every\nlittle hollow, and a flowing moon of gold on every wave.\n\nThen Colum the White put out both his arms, and blessed the children\nof God that are in the deeps of the sea and that are in the deeps of\nthe air.\n\nThat is how Sabbath came upon all living things upon Hy that is called\nIona, and within the air above Hy, and within the sea that is around\nHy.\n\nAnd the glory is Colum's.\n\n\nIII\n\nTHE MOON-CHILD\n\nA year and a day before God bade Colum arise to the Feast of Eternity,\nP\u00f2l the Freckled, the youngest of the brethren, came to him, on a\nnight of the nights.\n\n\"The moon is among the stars, O Colum. By his own will, and yours, old\nMurtagh that is this day with God, is to be laid in the deep dry sand\nat the east end of the isle.\"\n\nSo the holy Saint rose from his bed of weariness, and went and blessed\nthe place that Murtagh lay in, and bade neither the creeping worm nor\nany other creature to touch the sacred dead. \"Let God only,\" he said,\n\"let God alone strip that which he made to grow.\"\n\nBut on his way back sleep passed from him. The sweet salt smell of the\nsea was in his nostrils; he heard the running of a wave in all his\nblood.\n\nAt the cells he turned, and bade the brethren go in. \"Peace be with\nyou,\" he sighed wearily.\n\nThen he moved downwards to the sea.\n\nA great tenderness, of late, was upon Colum the Bishop. Ever since he\nhad blessed the fishes and the flies, the least of the children of\nGod, his soul had glowed in a whiter flame. There were deep seas of\ncompassion in his gray-blue eyes. One night he had waked, because God\nwas there.\n\n\"O Christ,\" he cried, bowing low his old gray head. \"Sure, ah sure,\nthe gladness and the joy, because of the hour of the hours.\"\n\nBut God said: \"Not so, Colum, who keepest me upon the Cross. It is\nMurtagh, Murtagh the druid that was, whose soul I am taking to the\nglory.\"\n\nWith that Colum rose in awe and great grief. There was no light in his\ncell. In the deep darkness, his spirit quailed. But lo, the beauty of\nhis heart wrought a soft gleam about him, and in that moonshine of\ngood deeds he rose and made his way to where Murtagh slept.\n\nThe old monk slept indeed. It was a sweet breath he drew--he, young\nand fair now, and laughing with peace under the apples in Paradise.\n\n\"O Murtagh,\" Colum cried, \"and thee I thought the least of the\nbrethren, because that thou wast a druid, and loved not to see thy\npagan kindred put to the sword if they would not repent. But, true, in\nmy years I am becoming as a boy who learns, knowing nothing. God wash\nthe sin of pride out of my life!\"\n\nAt that a soft white shining, as of one winged and beautiful, stood\nbeside the dead.\n\n\"Art thou Murtagh?\" whispered Colum, in deep awe.\n\n\"No, I am not Murtagh,\" came as the breath of vanishing song.\n\n\"What art thou?\"\n\n\"I am Peace,\" said the glory.\n\nThereupon Colum sank to his knees, sobbing with joy, for the sorrow\nthat had been and was no more.\n\n\"Tell me, O White Peace,\" he murmured, \"can Murtagh hearken there\nunder the apples, where God is?\"\n\n\"God's love is a wind that blows hitherward and hence. Speak, and\nthou shalt hear.\"\n\nColum spake. \"O Murtagh my brother, tell me in what way it is that I\nstill keep God crucified upon the Cross.\"\n\nThere was a sound in the cell as of the morning-laughter of children,\nof the singing of birds, of the sunlight streaming through the blue\nfields of Heaven.\n\nThen Murtagh's voice came out of Paradise, sweet with the sweetness:\nhoney-sweet it was, and clothed with deep awe because of the glory.\n\n\"Colum, servant of Christ, arise!\"\n\nColum rose, and was as a leaf there, a leaf that is in the wind.\n\n\"Colum, thine hour has not yet come. I see it, bathing in the white\nlight which is the Pool of Eternal Life, that is in the abyss where\ndeep-rooted are the Gates of Heaven.\"\n\n\"And my sin, O Murtagh, my sin?\"\n\n\"God is weary because thou hast not repented.\"\n\n\"O my God and my God! Sure, Murtagh, if that is so, it is so, but it\nis not for knowledge to me. Sure, O God, it is a blessing I have put\non man and woman, on beast and bird and fish, on creeping things and\nflying things, on the green grass and the brown earth and the flowing\nwave, on the wind that cometh and goeth, and on the mystery of the\nflame! Sure, O God, I have sorrowed for all my sins: there is not one\nI have not fasted and prayed for. Sorrow upon me!--Is it accursed I\nam, or what is the evil that holdeth me by the hand?\"\n\nThen Murtagh, calling through sweet dreams and the rainbow-rain of\nhappy tears that make that place so wondrous and so fair, spake once\nmore:\n\n\"O Colum, blind art thou. Hast thou yet repented because that after\nthou didst capture the great black seal, that is a man under spells,\nthou, with thy monks, didst crucify him upon the great rock at the\nplace where, long ago, thy coracle came ashore?\"\n\n\"O Murtagh, favoured of God, will you not be explaining to Him that is\nKing of the Elements, that this was because the seal who was called\nBlack Angus wrought evil upon a mortal woman, and that of the sea-seed\nwas sprung one who had no soul?\"\n\nBut no answer came to that, and when Colum looked about him, behold\nthere was no soft shining, but only the body of Murtagh the old monk.\nWith a heavy heart, and his soul like a sinking boat in a sea of pain,\nhe turned and went out into the night.\n\nA fine, wonderful night it was. The moon lay low above the sea, and\nall the flowing gold and flashing silver of the rippling running water\nseemed to be a flood going that way and falling into the shining\nhollow splendour.\n\nThrough the sea-weed the old Saint moved, weary and sad. When he came\nto a sandy place he stopped. There, on a rock, he saw a little child.\nNaked she was, though clad with soft white moonlight. In her hair were\nbrown weeds of the sea, gleaming golden because of the glow. In her\nhands was a great shell, and at that shell was her mouth. And she was\nsinging this song; passing sweet to hear, it was, with the sea-music\nthat was in it:\n\n    A little lonely child am I\n      That have not any soul:\n    God made me but a homeless wave,\n      Without a goal.\n\n    A seal my father was, a seal\n      That once was man:\n    My mother loved him tho' he was\n      'Neath mortal ban.\n\n    He took a wave and drown\u00e8d her,\n      She took a wave and lifted him:\n    And I was born where shadows are\n      I' the sea-depths dim.\n\n    All through the sunny blue-sweet hours\n      I swim and glide in waters green;\n    Never by day the mournful shores\n      By me are seen.\n\n    But when the gloom is on the wave\n      A shell unto the shore I bring:\n    And then upon the rocks I sit\n      And plaintive sing.\n\n    O what is this wild song I sing,\n      With meanings strange and dim?\n    No soul am I, a wave am I,\n      And sing the Moon-Child's hymn.\n\nSoftly Colum drew nigh.\n\n\"Peace,\" he said. \"Peace, little one. Ah, tender little heart, peace!\"\n\nThe child looked at him with wide sea-dusky eyes.\n\n\"Is it Colum the Holy you will be?\"\n\n\"No, my fawn, my white dear babe: it is not Colum the Holy I am, but\nColum the poor fool that knew not God!\"\n\n\"Is it you, O Colum, that put the sorrow on my mother, who is the\nSea-woman that lives in the whirlpool over there?\"\n\n\"Ay, God forgive me!\"\n\n\"Is it you, O Colum, that crucified the seal that was my father: him\nthat was a man once, and that was called Black Angus?\"\n\n\"Ay, God forgive me!\"\n\n\"Is it you, O Colum, that bade the children of Hy run away from me,\nbecause I was a moon-child, and might win them by the sea-spell into\nthe green wave?\"\n\n\"Ay, God forgive me!\"\n\n\"Sure, dear Colum, it was to the glory of God, it was?\"\n\n\"Ay, he knoweth it, and can hear it, too, from Murtagh, who died this\nnight.\"\n\n\"Look!\"\n\nAnd at that Colum looked, and in a moon-gold wave he saw Black Angus,\nthe seal-man, drifting dark, and the eyes in his round head were the\neyes of love. And beside the man-seal swam a woman fair to see, and\nshe looked at him with joy, and with joy at the Moon-Child that was\nher own, and at Colum with joy.\n\nThereupon Colum fell upon his knees and cried,--\n\n\"Give me thy sorrow, wild woman of the sea!\"\n\n\"Peace to you, Colum,\" she answered, and sank into the shadow-thridden\nwave.\n\n\"Give me thy death and crucifixion, O Angus-dhu!\" cried the Saint,\nshaking with the sorrow.\n\n\"Peace to you, Colum,\" answered the man-seal, and sank into the dusky\nquietudes of the deep.\n\n\"Ah, bitter heart o' me! Teach me the way to God, O little child,\"\ncried Colum the old, turning to where the Moon-Child was!\n\nBut lo, the glory and the wonder!\n\nIt was a little naked child that looked at him with healing eyes, but\nthere were no seaweeds in her hair, and no shell in the little wee\nhands of her. For now, it was a male Child that was there, shining\nwith a light from within: and in his fair sunny hair was a shadowy\ncrown of thorns, and in his hand was a pearl of great price.\n\n\"O Christ, my God,\" said Colum, with failing voice.\n\n\"It is thine now, O Colum,\" said the Moon-Child, holding out to him\nthe shining pearl of great price.\n\n\"What is it, O Lord my God?\" whispered the old servant of God that was\nnow glad with the gladness: \"what is this, thy boon?\"\n\n\"Perfect Peace.\"\n\n          _And that is all._\n    (_To God be the Glory. Amen._)\n\n\n\n\nTHE ANNIR-CHOILLE\n\n\nWhen Cathal mac Art, that was called Cathal Gille-Muire, Cathal the\nServant of Mary, walked by the sea, one night of the nights in a green\nMay, there was trouble in his heart.\n\nIt was not long since he had left Iona. The good St. Colum, in sending\nthe youth to the Isle of \u00c2-rinn, as it was then called, gave him a\nwriting for St. Molios, the holy man who lived in the sea-cave of the\nsmall Isle of the Peak, that is in the eastward hollow at the south\nend of Arran. A sorrow it was to him to leave the fair isle in the\nwest. He had known glad years there--since, in one of the remote isles\nto the north, he had seen his father slain by a man of Lochlin, and\nhis mother carried away in a galley oared by fierce yellow-haired men.\nNo kith or kin had he but the old priest, that was the brother of his\nfather, Cathal Gille-Chriosd, Cathal the Servant of Christ.\n\nOn Iona he had learned the way of Christ. He had a white robe; and\ncould, with a shaven stick and a thin tuft of seal-fur, or with the\nfeather-quill of a wild swan or a solander, write the holy words upon\nstrained lambskin or parchment, and fill the big letters, that were\nhere and there, with earth-brown and sky-blue and shining green, with\nscarlet of blood and gold of sun-warm sands. He could sing the long\nholy hymns, too, that Colum loved to hear; and it was his voice that\nhad the sweetest clear-call of any on the island. He was in the\nnineteenth year of his years when a Frankish prince, who had come to\nIona for the blessing of the Saint, wanted him to go back with him to\nthe Southlands. He promised many things because of that voice. Cathal\ndreamed often, in the hot drowsy afternoons of the month that\nfollowed, of the long white sword that would slay so well; and of the\nwhite money that might be his to buy fair apparel with, and a great\nblack stallion accoutred with trappings wrought with gold, and a bed\nof down; and of white hands, and white breasts, and the white song of\nyouth.\n\nHe had not gone with the Frankish prince, nor wished to go. But he\ndreamed often. It was on a day of dream that he lay on his back in the\nhot grass upon a dune, near where the cells of the monks were. The\nsun-glow bathed the isle in a golden haze. The strait was a shimmering\ndazzle, and the blue wavelets that made curves in the soft white sand\nseem to spill gold flakes and change them straightway into little jets\nof foam or bubbles of rainbow-spray. Cathal had made a song for his\ndelight. His pain was less when he had made it. Now, lying there, and\ndreaming at times of the words of the Frankish prince, and remembering\nat times the stranger words of the old pagan helot, Neis, who had come\nwith him out of the north, he felt fire burn in his veins, and he\nsang:\n\n    O where in the north, or where in the south, or where in the east\n        or west\n    Is she who hath the flower-white hands and the swandown breast?\n    O, if she be west, or east she be, or in the north or south,\n    A sword will leap, a horse will prance, ere I win to Honey-Mouth.\n\n    She has great eyes, like the doe on the hill, and warm and sweet\n        she is,\n    O, come to me, Honey-Mouth, bend to me, Honey-Mouth, give me thy\n        kiss!\n\n    _White Hands_ her name is, where she reigns amid the princes fair:\n    White hands she moves like swimming swans athrough her dusk-wave\n        hair:\n    White hands she puts about my heart, white hands fan up my breath:\n    White hands take out the heart of me, and grant me life or death!\n\n    White hands make better songs than hymns, white hands are young and\n        sweet:\n    O, a sword for me, O Honey-Mouth, and a war-horse fleet!\n\n    O wild sweet eyes! O glad wild eyes! O mouth, how sweet it is!\n    O, come to me, Honey-Mouth! bend to me, Honey-Mouth! give me thy\n        kiss!\n\nWhen he had ceased he saw a shadow fall upon the white sand beyond the\ndune. He looked up, and beheld Colum the Saint.\n\n\"Who taught you that song?\" said the white holy one, in a voice hard\nand stern.\n\n\"No one, O Colum.\"\n\n\"Then the Evil One is indeed here. Cathal, I promised that you would\nbe having a holy name soon, but that name I will not be giving you\nnow. You must come to me in sackcloth and with dust upon your head,\nwith pain upon you, and with deep grief in your heart. Then only shall\nI bless you before the brothers and call you Cathal Gille-Mhoire,\nCathal the servant of Mary.\"\n\nA bitter, sad waiting it was for him who had fire in his young blood\nand was told to weave frost there, and to put silence upon the welling\nsong in his heart. But at the end of the week Cathal was a holy monk\nagain, and sang the hymns that Colum had taught him.\n\nIt was on the eve of the day when Colum blessed him before the\nbrethren, and called him Gille-Muire, that he walked alone, brooding\nupon the evil of women and the curse they brought, and praying to Mary\nto save him from the sins of which he scarce knew the meaning. On his\nway back to his cell he passed old Neis, the helot, who said to him\nmockingly:\n\n\"It is a good thing that sorrow, Cathal mac Art,--and yet, sure, it is\ntrue that but for the hot love the slain man your father had for Foam\nthat was your mother, you would not be here to praise your God or\nserve the woman whom the arch-druid yonder says is the Mother of God.\"\n\nCathal bade the man eat silence, or it would go ill with him. But the\nwords rankled. That night in his cell he woke, with on his lips his\nown sinful words:\n\n    White hands make better songs than hymns, white hands are young and\n        sweet;\n    O, a sword for me, O Honey-Mouth, and a war-horse fleet!\n\nOn the morrow he went to Colum and told him that the Evil One would\nnot give him peace. That night the Saint bade him make ready to go\neast to the Isle of Arran--the sole isle, then, where the Pictish folk\nwould let the white robes of the Culdees go scatheless. To the holy\nMolios he was to go, him that dwelled in the sea-cave of the Isle of\nthe Peak, that men already called the Holy Isle because of the\npreaching and the miracles of Molios.\n\n\"He is a wise man,\" said Colum to himself, \"and he was a pagan\nCruithne once, and a prince at that, and he knows the sweetness of\nsin, and will keep Cathal away from the snares that are set. With\nfasting, and much peril by day and weariness by night, the blood of\nthe youth will forget the songs the Evil One has put into his mind and\nit will sing holy hymns. Great will be the glory. Cathal Gille-Muire\nwill be a holy man while he has yet his youth upon him; and he will be\na martyr to the flesh by day and by night and by night and by day,\ntill the heathen put him to death because of the faith that is his.\"\n\nThus it was that Cathal was blessed by Colum, and sent east among the\nwild Picts.\n\nIt was with joy that he served Molios. For four months he gave him all\nhe had to give. The old saint passed word to Colum that Cathal was a\nsaint and was assured of the crown of martyrdom, and lovingly he urged\nthat the youth should be sent to the Isle of Mist in the north, the\ngreat isle that was ruled by Scathach the Queen. There, at the last\nSummer-sailing, the pagans had flayed a monk alive. A fair happy end:\nand Cathal was now worthy--and withal might triumph, and might even\nconvert the heathen queen. \"She is wondrous fair to see,\" he added,\n\"and Cathal is a comely youth.\"\n\nBut Colum had answered that the young monk was to bide where he was,\nand to seek to win souls in the pagan Isle of Arran, where the Cross\nwas still feared.\n\nBut with the coming of May and golden weather, the blood of Cathal\ngrew warm. At times, even, he dreamed of the Frankish prince and the\nevil sweet words he had said.\n\nThen a day of the days came. Molios and Cathal went to a hill-d\u00fbn\nwhere the Pict chieftain lived, and converted him and all the people\nin the d\u00fbn and all in the rath that was beyond the d\u00fbn. That eve the\ndaughter of the warrior came upon Cathal walking in a solitary place,\namong the green pines beyond the rath. She was most sweet to look\nupon: tall and fair, with eyes like the sea in a cloudless noon, and\nhair like westward wheat turned back upon itself.\n\n\"What is the name men call you by, young druid?\" she said. \"I am\nArdanna, the daughter of Ecta.\"\n\n\"Your beauty is sweet to look upon, Ardanna. I am Cathal the son of\nArt the son of Aodh of the race of Alpein, from the isles of the sea.\nBut I am not a druid. I am a priest of Christ, a servant of Mary the\nMother of God, and a son of God.\"\n\nArdanna looked at him. A flush came into his face. In his eyes the\nsame light flamed that was there when the Frankish prince told him of\nthe delights of the world.\n\n\"Is it true, O Cathal, that the druids--that the priests of Christ and\nthe two other gods, the white-robed men whom we call Culdees, and of\nwhom you are one, is it true that they will have nought to do with\nwomen?\"\n\nCathal looked upon the woman no more, but on the ground at his feet.\n\n\"It is true, Ardanna.\"\n\nThe girl laughed. It was a low, sweet, mocking laugh, but it went\nalong Cathal's blood like cloud-fire along the sky. It was to him as\nthough somewhat he had not seen was revealed.\n\n\"And is it a true thing that you holy men look at women askance, and\nas snares of peril and evil?\"\n\n\"It is true, Ardanna; but not so upon those who are sisters of Christ,\nand whose eyes are upon heavenly things.\"\n\n\"But what of those who are not sisters of your god, and are only\nwomen, fair to look upon, fair to woo, fair to love?\"\n\nCathal again flushed. His eyes were still upon the ground. He made no\nanswer.\n\nArdanna laughed low.\n\n\"Cathal!\"\n\n\"Yes, fair daughter of Ecta?\"\n\n\"Is it never longing for love you are?\"\n\n\"There is but one love for us who have taken the vows of chastity.\"\n\n\"What is chastity?\"\n\nCathal raised his eyes and glanced at Ardanna. Her dark-blue eyes\nlooked at him pure and sweet, though a smile was upon her mouth. He\nsighed.\n\n\"It is the sanctity of the body, Ardanna.\"\n\n\"I do not understand,\" she said simply. \"But tell me this, poor\nCathal--\"\n\n\"Why do you call me poor Cathal?\"\n\n\"Because you have put your manhood from you--and you so young, and\nstrong, and comely--and are not a warrior, and care neither for the\nsword, nor the chase, nor the harp, nor for women.\"\n\nCathal was troubled. He looked again and again at Ardanna. The sunset\nlight was in her yellow hair, which was about her as a glory. He had\nseen the moon as wondrous pale as her beautiful face. Like lilies her\nwhite hands were. He had dreamed of that flamelight in the eyes.\n\n\"I care,\" he said.\n\nShe drew nearer, and leaned a little forward, and looked at him.\n\n\"You are good to look upon, Cathal--the comeliest youth I have ever\nseen.\"\n\nThe monk flushed. This was the devil-tongue of which Colum had warned\nhim. But how sweet the words were: like a harp that low voice. Sure,\nsweeter is a waking dream than a dream in sleep.\n\n\"I care,\" he repeated dully.\n\n\"Look, Cathal.\"\n\nSlowly he raised his eyes. As his gaze moved upward it rested on the\nwhite breast which was like sea-foam swelling out of brown sea-weed,\nfor she had a tanned fawn-skin belted and gold-claspt over the white\nrobe she wore, and that had disparted for the warm air to play upon\nher bosom.\n\nIt troubled him. He let his eyes fall again. The red was on his face.\n\n\"Cathal!\"\n\n\"Yes, Ardanna.\"\n\n\"And you will never put your kiss upon a woman's lips? Never put your\nheart upon a woman's heart? Is it of cold sea water you are made--for\neven the running water in the streams is warmed by the sun? Tell me,\nCathal, would you leave Molios the Culdee,--if--\"\n\nThe monk of Christ suddenly flashed his eyes upon the woman.\n\n\"If what, Ardanna?\" he asked abruptly: \"if what, Ardanna that is so\nwitching fair?\"\n\n\"If I loved you, Cathal? If I, the daughter of Ecta the chief, loved\nyou, and took you to be my man, and you took me to be your woman,\nwould you be content so?\"\n\nHe stared at her as one in a dream. Then suddenly all the foolish\nmadness that had been put upon him by Colum fell away. What did these\nold men, Colum and Molios, know? It is only the young who know what\nlife is. They were old, and their blood was gelid.\n\nHe put up his arms, as though in prayer. Then he smiled. Ardanna saw a\nlight in his eyes that sprang into her heart and sang a song there\nthat whirled in her ears and dazzled her eyes and made her feel as\nthough she had fallen over a great height and were still falling.\n\nCathal was no longer pale. A red flame burned in either cheek. The\nsunset-light behind him filled his hair with fire. His eyes were\nbeacons.\n\n\"Cathal, Cathal!\"\n\n\"Come, Ardanna!\"\n\nThat was all. What need to say more. She was in his arms, and her\nheart throbbing against his that leapt in his body like a wolf fallen\nin a snare.\n\nHe stooped and kissed her. She lifted her eyes, and his brain swung.\nShe kissed him, and he kissed her till she gave a low cry and gently\nthrust him back. He laughed.\n\n\"Why do you laugh, Cathal?\"\n\n\"I? It is I who laugh now. The old men put a spell upon me. I am no\nmore Cathal Gille-Muire, but Cathal mac Art. Nay, I am Cathal\nGille-Ardanna.\"\n\nWith that he plucked the branch of a rowan that grew near. He stripped\nit of its leaves, and threw them from him north, south, east, and\nwest.\n\n\"Why do you do that, Cathal-aluinn?\" Ardanna asked, looking at him\nwith eyes of love, and she like a summer morning there, because of the\nsunshine in her hair, and the wild roses on her face, and the\nhill-tarn blue of her eyes.\n\n\"These are all the hymns that Colum taught me. I give them back. I am\nknowing them no more. They are idle, foolish songs.\"\n\nThen the monk took the branch and broke it, and threw the pieces upon\nthe ground and trampled upon them.\n\n\"Why do you that, Cathal-aluinn?\" asked Ardanna, wondering at him with\nher home-call eyes.\n\n\"That is the branch of all the wisdom Colum taught me. Old Neis, the\nhelot, was wise. It is a madness, all that. See, it is gone: it is\nbeneath my feet: I am a man now.\"\n\n\"But O Cathal, Cathal! this very day of the days, Ecta, my father, has\nbecome a man of the Christ-faith, him and his; and he would do what\nMolios asked, now. And Molios would ask your death.\"\n\n\"Death is a dream.\"\n\nWith that Cathal leaned forward and kissed Ardanna upon the lips\ntwice. \"A kiss for life that,\" he said; \"and that a kiss for death.\"\n\nArdanna laughed a low laugh. \"The monk can kiss,\" she whispered: \"can\nthe monk love?\"\n\nHe put his arm about her, and they went into the dim dark greenness.\n\nThe moon rose slowly, a globe of pale golden fire which spilled\nunceasingly a yellow flame upon the suspended billows of the forest.\nStar after star emerged. Deep silence was in the woods, save for the\nstrange, passionate churring of a night-jar, where he leaned low from\na pine branch and called to his mate, whose heart throbbed a\nflight-away amid the dewy shadows.\n\nThe wind was still. The white rays of the stars wandered over the\nmoveless, over the shadowless and breathless green lawns of the\ntree-tops.\n\n\"What is that sound?\" said Ardanna, a dim shape in the darkness, where\nshe lay in the arms of Cathal.\n\n\"I know not,\" said the youth; for the fevered blood in his veins sang\na song against his ears.\n\n\"Listen!\"\n\nCathal listened. He heard nothing. His eyes dreamed again into the\nsilence.\n\n\"What is that sound?\" she whispered against his heart once again. \"It\nis not from the sea, nor is it of the woods.\"\n\n\"It is the moan of Heaven,\" answered Cathal wearily: \"_an acain\nPharais_.\"\n\n\nII\n\nThey found them there in the twilight of the dawn. For long, Ecta\nlooked at them and pondered. Then he glanced at Molios. There were\ntears in the heart of the holy man, but in his eyes a deep anger.\n\n\"Bind him,\" said Ecta.\n\nCathal woke with the thongs. His gaze fell upon Molios. He made no\nsign, and spake never a word: but he smiled.\n\n\"What now, O Molios?\" asked Ecta.\n\n\"Take the woman away. Do with her as you will--spare or slay. It\nmatters not. She is but a woman, and she hath wrought evil upon this\nman. To slay were well.\"\n\n\"She is my daughter.\"\n\n\"Spare, then, if you will; but take her away. Give her to a man. She\nshall never see this renegade again.\"\n\nWith that, two men led Ardanna away. She gave a glance at Cathal, who\nsmiled. No tears were in her eyes: but a proud fire was there, and she\nbrooked no man's hand upon her, and walked free.\n\nWhen she was gone, Molios spake.\n\n\"Cathal, that was called Cathal Gille-Muire, why have you done this\nthing?\"\n\n\"Because I was weary of vain imaginings, and I am young: and Ardanna\nis fair, and we loved.\"\n\n\"Such love is death.\"\n\n\"So be it, Molios. Such death is sweet as love.\"\n\n\"No ordinary death shalt thou have, blasphemer. Yet even now I would\nbe merciful if I could. Dost thou call upon God?\"\n\n\"I call upon the gods of my fathers.\"\n\n\"Fool, they shall not save you.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless, I call. I have nought to do with thy three gods, O\nChristian.\"\n\n\"Hast thou no fear of hell?\"\n\n\"I am a warrior, and the son of my father, and of a race of heroes.\nWhy should I fear?\"\n\nMolios brooded a while.\n\n\"Take him,\" he said at last, \"and bury him alive where his gods\nperchance will hear his cries and come and save him! Find me a hollow\ntree.\"\n\n\"There is a great oak near here,\" said Ecta, wondering, \"a great\nhollow oak whose belly would hold five men, each standing upon the\nother.\"\n\nWith that he led them to an ancient tree.\n\n\"Dost thou repent, Cathal?\" Molios asked.\n\n\"Ay,\" the young man answered grimly; \"I repent. I repent that I wasted\nthe good days serving you and your three false gods.\"\n\n\"Blaspheme no more. Thou knowest that these three are one God.\"\n\nCathal laughed mockingly.\n\n\"Hearken to him, Ecta,\" he cried; \"this old druid would have you\nbelieve that two men and a woman make one person! Believe that if you\nwill! As for me, I laugh.\"\n\nBut with that, at a sign from Molios, they lifted and slung him amid\nthe branches of the oak, and let him slide feet foremost into the deep\nhollow heart of the tree.\n\nWhen the law was done, Molios bade all near kneel in a circle round\nthe oak. Then he prayed for the soul of the doomed man. As he ended\nthis prayer, a laugh flew up among the high wind-swayed leaves. It\nwas as though an invisible bird were there, mocking like a jay.\n\nOne by one, with bowed heads, Molios and Ecta and those with him\nwithdrew, all save two young men who were bidden to stay. Upon these\nwas bond laid, that they would not stir from that place for three\ndays. They were to let none draw nigh; and no food was to be given to\nthe victim; and if he cried to them, they were to take no heed,--nay,\nnot though he called upon God or the Mother of God or upon the White\nChrist.\n\nAll that day there was no sound from the hollow tree. At the setting\nof the sun a blackbird lit upon a small branch that drooped over the\naperture, and sang a brave lilt. Then the dark came, and the moon\nrose, and the stars glimmered through the dew.\n\nAt midnight the moon was overhead. A flood of pale gold rays lit up\nthe branches of the oak, and turned the leaves into a lustrous bronze.\nThe watchers heard a voice singing in the silence of the night--a\nvoice muffled and obscure, as from one in a pit, or as that of a\nshepherd straying in a narrow corrie. Words they caught, though not\nall; and this was what they heard:[5]\n\n    O yellow lamp of Ioua that is having a cold pale flame there,\n    Put thy honey-sheen upon me who am close-caverned with Death:\n    Sure it is nought I see now who have seen too much and too little:\n    O moon, thy breast is softer and whiter than hers who burneth the\n        day.\n\n    Put thy white light on the grave where the dead man my father is,\n                  And waken him, waken him, wake!\n    And put my soft shining on the breast of the woman my mother,\n    So that she stir in her sleep and say to the Viking beside her,\n    \"Take up thy sword, and let it lap blood, for it thirsts with long\n        thirst.\"\n\n    And O Ioua, be as the sea-calm upon the hot heart of Ardanna, the\n        girl:\n    Tell her that Cathal loves her, and that memory is sweeter than\n        life.\n    I list her heart beating here in the dark and the silence,\n    And it is not lonely I am, because of that, and remembrance.\n\n    O yellow flame of Ioua, be a spilling of blood out of the heart of\n        Ecta,\n    So that he fall dead, inglorious, slain from within, as a greybeard;\n    And light a fire in the brain of Molios, so that he shall go\n        moonstruck,\n    And men will jeer at him, and he will die at the last, idly\n        laughing.\n\n    For lo, I worship thee, Ioua; and if you can give my message to\n        Neis,--\n    Neis the helot out of Aoid\u00fb, who is in Iona, bondman to Colum,--\n    Tell him I hail you as Bandia, as god-queen and mighty,\n    And that he had the wisdom and I was a fool with trickling ears of\n        moss.\n\n    But grant me this, O goddess, a bitter moon-drinking for Colum!\n    May he have the moonsong in his brain, and in his heart the\n        moonfire:\n    Flame burn him in heart of flame, and may he wane as wax at the\n        furnace,\n    And his soul drown in tears, and his body be a nothingness upon\n        the sands!\n\n    [5] _Ioua_ was one of the early Celtic names of the moon. The\n    allusion (in the fourth line) to the sun, in the feminine, is in\n    accordance with ancient usage.\n\nThe watchers looked at each other, but said no word. On the pale face\nof each was fear and awe. What if this new god-teaching were false,\nand if Cathal was right, and the old gods were the lords of life and\ndeath? The moonlight fell upon them, and they saw doubt in the eyes of\neach other. Neither looked at the white fire. Out of the radiance,\ncold eyes might stare upon them: and at that, sure they would leap to\nthe woods, laughing wild, and be as the beasts of the forest.\n\nWhile it was still dark, an hour before the dawn, one of the twain\nawoke from a brief slumber. His gaze wandered from vague tree to tree.\nThrice he thought he saw dim shapes glide from bole to bole or from\nthicket to thicket. Suddenly he discerned a tall figure, silent as a\nshadow, standing at the verge of the glade.\n\nHis low cry aroused his companion.\n\n\"What is it, M\u00fbrta?\" the young man asked in a whisper.\n\n\"A woman.\"\n\nWhen they looked again she was gone.\n\n\"It was one of the Hidden People,\" said M\u00fbrta, with restless eyes\nroaming from dusk to dusk.\n\n\"How are you for knowing that, M\u00fbrta?\"\n\n\"She was all in green, just like a green shadow she was, and I saw the\ngreen fire in her eyes.\"\n\n\"Have you not thought of one that it might be?\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"Ardanna.\"\n\nWith that the young man rose and ran swiftly to the place where he had\nseen the figure. But he could see no one. Looking at the ground he was\ntroubled: for in the moonshine-dew he descried the imprint of small\nfeet.\n\nThereafter they saw or heard nought, save the sights and sounds of the\nwoodland.\n\nAt sunrise the two youths rose. M\u00fbrta lifted up his arms, then sank\nupon his knees with bowed head.\n\n\"Why do you do that forbidden thing?\" said Diarmid, that was his\ncompanion. \"Have you forgotten Cathal the monk that is up there alone\nwith death? If Molios the holy one saw you worshipping the Light he\nwould do unto you as he has done unto Cathal.\"\n\nBut before M\u00fbrta answered they heard the voice of Cathal once\nmore--hoarse and dry it was, but scarce weaker than when it thrilled\nthem at the rising of the moon.\n\nThis was what he chanted in his muffled voice out of his grave there\nin the hollow oak:\n\n    O hot yellow fire that streams out of the sky, sword-white and\n        golden,\n    Be a flame upon the monks who are praying in their cells in Ioua!\n    Be a fire in the veins of Colum, and the hell that he preacheth\n        be his.\n    And be a torch to the men of Lochlin that they discover the Isle\n        and destroy it!\n\n    For I see this thing, that the old gods are the gods that die not:\n    All else is a seeming, a dream, a madness, a tide ever ebbing.\n    Glory to thee, O Grian, lord of life, first of the gods, Allfather.\n    Swords and spears are thy beams, thy breath a fire that consumeth.\n\n    And upon this isle of \u00c2-rinn send sorrow and death and disaster,\n    Upon one and all save Ardanna, who gave me her bosom,\n    Upon one and all send death, the curse of a death slow and\n        swordless,\n    From Molios of the Cave to M\u00fbrta and Diarmid my doomsmen!\n\nAt that M\u00fbrta moved close to the oak.\n\n\"Hail, O Cathal!\" he cried. There was silence.\n\n\"Art thou a living man still, or is it the death of thee that is\nsinging there in the hollow oak?\"\n\n\"My limbs perish, but I die not yet,\" answered the muffled voice that\nhad greeted the sun.\n\n\"I am M\u00fbrta mac M\u00fbrta mac Neisa, and my heart is sore for thee,\nCathal!\"\n\nThere was no word to this. A thrush upon a branch overhead lifted its\nwings, sang a wild sweet note, and swooped arrowly through the green\ngloom of the leaves.\n\n\"Cathal, that wert a monk, which is the true thing? Is it Christ, or\nthe gods of our fathers?\"\n\nSilence. Three oaks away a woodpecker thrust its beak into the soft\nbark, tap-tapping, tap-tapping.\n\n\"Cathal, is it death you are having, there in the dark and the\nsilence?\"\n\nM\u00fbrta strained his ears, but he could hear no sound. Over the\nwoodlands a voice floated, drowsy-warm and breast-white--the voice of\na cuckoo calling a love-note from cool, green shadow to shadow across\na league of windless blaze.\n\nThen M\u00fbrta that was a singer, went to where the bulrushes grew by a\nlittle tarn that was in the moss an arrow-flight away. He plucked a\nlast-year reed, straight and brown, and with his knife cut seven holes\nin it. With a thinner reed he scooped the hollow clean.\n\nThereupon he returned to the oak. Diarmid, who had begun to eat of the\nfood that had been left with them, sat still, with his eyes upon him.\n\nM\u00fbrta put his hollow reed to his lips, and he played. It was a\nforlorn, sweet air that he had heard from a shepherding woman upon the\nhills. Then he played a burying-song of the islanders, wherein the\nwash of the sea and the rippling of the waves upon the shore was\nheard. Then he played the song of love, and the beating of hearts was\nheard, and sighs, and a voice like a distant bird-song rose and fell.\n\nWhen he ceased, a voice came out of the hollow oak--\n\n\"Play me a death-song, M\u00fbrta mac M\u00fbrta mac Neisa.\"\n\nM\u00fbrta smiled, and he played again the song of love.\n\nAfter that there was silence for a brief while. Then M\u00fbrta played upon\nhis reed for the time it takes a heron to mount her seventh spiral.\nThen he ceased, and threw away the reed, and stood erect, staring into\nthe greenness. In his eyes was a strange shine. He sang--\n\n    Out of the wild hills I am hearing a voice, O Cathal!\n    And I am thinking it is the voice of a bleeding sword.\n    Whose is that sword? I know it well: it is the sword of the Slayer--\n    Him that is called Death, and the song that it sings I know:--\n    _O where is Cathal mac Art, that is the cup for the thirst of my\n        lips?_\n\n    Out of the cold grayness of the sea I am hearing, O Cathal,\n    I am hearing a wave-muffled voice, as of one who drowns in the\n        depths:\n    Whose is that voice? I know it well: it is the voice of the Shadow--\n    Her that is called the Grave, and the song that she sings I know:--\n    _O where is Cathal mac Art, he has warmth for the chill that I\n        have?_\n\n    Out of the hot greenness of the wood I am hearing, O Cathal,\n    I am hearing a rustling step, as of one stumbling blind.\n    Whose is that rustling step? I know it well: the rustling walk of\n        the Blind One--\n    She that is called Silence, and the song that she sings I know:--\n    _O where is Cathal mac Art, that has tears to water my stillness?_\n\nAfter that there was silence. M\u00fbrta moved away. When he sat by Diarmid\nand ate, there was no word spoken. Diarmid did not look at him, for he\nhad sung a song of death, and the shadow was upon him. He kept his\ngaze upon the moss: if he raised his eyes might he not see the Slayer,\nor the Shadow or the Blind One?\n\nNoon came. None drew nigh: not a face was seen shadowily afar off.\nSometimes the hoofs of the deer rustled among the bracken. The\nsnarling of young foxes in an oak-root hollow was like a red pulse in\nthe heat. At times, in the sheer abyss of blue sky to the north, a\nhawk suspended: in the white-blaze southerly a blotch like swirled\nfoam appeared for a moment at long intervals, as a gannet swung from\ninvisible pinnacles of air to the invisible sea.\n\nThe afternoon drowsed through the sunflood. The green leaves grew\ngolden, saturated with light. At sundown a flight of wild doves rose\nout of the pines, wheeled against the shine of the west and flashed\nout of sight, flames of purple and rose, of foam-white and pink.\n\nThe gloaming came, silverly. The dew glistened on the fronds of the\nferns, in the cups of the moss. From glade to glade the cuckoos\ncalled. The stars emerged delicately, as the eyes of fawns shining\nthrough the greengloom of the forest. Once more the moon snowed the\neaster frondage of the pines and oaks.\n\nNo one came nigh. Not a sound had sighed from the oak since M\u00fbrta had\nsung at the goldening of the day. At sunset M\u00fbrta had risen, to lean,\nintent, against the vast bole. His keen ears caught the jar of a\nbeetle burrowing beneath the bark. There was no other sound.\n\nAt the fall of dark the watchers heard the confused far noise of a\nfestival. It waned as a lost wind. Dim veils of cloud obscured the\nmoon; a low rainy darkness suspended over the earth.\n\nThus went the second day and the second night.\n\nWhen, after the weary vigil of the hours, dawn came at last, M\u00fbrta\nrose and struck the oak with a stone.\n\n\"Cathal!\" he cried, \"Cathal!\"\n\nThere was no sound: not a stir, not a sigh.\n\n\"Cathal! Cathal!\"\n\nM\u00fbrta looked at Diarmid. Then, seeing his own thought in the eyes of\nhis friend he returned to his side.\n\n\"The Blind One has been here,\" said Diarmid in a low voice.\n\nAt noon there was thunder, and great heat. The noise of rustling\nwings filled the underwood.\n\nDiarmid fell into a deep sleep. When the thunder had travelled into\nthe hills, and a soft rain fell, M\u00fbrta climbed into the branches of\nthe oak. He stared down into the hollow, but could see nothing save a\ngreen dusk that became brown shadow, and brown shadow that grew into a\nblackness.\n\n\"_Cathal!_\" he whispered.\n\nNot a breath of sound ascended like smoke.\n\n\"Cathal! Cathal!\"\n\nThe slow drip of the rain slipped and pattered among the leaves. The\ncry of a sea-bird flying inland came mournfully across the woods. A\ndistant clang, as of a stricken anvil, iterated from the barren\nmountain beyond the forest.\n\n\"Cathal! Cathal!\"\n\nM\u00fbrta broke a straight branch, stripped it of the leaves, and, forcing\nthe thicker end downward, let it fall sheer.\n\nIt struck with a dull, soft thud. He listened: there was not a sound.\n\n\"A quiet sleep to you, monk,\" he whispered, and slipped down through\nthe boughs, and was beside Diarmid again.\n\nAt dusk the rain ceased. A cool green freshness came into the air. The\nstars were as wind-whirled fruit blown upward from the tree-tops. The\nmoon, full-orbed and with a pulse of flame, led a tide of soft light\nacross the brown shores of the world.\n\nThe vigils of the watchers were over. M\u00fbrta and Diarmid rose. Without\na word they moved across the glade: the faint rustle of their feet\nstirred the bracken: then they left the under-growth and were among\nthe pines. Their shadows lapsed into the obscure wilderness. A doe,\nheavy with fawn, lay down among the dewy fern, and was at peace there.\n\n\nIII\n\nAt midnight, when the whole isle lay in the full flood of the moon,\nCathal stirred.\n\nFor three days and three nights he had been in that dark hollow,\nerect, wedged as a spear imbedded in the jaws of a dead beast. He had\ndied thrice: with hunger, with thirst, with weariness. Then when\nhunger was slain in its own pain, and thirst perished of its own\nagony, and weariness could no more endure, he stirred with the\ndeath-throe.\n\n\"I die,\" he moaned.\n\n\"Die not, O white one,\" came a floating whisper, he knew not whence,\nthough it was to him as though the crushing walls of oak breathed the\nsound.\n\n\"I die,\" he gasped, and the froth bubbled upon his nether lip. With\nthat his last strength went. No more could he hold his head above his\nshoulder, nor would his feet sustain him. Like a stricken deer he\nsank. So thin was he, so worn, that he slipt into a narrow crevice\nwhere dead leaves had been, and lay there, drowning in the dark.\n\nWas that death, or a cold air about his feet, he wondered? With a\ndull pain he moved them: they came against no tree-wood--the coolness\nabout them was of dewy moss. A wild hope flashed into his mind. With\nfeeble hands he strove to sink farther into the crevice.\n\n\"I die,\" he gasped, \"I die now, at the last.\"\n\n\"Die not, O white one,\" breathed the same low sweet whisper, like\nleaves stirred by a nesting bird.\n\n\"Save, O save,\" muttered the monk, hoarse with the death-dew.\n\nThen a blackness came down upon him from a great height, and he swung\nin that blank gulf as a feather swirled this way and that in the void\nof an abyss.\n\nWhen the darkness lifted again, Cathal was on his back, and breathing\nslow, but without pain. A sweet wonderful coolness and ease, that he\nknew now! Where was he? he wondered. Was he in that P\u00e0ras that Colum\nand Molios had spoken of? Was he in Hy Br\u00e0sil, of which he had heard\nAodh the Harper sing? Was he in Tir-na'n-\u00d2g, where all men and women\nare young for evermore, and there is joy in the heart and peace in the\nmind and delight by day and by night?\n\nWhy was his mouth so cool, that had burned dry as ash? Why were his\nlips moist, with a bitter-sweet flavour, as though the juice of fruit\nwas there still?\n\nHe pondered, with closed eyes. At last he opened them, and stared\nupward. The profound black-blue dome of the sky held group after group\nof stars that he knew: was not that sword and belt yonder the\nsword-gear of Fionn? Yon shimmering cluster, were they not the dust of\nthe feet of Alldai? That leaping green and blue planet, what could it\nbe but the harp of Brigidh, where she sang to the gods?\n\nA shadow crossed his vision. The next moment a cool hand was upon his\neyes. It brought rest, and healing. He felt the blood move in his\nveins: his heart beat: a throbbing was in his throat.\n\nThen he knew that he had strength to rise. With a great effort he put\nhis weariness from off him, and staggered to his feet.\n\nCathal gave a low sob. A fair beautiful woman stood by him.\n\n\"Ardanna!\" he cried, though even as the word leaped from his lips he\nknew that he looked upon no Pictish woman.\n\nShe smiled. All his heart was glad because of that. The light in her\neyes was like the fire of the moon, bright and wonderful. The delicate\nbody of her was pale green, and luminous as a leaf, with soft\nearth-brown hair falling down her shoulders and over the swelling\nbreast; even as the small green mounds over the dead the two breasts\nwere. She was clad only in her own loveliness, though the moonshine\nwas about her as a garment.\n\n\"Like a green leaf, like a green leaf,\" Cathal muttered over and over\nbelow his breath.\n\n\"Are you a dream?\" he asked simply, having no words for his wonder.\n\n\"No, Cathal, I am no dream. I am a woman.\"\n\n\"A woman? But ... but ... you have no body as other women have: and I\nsee the moonbeam that is on your breast shining upon the moss behind\nyou!\"\n\n\"Is it thinking you are, poor Cathal, that there are no women and no\nmen in the world except those who are in thick flesh, and move about\nin the suntide.\"\n\nCathal stared wonderingly.\n\n\"I am of the green people, Cathal. We are of the woods. I am a woman\nof the woods.\"\n\n\"Hast thou a name, fair woman?\"\n\n\"I am called De\u00f2in.\"[6]\n\n    [6] _Deo-uaine._\n\n\"That is well. Truly 'Green Life' is a good name for thee. Are there\nothers of thy kin in this place?\"\n\n\"Look!\" and at that she stooped, lifted the dew of a white flower in\nthe moonshine, and put it upon his eyes.\n\nCathal looked about him. Everywhere he saw tall fair pale-green lives\nmoving to and fro: some passing out of trees, swift and silent as rain\nout of a cloud; some passing into trees, silent and swift as shadows.\nAll were fair to look upon: tall, lithe, graceful, moving this way and\nthat in the moonshine, pale green as the leaves of the lime, soft\nshining, with radiant eyes, and delicate earth-brown hair.\n\n\"Who are these, De\u00f2in?\" Cathal asked in a low whisper of awe.\n\n\"They are my people: the folk of the woods: the green people.\"\n\n\"But they come out of trees: they come and they go like bees in and\nout of a hive.\"\n\n\"Trees? That is your name for us of the woods. _We_ are the trees.\"\n\n\"_You_ the trees, De\u00f2in! How can that be?\"\n\n\"There is life in your body. Where does it go when the body sleeps, or\nwhen the sap rises no more to heart or brain, and there is chill in\nthe blood, and it is like frozen water? Is there a life in your body?\"\n\n\"Ay, so. I know it.\"\n\n\"The flesh is _your_ body: the tree is _my_ body.\"\n\n\"Then you are the green life of a tree?\"\n\n\"I am the green life of a tree.\"\n\n\"And these?\"\n\n\"They are as I am.\"\n\n\"I see those that are men and those that are women, and their\noffspring too I see.\"\n\n\"They are as I am.\"\n\n\"And some are crowned with pale flowers.\"\n\n\"They love.\"\n\n\"And hast thou no crown, De\u00f2in, who art so fair?\"\n\n\"Neither hast thou, Cathal, though thy face is fair. Thy body I cannot\nsee, because thou hast a husk about thee.\"\n\nWith a low laugh Cathal removed his raiment from him. The whiteness of\nhis body was like a flower there in the moonshine.\n\n\"That shall not be against me,\" he said. \"Truly I am a man no longer,\nif thee and thine will have me as one of the wood-folk.\"\n\nAt that De\u00f2in called. Many green phantoms glided out of the trees, and\nothers, hand-in-hand, flower-crowned, crossed the glade.\n\n\"Look, green lives,\" De\u00f2in cried in her sweet leaf-whisper, rising now\nlike a wind-song among birchen boughs: \"Look, here is a human. His\nlife is mine, for I saved him. I have put the moonshine dew upon his\neyes. He sees as we see. He would be one of us, for all that he has no\ntree for his body, but flesh, white over red.\"\n\nOne who had moved thitherward out of an ancient oak looked at Cathal.\n\n\"Wouldst thou be of the wood-folk, man?\"\n\n\"Ay, fain am I; for sure, for sure, O druid of the trees.\"\n\n\"Wilt thou learn and abide by our laws, the first of which is that\nnone may stir from his tree until the dusk has come, nor linger away\nfrom it when the dawn opens gray lips and drinks up the shadows?\"\n\n\"I have no law now but the law of green life.\"\n\n\"Good. Thou shalt live with us. Thy home shall be the hollow oak where\nthy kin left thee to die. Why did they do that evil deed?\"\n\n\"Because I did not believe in the new gods.\"\n\n\"Who are thy gods, man whom this green one here calls Cathal?\"\n\n\"They are the Sun, and the Moon, and the Wind, and others that I will\ntell you of.\"\n\n\"Hast thou heard of Keithoir?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"He is the god of the green world. He dreams, and his dreams are\nSpringtide and Summertide and Appletide. When he sleeps without dream\nthere is winter.\"\n\n\"Have you no other god but this earth-god?\"\n\n\"Keithoir is our god. We know no other.\"\n\n\"If he is thy god, he is my god.\"\n\n\"I see in the eyes of De\u00f2in that she loves thee, Cathal the human.\nWilt thou have her love?\"\n\nCathal looked at the girl. His heart swam in light.\n\n\"Ay, if De\u00f2in will give me her love, my love shall be hers.\"\n\nThe Annir-Choille moved forward, and brushed softly against him as a\ngreen branch.\n\nHe put his arms around her. She had a cool, sweet body to feel. He was\nglad she was no moonshine phantom. The beating of her heart against\nhis made a music that filled his ears.\n\nDe\u00f2in stooped and plucked white, dewy flowers. Of these she wove a\nwreath for Cathal. He, likewise, plucked the white blooms, and made a\ncoronal of foam for the brown wave of her hair.\n\nThen, hand in hand, they fared slowly forth across the moonlit glade.\nNone crossed their path, though everywhere delicate green lives\nflitted from tree to tree. They heard a wonderful sweet singing,\naerial, with a ripple as of leaves lipping a windy shore of light. A\ngreen glamour was in the eyes of Cathal. The green fire of life flamed\nin his veins.\n\n\nIV\n\nMolios, the saint of Christ, that lived in the sea-cave of the Isle of\nthe Peak, so that even in his own day it was called the Holy Isle,\nendured to a great age.\n\nSome say of him that before his hair was bleached white as the\nbog-cotton, he was slain by the heathen Picts, or by the fierce\nsummer-sailors out of Lochlin. But that is an idle tale. His end was\nnot thus. A Culdee, who had the soul of a bat, feared the truth,\nthough that gave glory to God, and wrote both in ogham and lambskin\nthe truthless tale that Molios went forth with the cross and was slain\nin a north isle.\n\nOn a day of the days every year, Molios fared to the Hollow Oak that\nwas in the hill-forest beyond the rath of Ecta mac Ecta. There he\nspake long upon the youth that had been his friend, and upon how the\nEvil One had prevailed with Cathal, and how the islander had been done\nto death there in the oak. Then he and all his company sang the hymns\nof peace, and great joy there was over the doom of Cathal the monk,\nand many would have cleft the great tree or burned it, so that the\ndust of the sinner might be scattered to the four winds: only this was\nbanned by Molios.\n\nIt was well for Cathal, who slept there through the hours of light!\nDeep slumber was his, for never once did he hear the noontide voices,\nnor ever in his ears was the long rise and fall of the holy hymns.\n\nBut when, in the twentieth year after Cathal had been thrust into the\nhollow oak, Molios came at sundown, being weary with the heat, the\nsaint heard a low, faint laughter issuing from the tree, like\nfragrance from a flower.\n\nNone other heard it. He saw that with gladness. Quietly he went with\nthe islanders.\n\nWhen the moon was over the pines, and all in the rath slept, Molios\narose and went silently back into the forest.\n\nWhen he came to the Doom-Tree he listened long, with his ear against\nthe bark. There was no sound.\n\nHis voice was old and quavering, but fresh and young in the courts of\nheaven, when it reached there like a fluttering bird tired from long\nflight. He sang a holy hymn.\n\nHe listened. There was no laughter. He was glad at that. All had been\na dream, for sure.\n\nThen it was that he heard once again the low, mocking laughter. He\nstarted back, trembling.\n\n\"Cathal!\" he cried, with his voice like a wuthering wind.\n\n\"I am here, O Molios,\" said a voice behind him.\n\nThe old Culdee turned, as though arrow-nipped. Before him, white in\nthe moonshine, stood a man, naked.\n\nAt first Molios knew him not. He was so tall and strong, so fair and\nwonderful. Long locks of ruddy hair hung upon his white shoulders: his\neyes were lustrous, and had the lovely, soft light of the deer. When\nhe moved, it was swiftly and silently. No stag upon the hills was more\nfair to see.\n\nThen, slowly, Cathal the monk swam into Cathal of the Woods. Molios\nsaw him whom he knew of old, as a blue flame is visible within the\nflame of yellow.\n\n\"I am here, O Molios.\"\n\nStrange was the voice: faint and far the tone of it: yet it was that\nof a living man.\n\n\"Is it a spirit you are, Cathal?\"\n\n\"I am no spirit. I am Cathal the monk that was, Cathal the man now.\"\n\n\"How came you out of hell, you that are dead, and the dust of whose\ncrumbling bones is in the hollow of this oak?\"\n\n\"There is no hell, Culdee.\"\n\n\"No hell!\" Molios the Saint stared at the wood-man in blank amaze.\n\n\"No hell!\" he said again; \"and is there no heaven?\"\n\n\"A hell there is, and a heaven there is: but not what Colum taught,\nand you taught.\"\n\n\"Doth Christ live?\"\n\n\"I know not.\"\n\n\"And Mary?\"\n\n\"I know not.\"\n\n\"And God the Father?\"\n\n\"I know not.\"\n\n\"It is a lie that you have upon your lips. Sure, Cathal, you shall be\ndead indeed soon, to the glory of God. For I shall have thy dust\nscattered to the four winds, and thy bones consumed in flame, and a\nstake be driven through the place where thou wast.\"\n\nOnce more Cathal laughed.\n\n\"Go back to the sea-cave, Molios. Thou hast much to learn. Brood there\nupon the ways of thy God before thou judgest if He knoweth no more\nthan thou dost. And see, I will show you a wonder. Only, first, tell\nme this one thing. What of Ardanna whom I loved?\"\n\n\"She was accursed. She would not believe. When Ecta took the child\nfrom her, that was born in sin, to have the water put upon it with the\nsign of the Cross, she went north beyond the Hill of the Pinnacles.\nThere she saw the young king of the Picts of Argyll, and he loved her,\nand she went to his d\u00fbn. He took her to his rath in the north, and she\nwas his queen. He, and she, and the two sons she bore to him are all\nunder the hill-moss now: and their souls are in hell.\"\n\nCathal laughed, low and mocking.\n\n\"It is a good hell that, I am thinking, Molios. But come ... I will\nshow you a wonder.\"\n\nWith that he stooped, and took the moonshine dew out of a white\nflower, and put it upon the eyes of the old man.\n\nThen Molios saw.\n\nAnd what he saw was a strangeness and a terror to him. For everywhere\nwere green lives, fair and comely, gentle-eyed, lovely, of a soft\nshining. From tree to tree they flitted, or passed to and fro from the\ntree-boles, as wild bees from their hives.\n\nBeside Cathal stood a woman. Beautiful she was, with eyes like stars\nin the gloaming. All of green flame she seemed, though the old monk\nsaw her breast rise and fall, and the light lift of her earth-brown\nhair by a wind-breath eddying there, and the hand of her clasped in\nthat of Cathal. Beyond her were fair and beautiful beings, lovely\nshapes like unto men and women, but soulless, though loving life and\nhating death, which, of a truth, is all that the vain human clan does.\n\n\"Who is this woman, Cathal?\" asked the saint, trembling.\n\n\"It is De\u00f2in, whom I love, and who has given me life.\"\n\n\"And these ... that are neither green phantoms out of trees, nor yet\nmen as we are?\"\n\n\"These are the offspring of our love.\"\n\nMolios drew back in horror.\n\nBut Cathal threw up his arms, and with glad eyes cried:\n\n    \"O green flame of life, pulse of the world.\n    O Love! O Youth! O Dream of Dreams.\"\n\n\"O bitter grief,\" Molios cried, \"O bitter grief, that I did not slay\nthee utterly on that day of the days! Flame to thy flesh, and a stake\nthrough thy belly--that is the doom thou shouldst have had! My ban\nupon thee, Cathal, that was a monk, and now art a wild man of the\nwoods: upon thee, and thy Annir-Coille, and all thy brood, I put the\nban of fear and dread and sorrow, a curse by day and a curse by\nnight!\"\n\nBut with that a great dizziness swam into the brain of the saint, and\nhe fell forward, and lay his length upon the moss, and there was no\nsight to his eyes, or hearing to his ears, or knowledge upon him at\nall until the rising of the sun.\n\nWhen the yellow light was upon his face he rose. There was no face to\nsee anywhere. Looking in the dew for the myriad feet that had been\nthere, he saw none.\n\nThe old man knelt and prayed.\n\nAt the first praying God filled his heart with peace. At the second\npraying God filled his heart with wonder. At the third praying God\nwhispered mysteriously, and he knew. Humble in his new knowledge, he\nrose. The tears were in his old eyes. He went up to the Hollow Oak,\nand blessed it, and the wild man that slept within it, and the\nAnnir-Coille that Cathal loved, and the offspring of their love. He\ntook the curse away, and he blessed all that God had made.\n\nAll the long weary way to the shore he went as one in a dream. Wonder\nand mystery were in his eyes.\n\nAt the shore he entered the little coracle that brought him daily from\nthe Holy Isle, a triple arrow-flight seaward.\n\nA child sat in it, playing with pebbles. It was Ardan, the son of\nArdanna.\n\n\"Ardan mac Cathal,\" began the saint, weary now, but glad with a\nstrange new gladness.\n\n\"Who is Cathal?\" said the boy.\n\n\"He that was thy father. Tell me, Ardan, hast thou ever seen aught\nmoving in the woods--green lives out of the trees?\"\n\n\"I have seen a green shine come out of the trees.\"\n\nMolios bowed his head.\n\n\"Thou shalt be as my son, Ardan; and when thou art a man thou shalt\nchoose thy own way, and let no man hinder thee.\"\n\nThat night Molios could not sleep. Hearing the loud wash of the sea,\nhe went to the mouth of the cave. For a long while he watched the\nseals splashing in the silver radiance of the moonshine. Then he\ncalled them.\n\n\"O seals of the sea, come hither!\"\n\nAt that all the furred swimmers drew near.\n\n\"Is it for the curse you give us every year of the years, O holy\nMolios?\" moaned a great black seal.\n\n\"O R\u00f2n dubh, it is no curse I have for thee or thine, but a blessing,\nand peace. I have learned a wonder of God, because of an Annir-Coille\nin the forest that is upon the hill. But now I will be telling you\nthe white story of Christ.\"\n\nSo there, in the moonshine, with the flowing tide stealing from his\nfeet to his knees, the old saint preached the gospel of love. The\nseals crouched upon the rocks, with their great brown eyes filled with\nglad tears.\n\nWhen Molios ceased, each slipped again into the shadowy sea. All that\nnight, while he brooded upon the mystery of Cathal and the\nAnnir-Coille, with deep knowledge of hidden things, and a heart filled\nwith the wonder and mystery of the world, he heard them splashing to\nand fro in the moon-dazzle, and calling, one to the other, \"We, too,\nare the sons of God.\"\n\nAt dawn a shadow came into the cave. A white frost grew upon the face\nof Molios. Still was he, and cold, when Ardan, the child, awoke. Only\nthe white lips moved. A ray of the sun slanted across the sea, from\nthe great disc of whirling golden flame new risen. It fell softly upon\nthe moving lips. They were still then, and Ardan kissed them because\nof the smile that was there.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SHADOW-SEERS\n\n\nI\n\nTHE SIGHT[7]\n\n    [7] These four short episodes are reprinted, by courteous consent\n    of the Editor of _Harper's Magazine_, where they appeared,\n    interpolated in \"From the Hebrid Isles.\"\n\nThe \"vision,\" or second-sight, is more common in the Western Isles\nthan in the Highlands; now at least, when all things sacred to the\nCeltic race, from the ancient language to the degenerate and indeed\nall but vanished Beltane and Samh'in rites, are smiled at by the\ngentle and mocked by the vulgar. A day will come when men will lament\nmore what is irrecoverable than ever a nation mourned for lapsed\ndominion. It is a bitter cruel thing that strangers must rule the\nhearts and brains, as well as the poor fortunes, of the mountaineers\nand islanders. Yet in doing their best to thrust Celtic life and\nspeech and thought into the sea, they are working a sore hurt for\nthemselves that they shall discern in the day of adversity. We of the\npassing race know this thing: that in a day to come the sheep-runs\nshall not be in the Isles and the Highlands only--for we see the\nforests moving south, and there will be lack, then, not of deer and of\nsheep, but of hunters and shepherds.\n\nThat which follows is only a memento of what was told me last summer\nby a fisherman of Iona. If I were to write all I have heard about what\nis called second-sight, it would be a volume and not a few pages I\nshould want. The \"sight\" has been a reality to me almost from the\ncradle, for my Highland nurse had the faculty, and I have the memory\nof more than one of her trances.\n\nThere is an old man on the island named Daibhidh (David) Macarthur.[8]\nIt was Ivor McLean, my boatman friend, who took me to him. He is a\nfine old man, though \"heavy\" a little; with years, perhaps, for his\nhead is white as the crest of a wave. He is one of the very few of\nIona, perhaps of the two or three at most, who do not speak any\nEnglish.\n\n    [8] As there are several Macarthurs on Iona, I may say that the\n    old man I allude to was not so named. Out of courtesy I disguise\n    his name: though, since the above was written, he is no more.\n\n\"No,\" he told me, \"he had never had the sight himself. Ivor was wrong\nin saying that he had.\"\n\nThis, I imagine, was shyness, or, rather, that innate reticence of the\nCelt in all profoundly intimate and spiritual matters; for, from what\nIvor told me, I am convinced that old Macarthur had more than once\nproved himself a seer.\n\nBut he admitted that his wife had \"it.\"\n\nWe were seated on an old upturned boat on the rocky little promontory,\nwhere once were first laid the innumerable dead, brought for burial to\nthe sacred soil of Iona. For a time Macarthur spoke slowly about this\nand that; then, abruptly and without preamble, he told me this:\n\nThe Christmas before last, Mary, his wife, had seen a man who was not\non the island. \"And that is true, by St. Martin's Cross,\" he added.\n\nThey were, he said, sitting before the fire, when, after a long\nsilence, he looked up to see his wife staring into the shadow in the\ningle. He thought she was brooding over the barren womb that had been\nher life-long sorrow, and now in her old age had become a strange and\ngnawing grief, and so he turned his gaze upon the red coals again.\n\nBut suddenly she exclaimed, \"_C'ait am bheil thu dol?_\" (Where are you\ngoing?)\n\nHe looked up, but saw no one in the room beside themselves.\n\n\"What has come to you?\" he asked. \"What do you see?\"\n\nBut she took no notice.\n\n\"_C'uine tha thu falbh?_\" (When are you going?) she muttered, with the\nsame strained voice and frozen eyes. And then, once again, \"_C'uine\nthig thu rithisd?_\" (When will you come again?) And with that she\nbowed her head, and the thin backs of the hands upon her knees were\nwet with falling tears.\n\nFor the fourth of an hour thereafter she would say nothing except\nmoan, \"_Tha an amhuinn domhain; tha an amhuinn domhain; fuar, fuar;\ndomhain, domhain!_\"[9] (Deep, deep is the river; cold and deep; cold\nand deep!)\n\n    [9] Pronounce Ha aun ah-ween do'-inn; f\u0113w-ar, f\u0113w-ar; do'-inn,\n    do'-inn.\n\nAnd the man she saw, added Macarthur, was her nephew, Luthais, in Cape\nBreton, of Nova Scotia, who, as they learned before Easter, was\ndrowned that Christmas-tide. He was the last of his mother's race, and\nhad been the foster-child of Mary.\n\n\nII\n\nTHE DARK HOUR OF FERGUS\n\nIn September of last year I was ferried across the Sound of Kerrera by\nan old boatman.\n\nThat afternoon I went with my friend, a peasant farmer near the south\nend of Kerrera, and lay down in the grassy, bouldered wilderness\nbeneath the cliff on which stands the ruin of Gylen Castle. The tide\ncalled in a loud insistent whisper, rising to a hoarse gurgle, from\nthe Sound. The breeze that came from the mountains of Mull was\nhoney-sweet with heather smell. The bleating of the ewes and lambs,\nthe screaming of a few gulls,--nothing else was audible. At times, it\nis true, like a deep sigh, the suspiration of the open sea rose and\nfell among the islands. Faint echoes of that sigh came round Gylen\nheadland and up the Kyle. It was an hour wherein to dream of the sons\nof Morven, who had landed here often, long before the ancient\nstronghold was built; of Fionn and the F\u00e9inn of the coming and going\nof Ossian in his blind old age; of beautiful Malvina; of the galleys\nof the Fomorians; of the songs and the singers and all the beautiful\nthings of \"the old ancient long ago.\"\n\nBut the tale that I heard from my friend was this:\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nYou know that my mother's people are Skye folk. It was from the mother\nof my mother that I heard what you call the Incantation of the Spirit,\nthough I never heard it called anything but old Elsie's _Sian_. She\nlived near the Hart o' Corry. You know the part? Ay, true, it is wild\nland--wild even for the wilderness o' Skye. Old mother Elsie had \"the\nsight\" at times, and whenever she wished she could find out the lines\no' life. It was magic, they say. Who am I to know? This is true, she\nknew much that no one else knew. When my mother's cousin, Fergus\nMacEwan, who was mate of a sloop that sailed between Stornoway and\nArdrossan, came to see her--and that was in the year before my mother\nwas married, and when she was courted by Fergus, though she was never\nfor giving her life to him, for even then she loved my father, poor\nfisherman of Ulva though he was (though heir, through his father's\nbrother, to his crofter-farm on Kerrera here)--when Fergus came to see\nher, because of the gloom that was upon his spirit, she foretold all.\nAt first she could \"see\" poorly. But one wild afternoon, when the\nCuchullins were black with cloud-smoke, she bade him meet her in that\nlonely savage glen they call the Loat o' Corry. He was loath to go,\nfor he feared the place. But he went. He told all to my mother before\nhe went away next dawn, with the heart in him broken, and his hope as\ndead as a herring in a net.\n\nMother Elsie came to him out of the dusk in that wuthering place just\nlike a drifting mist, as he said. She gave him no greeting, but was by\nhis side in silence. Before he knew what she was doing she had the\nsoles of her feet upon his, and her hands folding his, and her eyes\nburning against his like hot coals against ash. He felt shudders come\nover him, and a wind blew up and down his back; and he grew giddy,\nand heard the roaring of the tides in his ears. Then he was quiet. Her\nvoice was very far away when she said this thing, but he remembered\nevery word of it:\n\n    By that which dwells within thee,\n    By the lamps that shine upon me,\n    By the white light I see litten\n    From the brain now sleeping stilly,\n    By the silence in the hollows,\n    By the wind that slow subsideth,\n    By the life-tide slowly ebbing,\n    By the deith-tide slowly rising,\n    By the slowly waning warmth,\n    By the chill that slowly groweth,\n    By the dusk that slowly creepeth,\n    By the darkness near thee,\n    By the darkness round thee,\n    By the darkness o'er thee--\n    O'er thee, round thee, on thee--\n    By the one that standeth\n    At thy side and waiteth\n    Dumb and deaf and blindly,\n    By the one that moveth,\n    Bendeth, raiseth, watcheth,\n    By the dim Grave-Spell upon thee,\n    By the Silence thou hast wedded....\n        May the way thy feet are treading,\n        May the tangled lines now crook\u00e8d,\n        Clear as moonlight lie before me!\n\n    _Oh! oh! ohrone, ochrone! green the branches bonnie:\n    Oh! oh! ohrone! ochrone! red the blood-drop berries:\n    Achrone, arone, arone, arone, I see the green-clad Lady.\n    She walks the road that's wet with tears, with rustling sorrows\n        shady....\n    Oh! oh! mo ghraidh._\n\nThen it was that a great calm came upon Fergus, though he felt like a\ndrowned man, or as one who stood by his own body, but speechless, and\nfeeling no blowing of wind through his shadow-frame.\n\nFor, indeed, though the body lived, he was already of the company of\nthe silent. What was that _caiodh_, that wailing lamentation, sad as\nthe _Cumha fir Arais_, which followed Elsie's incantation, her spell\nupon \"the way\" before him, that it and all the trailed lines of this\nlife should be clear as moonlight before her? _Oh! oh! ohrone,\nochrone! red the blood-drop berries_; did not these mean no fruit of\nthe quicken-tree, but the falling drops from the maimed tree that was\nhimself? And was not the green-clad lady, she who comes singing low,\nthe sprouting of the green grass that is the hair of the earth? And\nwas not the road, gleaming wet with ruts and pools all of tears, and\noverhung by dark rustling plumes of sorrow, the road that the soul\ntraverses in the dark hour? And did not all this mean that the Grave\nSpell was already upon him, and that the Silence was to be his?[10]\n\n    [10] (1) _Caiodh_ (a wailing lament) is a difficult word to\n    pronounce. The Irish _keen_ will help the foreigner with _K\u00fa\u00eb-yh_\n    or _K\u00fa\u00eb-yhn_. (2) The _Cumha fir Arais_ (pronounce _K\u016dv'ah feer\n    Arooss_) means the lament of the man of Aros--_i. e._, the\n    chieftain. Aros Castle, on the great island of Mull, overlooking\n    the Sound, was one of the strongholds of Macdonald, Lord of the\n    Isles. (3) The quicken (rowan, mountain-ash, and other names) is a\n    sacred tree with the Celtic peoples, and its branches can either\n    avert or compel supernatural influences. (4) The green-clad Lady\n    is the Cailleach, the Siren of the Hill-Sides, to see whom\n    portends death or disaster. When she is heard singing, that\n    portends death soon for the hearer. The grass is that which grows\n    quick and green above the dead. The dark hour is the hour of\n    death--_i. e._, the first hour after death.\n\nBut what thing it was she saw, Elsie would not say. Darkly she dreamed\nawhile, then leaned forward and kissed his breast. He felt the sob in\nher heart throb into his.\n\nDazed, and knowing that she had seen more than she had dreamed of\nseeing, and that his hour was striding over the rocky wilderness of\nthat wild Isle of Skye, he did not know she was gone, till a\nshuddering fear of the silence and the gloom told him he was alone.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nColl MacColl (he that was my Kerrera friend) stopped here, just as a\nbreeze will suddenly stop in a corrie so that the rowan berries on the\nside of a quicken will sway this way and that, while the long thin\nleaves on the other will be as still as the stones underneath, where\ntheir shadows sleep.\n\nI asked him at last if Elsie's second-sight had proved true. He looked\nat me for a moment, as though vaguely surprised I should ask so\nfoolish a thing.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNo sleep came to Fergus that night, he resumed, quietly, as though no\nother words were needed, and at daybreak he rose and left the cot of\nhis kinsman, Andrew MacEwan. In the gray dawn he saw my mother, and\ntold her all. Then she wished him farewell, and bade him come again\nwhen next the _Sunbeam_ should be sailing to Portree, or other port in\nSkye; for she did not believe that her mother had seen speedy death,\nor death at all, but perhaps only a time of sorrow, and even that she\nhad done this thing to send Fergus away, for she too had her eyes on\nRobert MacColl, that was my father.\n\n\"And so you will come again, Fergus my friend,\" she said; and added,\n\"and perhaps then you will be telling me of a Sunbeam ashore, as well\nas that you sail from Ardrossan to the far away islands!\"\n\nHe stared at her as one who hears ill. Then he took her hand in his,\nand let it go suddenly again. With one arm he rubbed the rough Uist\ncap he held in his left hand; then he brushed off the wet mist that\nwas gray on his thick black beard.\n\n\"You are not well, Fearghas-mo-charaid,\" my mother said, and gently.\nWhen she saw the staring pain in his eyes, she added, with a low sob,\n\"My heart is sore for you!\"\n\nWith that he turned away, and she saw him no more, that day or any\nday of all the days to come.\n\n\"And what thing happened, Coll?\"\n\n\"They kept it from her, and she did not know it for long. It was this:\nFergus McEwan did not sail far that morning. He was ill, he said, and\nwas put ashore. That night Aulay Macaulay saw him moving about in that\nfrightful place of the Storr Rock, moaning and muttering. He would\nhave spoken to him, but he saw him begin to leap about the pinnacled\nrocks like a goat, and at last run up to The Old Man of Storr and beat\nit with his clinched fists, blaspheming with wild words; and he feared\nFergus was mad, and he slipped from shadow to shadow, till he fled\nopenly. But in the morning Aulay and his brother Finlay went back to\nlook for Fergus. At first they thought he had been drowned, or had\nfallen into one of the fissures. But from a _balachan_, a 'bit\nladdie,' as they would call him in the town over the way [Oban], they\nheard that a man had pushed off that morning in John Macpherson's\nboat, that lay about a mile and a half from the Storr, and had sailed\nnorth along the coast.\n\n\"Well, it was three days before he was found--stone-dead. If you know\nthe Quiraing you will know the great Needle Rock. Only a bird can\nclimb it, as the saying goes. Half-way up, Finlay Macaulay and a man\nof the neighbourhood saw the body o' Fergus as though it were glued to\nthe rock. It was windless weather, for he would have blown away like a\ndrifted leaf. They had to jerk the body down with net-poles. God save\nus the dark hour of Fergus, that died like a wild beast!\"\n\n\nIII\n\nTHE WHITE FEVER\n\nOne night, before the peats, I was told this thing by old Cairstine\nMacdonald, in the isle of Benbecula. It is in her words that I give\nit:\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn the spring of the year that my boy Tormaid died, the moon-daisies\nwere as thick as a woven shroud over the place where Giorsal, the\ndaughter of Ian, the son of Ian MacLeod of Baille 'n Bad-a-sgailich,\nslept night and day.[11]\n\n    [11] _Baille 'n Bad-a-sgailich_: the Farm of the Shadowy Clump of\n    Trees. _Cairstine_, or _Cairistine_, is the Gaelic for\n    _Christian_, as _Tormaid_ is for Norman, and _Giorsal_ for Grace.\n    \"The quiet havens\" is the beautiful island phrase for graves.\n    Here, also, a swift and fatal consumption that falls upon the\n    doomed is called \"The White Fever.\" By \"the mainland,\" Harris and\n    Lewis are meant.\n\nAll that March the cormorants screamed, famished. There were few fish\nin the sea, and no kelp-weed was washed up by the high tides. In the\nisland and in the near isles, ay, and far north through the mainland,\nthe blight lay. Many sickened. I knew young mothers who had no milk.\nThere are green mounds in Carnan kirk-yard that will be telling you of\nwhat this meant. Here and there are little green mounds, each so small\nthat you might cuddle it in your arm under your plaid.\n\nTormaid sickened. A bad day was that for him when he came home, weary\nwith the sea, and drenched to the skin, because of a gale that caught\nhim and his mates off Barra Head. When the March winds tore down the\nMinch, and leaped out from over the Cuchullins, and came west, and lay\nagainst our homes, where the peats were sodden and there was little\nfood, the minister told me that my lad would be in the quiet havens\nbefore long. This was because of the white fever. It was of that same\nthat Giorsal waned, and went out like a thin flame in sunlight.\n\nThe son of my man (years ago weary no more) said little ever. He ate\nnothing almost, even of the next to nothing we had. At nights he\ncouldna sleep because of the cough. The coming of May lifted him\nawhile. I hoped he would see the autumn; and that if he did, and the\nherring came, and the harvest was had, and what wi' this and what wi'\nthat, he would forget his Giorsal that lay i' the mools in the quiet\nplace yonder. Maybe then, I thought, the sorrow would go, and take its\nshadow with it.\n\nOne gloaming he came in with all the whiteness of his wasted body in\nhis face. His heart was out of its shell; and mine, too, at the sight\nof him.[12]\n\n    [12] _A cochall a' chridhe_: his heart out of its shell--a phrase\n    often used to express sudden derangement from any shock. The\n    ensuing phrase means the month from the 15th of July to the 15th\n    of August, _Mios crochaidh nan con_, so called as it is supposed\n    to be the hottest if not the most waterless month in the isles.\n    The word _claar_ used below, is the name given a small wooden tub,\n    into which the potatoes are turned when boiled.\n\nThis was in the season of the hanging of the dog's mouth.\n\n\"What is it, Tormaid-a-ghaolach?\" I asked, with the sob that was in my\nthroat.\n\n\"_Thraisg mo chridhe_,\" he muttered (my heart is parched). Then,\nfeeling the asking in my eyes, he said, \"I have seen her.\"\n\nI knew he meant Giorsal. My heart sank. But I wore my nails into the\npalms of my hands. Then I said this thing, that is an old saying in\nthe isles: \"Those who are in the quiet havens hear neither the wind\nnor the sea.\" He was so weak he could not lie down in the bed. He was\nin the big chair before the peats, with his feet on a _claar_.\n\nWhen the wind was still I read him the Word. A little warm milk was\nall he would take. I could hear the blood in his lungs sobbing like\nthe ebb-tide in the sea-weed. This was the thing that he said to me:\n\n\"She came to me, like a gray mist, beyond the dyke of the green place,\nnear the road. The face of her was gray as a gray dawn, but the voice\nwas hers, though I heard it under a wave, so dull and far was it. And\nthese are her words to me, and mine to her--and the first speaking was\nmine, for the silence wore me:\n\n    Am bheil thu' falbh,\n        O mo ghraidh?\n          _B'idh mi falbh,\n                M\u00f9irnean!_\n\n    C'uin a thilleas tu,\n        O mo ghraidh?\n          _Cha till mi an rathad so;\n          Tha an't ait e cumhann--\n                O m\u00f9irnean, m\u00f9irnean!\n          B'idh mi falbh an dr\u00f9gh\n          Am tigh Pharais,\n                M\u00f9irnean!_\n\n    S\u00e8ol dhomh an rathad,\n        Mo ghraidh!\n          _Thig an so M\u00f9irnean-mo,\n                Thig an so!_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Are you going,\n        My dear one?\n          _Yea, now I am going,\n                Dearest._\n\n    When will you come again,\n        My dear one?\n          _I will not return this way;\n          The place is narrow--\n                O my darling!\n          I will be going to Paradise,\n                Dear, my dear one!_\n\n    Show me the way,\n        Heart of my heart!\n          _Come hither, dearest, come hither,\n                Come with me!_\n\n\"And then I saw that it was a mist, and that I was alone. But now\nthis night it is that I feel the breath on the soles of my feet.\"\n\nAnd with that I knew there was no hope. \"_Ma tha sin an d\u00e0n!_ ... if\nthat be ordained,\" was all that rose to my lips. It was that night he\ndied. I fell asleep in the second hour. When I woke in the gray dawn,\nhis face was grayer than that and more cold.\n\n\nIV\n\nTHE SMOOTHING OF THE HAND\n\nGlad am I that wherever and whenever I listen intently I can hear the\nlooms of Nature weaving Beauty and Music. But some of the most\nbeautiful things are learned otherwise--by hazard, in the Way of Pain,\nor at the Gate of Sorrow.\n\nI learned two things on the day when I saw Sheumas McIan dead upon the\nheather. He of whom I speak was the son of Ian McIan Alltnalee, but\nwas known throughout the home straths and the countries beyond as\nSheumas Dhu, Black James, or, to render the subtler meaning implied in\nthis instance, James the Dark One. I had wondered occasionally at the\ndesignation, because Sheumas, if not exactly fair, was not dark. But\nthe name was given to him, as I learned later, because, as commonly\nrumoured, he knew that which he should not have known.\n\nI had been spending some weeks with Alasdair McIan and his wife Silis\n(who was my foster-sister), at their farm of Ardoch, high in a remote\nhill country. One night we were sitting before the peats, listening to\nthe wind crying amid the corries, though, ominously as it seemed to\nus, there was not a breath in the rowan-tree that grew in the\nsun's-way by the house. Silis had been singing, but silence had come\nupon us. In the warm glow from the fire we saw each others' faces.\nThere the silence lay, strangely still and beautiful, as snow in\nmoonlight. Silis's song was one of the _Dana Spioradail_, known in\nGaelic as the Hymn of the Looms. I cannot recall it, nor have I ever\nheard or in any way encountered it again.\n\nIt had a lovely refrain, I know not whether its own or added by Silis.\nI have heard her chant it to other runes and songs. Now, when too\nlate, my regret is deep that I did not take from her lips more of\nthose sorrowful strange songs or chants, with their ancient Celtic\nmelodies, so full of haunting sweet melancholy, which she loved so\nwell. It was with this refrain that, after a long stillness, she\nstartled us that October night. I remember the sudden light in the\neyes of Alasdair McIan, and the beat at my heart, when, like rain in a\nwood, her voice fell unawares upon us out of the silence:\n\n    _Oh! oh! ohrone, arone! Oh! Oh! mo ghraidh, mo chridhe!\n    Oh! oh! mo ghraidh, mo chridhe!_[13]\n\n    [13] Pronounce mogh-r\u0101y, mogh-r\u0113e (my heart's delight--_lit._,\n    my dear one, my heart).\n\nThe wail, and the sudden break in the second line, had always upon me\nan effect of inexpressible pathos. Often that sad wind-song has been\nin my ears, when I have been thinking of many things that are passed\nand are passing.\n\nI know not what made Silis so abruptly begin to sing, and with that\nwailing couplet only, or why she lapsed at once into silence again.\nIndeed, my remembrance of the incident at all is due to the\ncircumstance that shortly after Silis had turned her face to the peats\nagain, a knock came to the door, and then Sheumas Dhu entered.\n\n\"Why do you sing that lament, Silis, sister of my father?\" he asked,\nafter he had seated himself beside me, and spread his thin hands\nagainst the peat glow, so that the flame seemed to enter within the\nflesh.\n\nSilis turned to her nephew, and looked at him, as I thought,\nquestioningly. But she did not speak. He, too, said nothing more,\neither forgetful of his question, or content with what he had learned\nor failed to learn through her silence.\n\nThe wind had come down from the corries before Sheumas rose to go. He\nsaid he was not returning to Alltnalee, but was going upon the hill,\nfor a big herd of deer had come over the ridge of Mel-M\u00f2r. Sheumas,\nthough skilled in all hill and forest craft, was not a sure shot, as\nwas his kinsman and my host, Alasdair McIan.\n\n\"You will need help,\" I remember Alasdair Ardoch saying, mockingly,\nadding, \"_Co dhiubh is fhearr let mise thoir sealladh na f\u00e0ileadh\ndhiubh?_\"--that is to say, Whether would you rather me to deprive them\nof sight or smell?\n\nThis is a familiar saying among the old sportsmen in my country, where\nit is believed that a few favoured individuals have the power to\ndeprive deer of either sight or smell, as the occasion suggests.\n\n\"_Dhuit ci\u00e0r nan carn!_--The gloom of the rocks be upon you!\" replied\nSheumas, sullenly; \"mayhap the hour is come when the red stag will\nsniff at my nostrils.\"\n\nWith that dark saying he went. None of us saw him again alive.\n\nWas it a forewarning? I have often wondered. Or had he sight of the\nshadow?\n\nIt was three days after this, and shortly after sunrise, that, on\ncrossing the south slope of Mel M\u00f2r with Alasdair Ardoch, we came\nsuddenly upon the body of Sheumas, half submerged in a purple billow\nof heather. It did not, at the moment, occur to me that he was dead. I\nhad not known that his prolonged absence had been noted, or that he\nhad been searched for. As a matter of fact, he must have died\nimmediately before our approach, for his limbs were still loose, and\nhe lay as a sleeper lies.\n\nAlasdair kneeled and raised his kinsman's head. When it lay upon the\npurple tussock, the warmth and glow from the sunlit ling gave a\nfugitive deceptive light to the pale face. I know not whether the sun\ncan have any chemic action upon the dead. But it seemed to me that a\ndream rose to the face of Sheumas, like one of those submarine flowers\nthat are said to rise at times and be visible for a moment in the\nhollow of a wave. The dream, the light, waned; and there was a great\nstillness and white peace where the trouble had been. \"It is the\nSmoothing of the Hand,\" said Alasdair McIan, in a hushed voice.\n\nOften I had heard this lovely phrase in the Western Isles, but always\nas applied to sleep. When a fretful child suddenly falls into quietude\nand deep slumber, an isles-woman will say that it is because of the\nSmoothing of the Hand. It is always a profound sleep, and there are\nsome who hold it almost as a sacred thing, and never to be disturbed.\n\nSo, thinking only of this, I whispered to my friend to come away; that\nSheumas was dead weary with hunting upon the hills; that he would\nawake in due time.\n\nMcIan looked at me, hesitated, and said nothing. I saw him glance\naround. A few yards away, beside a great boulder in the heather, a\nsmall rowan stood, flickering its featherlike shadows across the white\nwool of a ewe resting underneath. He moved thitherward slowly, plucked\na branch heavy with scarlet berries, and then, having returned, laid\nit across the breast of his kinsman.\n\nI knew now what was that passing of the trouble in the face of Sheumas\nDhu, what that sudden light was, that calming of the sea, that\nineffable quietude. It was the Smoothing of the Hand.\n\n\n\n\nSEANACHAS[14]\n\n\n  _THE SONG OF THE SWORD._\n\n  _THE FLIGHT OF THE CULDEES._\n\n  _MIRCATH._\n\n  _THE LAUGHTER OF SCATHACH THE QUEEN._\n\n    [14] The word \"Seanachas\" means either traditionary lore, or\n    \"telling of tales of the olden time\"--and it is in this sense that\n    it is used here.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF THE SWORD\n\n\nThese are of the Seanachas told me by Ian Cameron (\"Ian M\u00f2r\"), before\nthe flaming peats, at a hill-shealing, in a season when the premature\nsnows found the bracken still golden and the ptarmigan with their\nautumn browns no more than flecked and mottled with gray.\n\nHe has himself now a quieter sleep than the sound of that falling\nsnow, and it is three years since his face became as white and as\ncold.\n\nHe had pleasure in telling _sgeul_ after _sgeul_ of the ancient days.\nFar more readily at all times would he repeat stories of this dim past\nhe loved so well than the more intimate tales which had his own pulse\nbeating in them, as \"The Daughter of the Sun\" and others that I have\ngiven elsewhere. Often he would look up from where he held his face in\nhis hands as he brooded into the dull steadfast flame that consumed\nthe core of the peats; and without preamble, and with words in no\napparent way linked to those last spoken, would narrate some brief\nepisode, and always as one who had witnessed the event. Sometimes,\nindeed, these brief tales were like waves: one saw them rise,\ncongregate, and expand in a dark billow--and the next moment there was\na vanishing puff of spray and the billow had lapsed.\n\nI cannot recall many of these fugitive tales--seanachas, as he spoke\nof them collectively, for each _sgeul_ was of the past, and had its\nroots in legendary lore--but of those that remained with me, here are\nfour. All came upon me as birds flying in the dark: I knew not whence\nthey came or upon what wind they had steered their mysterious course.\nThey were there, that was all. Ancient things come again in Ian's\nbrain: or recovered out of the dim days, and seen anew through the\nwonder-lens of his imagination.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was in a white June, as they call it, in the third year after the\npirates of Lochlin had fed the corbies of the Hebrid Isles, that the\nsummer-sailors once more came down the Minch of Skye.\n\nAn east wind blew fresh from the mountains, though between dawn and\nsunrise it veered till it chilled itself upon the granite peaks of the\nCuchullins, and then leaped north-westward with the white foam of its\nfeet caught from behind by the sun-glint.\n\nThe vikings on board the _Svart-Alf_ laughed at that. The spray flew\nfrom the curved black prow of the great galley, and the wake danced in\nthe dazzle--the sea-cream that they loved to see.\n\nTall men they were, and comely. Their locks of yellow or golden or\nruddy hair, sometimes braided, sometimes all acurl like a\nchestnut-tree bud-breaking in April, sometimes tangled like sea-wrack\ncaught in a whirl of wind and tide, streamed upon their shoulders. In\ntheir blue eyes was a shining as though there were torches of white\nflame behind them: and that shining was mild or fierce as home or\nblood filled their brain.\n\nThe _Svart-Alf_ was the storm-bird of a fleet of thirty galleys which\nhad set forth from Lochlin under the raven-banner of Olaus the White.\nThe vikings had joyed in a good faring. Singing south winds had blown\nthem to the Faroe Isles, where from Magnus Cleft-Hand they had good\ncheer, and the hire of three men who knew the Western Isles and had\nbeen with the sea-kings who had harried them here and there again and\nagain.\n\nFrom Magnus-stead they went forth swelled with mead and ale and\ncow-beef: and they laughed because of what they would give in payment\non their way back with golden torques and bracelets and other\ntreasure, young slaves, women dark and fair, and the jewel-hilted\nweapons of the island-lords.\n\nCold black winds out of the north-east drove them straight upon the\nOrd of Sutherland. They sang with joy the noon when they rounded Cape\nWrath and came under the shadow of the hills. The dawn that followed\nwas red not only in the sky but on the sheen of the sword-blades. It\nwas the Song of the Sword that day, and there is no song like that\nfor the flaming of the blood. The dark men of Torridon were caught\nunawares. For seven days thereafter the corbies and ravens glutted\nthemselves drinking at red pools beside the stripped bodies which lay\nstark and stiff upon the heather. The firing of a score of homesteads\nsmouldered till the rains came, a day and two nights after the old\nwomen who had been driven to the moors stole back wailing. The maids\nand wives were carried off in the galleys: and for nine days, at a\nhaven in the lone coast opposite the Summer Isles, their tears, their\nlaughter, their sullen anger, their wild gaiety, their passionate\ndespair gave joy to the yellow-haired men. On the ninth day they were\ncarried southward on the summer-sailing. At a place called\nCraig-Feeach, Raven's Crag, in the north of Skye, where a Norse Erl\nhad a great D\u00fbn that he had taken from the son of a king from Eir\u00e8ann\nwhose sea-nest it had been, Olaus the White rested awhile. The women\nwere left there as a free spoil: save three who were so fair that\nOlaus kept one, and Haco and Sweno his chief captains took the others.\n\nThen, on an evening when the wind was from the north, Olaus and ten\ngalleys went down the sound. Sweno the Hammerer was to strike across\nthe west for the great island that is called Lewis: Haco the Laugher\nwas to steer for the island that is called Harris: and Olaus himself\nwas to reach the haven called Ljotr-wick in the Isle of the Thousand\nWaters that is Benbecula.\n\nOn the eve of the day following that sailing a wild wind sprang up,\nblowing straight against the north. All of the south-faring galleys\nsave one made for haven, though it was a savage coast which lay along\nthe south of Skye. In the darkness of the storm Olaus thought that the\nother nine wave-steeds were following him, and he drove before the\ngale, with his men crouching under the lee of the bulwarks, and with\nFinnleikr the Harper singing a wild song of sea-foam and flowing blood\nand the whirling of swords.\n\nThe gale was nigh spent three hours after dawn: but the green seas\nwere like snow-crowned hillocks that roll in earth-drunkenness when\nthe flames surge from blazing mountains. Olaus knew that no boat\ncould live in that sea, except it went before the wind. So, though\nnot a galley was in sight, he fared steadily westward.\n\nBy sundown the wind had swung out of the south into the east: and by\nmidnight the stars were shining clear. In the blue-dark could be seen\nthe white wings of the fulmars, seaward-drifting once again from the\nrocks whither they had fled.\n\nThen came the dawn when the sun-rain streamed gladly, and a fresh east\nwind blew across the Minch, and the _Svart-Alf_, that had been driven\nfar northward, came leaping south-westwardly, with laughter and fierce\nshining of sky-blue eyes, where the vikings toiled at the oars, or\nburnished their brine-stained swords and javelins.\n\nAll day they fared joyously thus. Behind them they could see the blue\nline of the mainland and the dark-blue mountain-crests of Skye:\nsouthward was a long green film, where Coll caught the waves ere they\ndrove upon Tiree; south-eastward, the gray-blue peaks of Halival and\nHaskival rose out of the Isle of Terror, as R\u00f9m was then called.\nBefore them, as far as they could see to north or south, the\npurple-gray lines that rose out of the west were the contours of the\nHebrides.\n\n\"Dost thou see yonder blue splatch, Morna?\" cried Olaus the White to\nthe woman who lay indolently by his side, and watched the sun-gold\nredden the mass of ruddy hair which she had sprayed upon the boards, a\nnet wherein to mesh the eyes of the vikings, \"do you see that blue\nsplatch? I know what it is. It is the headland that Olaf the Furious\ncalled Skipness. Behind it is a long fjord in two forks. At the end of\nthe south fork is a place of the white-robes whom the islanders call\nCuldees. Midway on the eastern bend of the north fork is a town of a\nhundred families. Over both rules Maoliosa, a warrior-priest, and\nunder him, at the town, is a graybeard called Rumun mac Coag. All this\nI have learned from Anlaf the Swarthy, who came with us out of Faroe.\"\n\nMorna glanced at him under her drooped eyelids. Sure, he was fair to\nsee, for all that his long hair was white. White it had gone with the\nterror of a night on an ice-floe, whereon a man who hated the young\nerl had set him adrift with seven wolves. He had slain three, and\ndrowned three, and one had leaped into the sea: and then he had lain\non the ice, with snow for a pillow, and in the dawn his hair was the\nsame as the snow. This was but ten years ago, when he was a youth.\n\nShe looked at him, and when she spoke it was in the slow lazy speech\nthat in his ears was drowsy-sweet as the hum of the hives in the\nsteading where his home was.\n\n\"It will be a red sleep the men of that town will be having soon, I am\nthinking, Olaus. And the women will not be carding wool when the moon\nrises to-morrow night. And ...\"\n\nThe fair woman stopped suddenly. Olaus saw her eyes darken.\n\n\"Olaus!\"\n\n\"I listen.\"\n\n\"If there is a woman there that you desire more than me I will give\nher a gift.\"\n\nOlaus laughed.\n\n\"Keep your knife in your girdle Morna. Who knows but you may need it\nsoon to save yourself from a Culdee!\"\n\n\"Bah. These white-robed men-women have nought to do with us. I fear\nno man, Olaus: but I have a blade for the woman who will dazzle your\neyes.\"\n\n\"Have no fear, white wolf. The sea-wolf knows his mate when he has\nfound her!\"\n\nAn hour after sun-setting a mist came up. The wind freshened. Olaus\nmade silence throughout the war-galley. The vikings had muffled their\noars, for the noise of the waves on the shore could now be heard. Hour\nafter hour went by. When, at last, the moonlight tore a rift in the\nh\u00e4ar, and suddenly the vapour was licked up by a wind moving out of\nthe north, they saw that they were close upon the land, and right\neastward of the headland of Skipness.\n\nAnlaf the Swarthy went to the prow. Blackly he loomed in the moonlight\nas he stood there, poising his long spear, and sounding the depths\nwhile the vessel slowly forged shoreward. By the time a haven was\nfound, and the vikings stood silent upon the rocks, the night was\nyellow with moonshine, and the brown earth overlaid with a soft white\nsheen wherein the long shadows lay palely blue.\n\nThere was deep peace in the island-town. The kye were in the\nsea-pastures near, and even the dogs slept. There had been no ill for\nlong, and Rumun mac Coag was an old man, and dreamed overmuch about\nhis soul. This was because of the teaching of the Culdees. Before he\nhad known he had a soul he was a man, and would not have been taken\nunawares--and he over-lord of a sea-town like Bail'-tiorail.\n\nOlaus the White made a wide circuit with his men. Then, slowly, the\ncircle narrowed.\n\nA bull lowed, where it stood among the sea-grass, stamping uneasily,\nand ever and again sniffing the air. Suddenly one heifer, then\nanother, then all the kye, began a strange lowing. The dogs rose, with\nbristling felts, and crawled sidelong, snarling, with red eyes\ngleaming savagely.\n\nBethoc, the young third wife of Rumun, was awake, dreaming of a man\nout of Eir\u00e8ann who had that day given her a strange pleasure with his\nharp and his dusky eyes. She knew that lowing. It was the _langanaich\nan aghaidh am allamharach_, the continued lowing against the\nstranger. She rose lightly, and unfastened the leather flap, and\nlooked down from the grianan where she was. A man stood there in the\nshadow. She thought it was the harper. With a low sigh she leaned\ndownward to kiss him, and to whisper a word in his ear.\n\nHer long hair fell over her eyes and face and blinded her. She felt it\ngrasped, and put out her hand. It was seized, and before she knew what\nwas come upon her she was dragged prone upon the man.\n\nThen, in a flash, she saw he had yellow hair, and was clad as a\nNorseman. She gasped. If the sea-rovers were come, it was death for\nall there. The man whispered something in a tongue that was strange to\nher. She understood better when he put his arm about her, and placed a\nhand upon her mouth.\n\nBethoc stood silent. Why did no one hear that lowing of the kine, that\nsnarling of the dogs which had now grown into a loud continuous\nbaying? The man by her side thought she was cowed, or had accepted the\nchange of fate. He left her, and put his foot in a cleft. Then, sword\nunder his chin, he began to climb stealthily.\n\nHe had thrown his spear upon the ground. Soundlessly Bethoc stepped\nforward, lifted it, and moved forward like a shadow.\n\nA wild cry rang through the night. There was a gurgling and spurting\nsound as of dammed water adrip. Rumun sprang from his couch, and\nstared out of the aperture. Beneath he saw a man, speared through the\nback, and pinned to the soft wood. His hands claspt the frayed\ndeer-skins, and his head lay upon his shoulder. He was laughing\nhorribly. A bubbling of foam frothed continuously out of his mouth.\n\nThe next moment Rumun saw Bethoc. He had not time to call to her\nbefore a man slipped out of the shadow, and plunged a sword through\nher till the point dripped red drops upon the grass beyond where she\nstood. She gave no cry, but fell as a gannet falls. A black shadow\ndarted across the gloom. A crash, a scream, and Rumun sank inert, with\nan arrow fixed midway in his head through the brows.\n\nThen there was a fierce tumult everywhere. From the pastures the kye\nran lowing and bellowing, in a wild stampede. The neighing of horses\nbroke into screams. Here and there red flames burst forth, and leapt\nfrom hut to hut. Soon the whole rath was aflame. Round the d\u00fbn of\nRumun a wall of swords flashed.\n\nAll had taken refuge in the d\u00fbn, all who had escaped the first\nslaying. If any leaped forth, it was upon a viking spear, or if the\nface of any was seen it was the targe for a swift-sure arrow.\n\nA long penetrating wail went up. The Culdees, on the further loch,\nheard it, and ran from their cells. The loud laughter of the\nsea-rovers was more dreadful to them than the whirling flames and the\nwild screaming lament of the dying and the doomed.\n\nNone came forth alive out of that d\u00fbn, save three men, and seven women\nthat were young. Two of the men were made to tell all that Olaus the\nWhite wanted to know. Then they were blinded, and put in a boat, and\nset in the tide-eddy that would take them to where the Culdees were.\nAnd, for the Culdees, they had a message from Olaus.\n\nOf the seven women none was so fair that Morna had any heed. But\nseven men had them as spoil. Their wild keening had died away into a\nsilence of blank despair long before the dawn. When the light came,\nthey were huddled in a white group near the ashes of their homes.\nEverywhere the dead sprawled.\n\nAt sunrise the vikings held an ale-feast. When Olaus the White had\ndrunken and eaten, he left his men and went down to the shore to look\nupon the fortified place where Maoliosa the Culdee and his white-robes\nlived. As he fared thither through what had been Bail'-tiorail there\nwas not a male left alive save the one prisoner who had been kept,\nAongas the Bow-maker as he was called: none save Aongas, and a strayed\nchild among the salt grasses near the shore, a little boy, naked and\nwith blue eyes and laughing sunny smile.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FLIGHT OF THE CULDEES\n\n\nOn the wane of noon, on the day following the ruin of Bail'-tiorail,\nsails were descried far east of Skipness.\n\nOlaus called his men together. The boats coming before the wind were\ndoubtless his own galleys which he had lost sight of when the\nsouth-gale had blown them against Skye: but no man can know when and\nhow the gods may smile grimly, and let the swords that whirl be broken\nor the spears that are flat become a hedge of death.\n\nAn hour later, a startled word went from viking to viking. The galleys\nin the offing were the fleet of Sweno the Hammerer. Why had he come so\nfar southward, and why were oars so swift and with the stained sails\ndistended before the wind?\n\nThey were soon to know.\n\nSweno himself was the first to land. A man he was, broad and burly,\nwith a sword-slash across his face that brought his brows together in\na frown which made a perpetual dusk above his savage blood-shot eyes.\n\nIn a few words he told how he had met a galley, with only half its\ncrew, and of these many who were wounded. It was the last of the fleet\nof Haco the Laugher. A fleet of fifteen war-birlinns had set out from\nthe Long Island, and had given battle. Haco had gone into the strife\nlaughing loud as was his wont, and he and all his men had the berserk\nrage, and fought with joy and foam at the mouth. Never had the Sword\nsang a sweeter song.\n\n\"Well,\" said Olaus the White, grimly, \"well: how did the Raven fly?\"\n\n\"When Haco laughed for the last time, with waving sword out of the\ndeath wherein he sank, there was only one galley left. Of all that\ncompany of vikings there were no more than nine to tell the tale.\nThese nine we took out of their boat, which was below waves soon. Haco\nand his men are all fighting the sea-shadows by now.\"\n\nA loud snarling went from man to man. This became a wild cry of rage.\nThen savage shouts filled the air. Swords were lifted up against the\nsky, and the fierce glitter of the blue eyes and the bristling of the\ntawny beards were fair to see, thought the captive women, though their\nhearts beat against their ribs like eaglets against the bars of a\ncage.\n\nSweno the Hammerer frowned a deep frown when he heard that Olaus was\nthere with only the _Svart-Alf_ out of the galleys which had gone the\nsouthward way.\n\n\"If the islanders come upon us now with their birlinns we shall have\nto make a running fight,\" he said.\n\nOlaus laughed.\n\n\"Aye, but the running shall be after the birlinns, Sweno.\"\n\n\"I hear that there are fifty and nine men, of these Culdees yonder,\nunder the sword-priest Maoliosa?\"\n\n\"It is a true word. But to-night, after the moon is up, there shall be\nnone.\"\n\nAt that, all who heard laughed, and were less heavy in their hearts\nbecause of the slaying and drowning of Haco the Laugher and all his\ncrew.\n\n\"Where is the woman Brenda that you took?\" Olaus asked, as he stared\nat Sweno's boat and saw no woman there.\n\n\"She is in the sea.\"\n\nOlaus the White looked. It was his eyes that asked.\n\n\"I flung her into the sea because she laughed when she heard of how\nthe birlinns that were under Somhairle the Renegade drave in upon our\nships and how Haco laughed no more, and the sea was red with Lochlin\nblood.\"\n\n\"She was a woman, Sweno--and none more fair in the isles, after Morna\nthat is mine.\"\n\n\"Woman or no woman I flung her into the sea. The Gael call us _Gall_:\nthen I will let no Gael laugh at the Gall. It is enough. She is\ndrowned. There are always women: one here, one there--it is but a wave\nblown this way or that.\"\n\nAt this moment a viking came running across the ruined town with\ntidings. Maoliosa and his Culdees were crowding into a great birlinn.\nPerhaps they were coming to give battle: mayhap they were for sailing\naway from that place.\n\nOlaus and Sweno stared across the fjord. At first they knew not what\nto think. If Maoliosa thought of battle he would scarce choose that\nhour and place. Or was it that he knew the Gael were coming in force,\nand that the vikings were caught in a trap?\n\nAt last it was clear. Sweno gave a great laugh.\n\n\"By the blood of Odin,\" he cried, \"they come to sue for peace!\"\n\nSlowly across the loch the birlinn, filled with white-robed Culdees,\ndrew near. At the prow stood a tall old man, with streaming hair and\nbeard, white as sea-foam. In his right hand he grasped a great Cross,\nwhereon was Christ crucified.\n\nThe vikings drew close one to the other.\n\n\"Hail them in their own tongue, Sweno,\" said Olaus.\n\nThe Hammerer moved to the water-edge, as the birlinn stopped, a short\narrow-flight away.\n\n\"Ho, there, priests of the Christ-faith!\"\n\n\"What would you, viking?\" It was Maoliosa himself that spoke.\n\n\"Why do you come here among us, you that are Maoliosa?\"\n\n\"To win you and yours to God, pagan.\"\n\n\"Is it madness that is upon you, old man? We have swords and spears\nhere, if we lack hymns and prayers.\"\n\nAll this time Olaus kept a wary watch inland and seaward, for he\nfeared that Maoliosa came because of an ambush.\n\nTruly the old monk was mad. He had told his Culdees that God would\nprevail, and that the pagans would melt away before the Cross.\n\nThe ebb-tide was running swift. Even while Sweno spoke, the birlinn\ntouched a low sea-hidden ledge of rock.\n\nA cry of consternation went up from the white-robes. Loud laughter\ncame from the vikings.\n\n\"Arrows!\" cried Olaus.\n\nWith that three score men took their bows. There was a hail of\ndeath-shafts. Many fell into the water, but some were in the brains\nand hearts of the Culdees.\n\nMaoliosa himself stood in death, transfixed to the mast.\n\nWith a wild cry the monks swept their oars backward. Then they leaped\nto their feet and changed their place, and rowed for life or death.\n\nThe summer-sailors sprang into their galley. Sweno the Hammerer was at\nthe bow. The foam curled and hissed.\n\nThe birlinn grided upon the opposite shore at the selfsame moment when\nSweno brought down his battle-axe upon the monk who steered. The man\nwas cleft to the shoulder. Sweno swayed with the blow, stumbled, and\nfell headlong into the sea. A Culdee thrust at him with an oar, and\npinned him among the sea-tangle. Thus died Sweno the Hammerer.\n\nThen all the white-robes leaped upon the shore. Yet Olaus was quicker\nthan they. With a score of vikings he raced to the Church of the\nCells, and gained the sanctuary. The monks uttered a cry of despair,\nand, turning, fled across the moor. Olaus counted them. There were now\nforty in all.\n\n\"Let forty men follow,\" he cried.\n\nLike white birds, the monks fled this way and that. Olaus and those\nwho watched laughed at them as they stumbled because of their robes.\nOne by one fell, sword-cleft or spear-thrust. The moorland was red.\n\nAt the last there were less than a score--twelve only--ten!\n\n\"Bring them back!\" Olaus shouted.\n\nWhen the ten fugitives were captured and brought back, Olaus took the\ncrucifix that Maoliosa had raised, and held it before each in turn.\n\"Smite,\" he said to the first monk. But the man would not. \"Smite!\" he\nsaid to the second: but he would not. And so it was to the tenth.\n\n\"Good,\" said Olaus the White: \"they shall witness to their god.\" With\nthat he bade his vikings break up the birlinn, and drive the planks\ninto the ground, and shore them up with logs.\n\nWhen this was done he crucified each Culdee. With nails and with ropes\nhe did unto each what their god had suffered. Then all were left\nthere, by the water-side.\n\nThat night, when Olaus the White and the laughing Morna left the great\nbonfire where the vikings sang and drank horn after horn of strong\nale, they stood and looked across the loch. In the moonlight, upon the\ndim verge of the further shore, they could discern ten crosses. On\neach was a motionless white splatch.\n\n\n\n\nMIRCATH\n\nThe _Mire Chath_ was the name given to the war-frenzy that often\npreceded and accompanied battle.\n\n\nWhen Haco the Laugher saw the islanders coming out of the west in\ntheir birlinns, he called to his vikings: \"Now of a truth we shall\nhear the Song of the Sword!\"\n\nThe ten galleys of the Summer-Sailors spread out into two lines of\nfive boats, each boat an arrow-flight from those on either side.\n\nThe birlinns came on against the noon. In the sun-dazzle they loomed\nblack as a shoal of pollack. There were fifteen in all, and from the\nlargest, midway among them, flew a banner. On this banner was a disc\nof gold.\n\n\"It is the Banner of the Sunbeam,\" shouted Olaf the Red, who with\nTorquil the One-Armed was hero-man to Haco. \"I know it well. The Gael\nwho fight under that are warriors indeed.\"\n\n\"Is there a saga-man here?\" cried Haco. At that a great shout went up\nfrom the vikings: \"Harald the Smith!\"\n\nA man rose among the bow-men in Olaf's boat. It was Harald. He took a\nsmall square harp, and he struck the strings. This was the song he\nsang:\n\n    Let loose the hounds of war,\n        The whirling swords!\n    Send them leaping afar,\n    Red in their thirst for war;\n    Odin laughs in his car\n        At the screaming of the swords!\n\n    Far let the white-ones fly,\n        The whirling swords!\n    Afar off the ravens spy\n    Death-shadows cloud the sky.\n    Let the wolves of the Gael die\n        'Neath the screaming swords!\n\n    The Shining Ones yonder\n        High in Valhalla\n    Shout now, with thunder.\n    _Drive the Gaels under,\n    Cleave them asunder--\n        Swords of Valhalla!_\n\nA shiver passed over every viking. Strong men shook as a child when\nlightning plays. Then the trembling passed. The mircath, the\nwar-frenzy, came on them. Loud laughter, went from boat to boat. Many\ntossed the great oars, and swung them down upon the sea, splashing the\nsun-dazzle into a yeast of foam. Others sprang up and whirled their\njavelins on high, catching them with bloody mouths: others made\nsword-play, and stammered thick words through a surf of froth upon\ntheir lips. Olaf the Red towered high on the steering-plank of the\n_Calling Raven_, swirling round and round a mighty battle-axe: on the\n_Sea-Wolf_, Torquil One-Arm shaded his eyes, and screamed hoarsely\nwild words that no one knew the meaning of. Only Haco was still for a\ntime. Then he, too, knew the mircath: and he stood up in the\n_Red-Dragon_ and laughed loud and long. And when Haco the Laugher\nlaughed, there was ever blood and to spare.\n\nThe birlinns of the islanders drave on apace. They swayed out into a\ncurve, a black crescent there in the gold-sprent blue meads of the\nsea. From the great birlinn that carried the Sunbeam came a chanting\nvoice:\n\n    O 'tis a good song the sea makes when blood is on the wave,\n    And a good song the wave makes when its crest o' foam is red!\n    For the rovers out of Lochlin the sea is a good grave,\n    And the bards will sing to-night to the sea-moan of the dead!\n          Yo-ho-a-h'eily-a-yo, eily, ayah, a yo!\n          Sword and Spear and Battle-axe sing the Song of Woe.\n                  Ayah, eily, a yo!\n                  Eily, ayah, a yo!\n\nThen there was a swirling and dashing of foam. Clouds of spray filled\nthe air from the thresh of the oars.\n\nNo man knew aught of the last moments ere the birlinns bore down upon\nthe viking-galleys. Crash and roar and scream: and a wild surging: the\nslashing of swords, the whistle of arrows, the fierce hiss of whirled\nspears, the rending crash of battle-axe and splintering of the\njavelins, wild cries, oaths, screams, shouts of victors and yells of\nthe dying, shrill taunts from the spillers of life and savage choking\ncries from those drowning in the bloody yeast, that bubbled and\nfoamed in the maelstrom where the war-boats swung and reeled this way\nand that--and over all the loud death-music of Haco the Laugher.\n\nOlaf the Red went into the sea, red indeed, for the blood streamed\nfrom head and shoulders and fell about him as a scarlet robe. Torquil\nOne-Arm fought, blind and arrow-sprent, till a spear went through his\nneck, and he sank among the dead. Louder and louder grew the fierce\nshouts of the Gael: fewer the savage screaming cries of the vikings.\nThus it was till two galleys only held living men. The _Calling Raven_\nturned and fled, with the nine men who were not wounded to the death.\nBut on the _Red Dragon_ Haco the Laugher still laughed. Seven men were\nabout him. These fought in silence.\n\nThen Toscar mac Aonghas that was leader of the Gael took his bow. None\nwas arrow-better than Toscar of the Nine Battles. He laid down his\nsword and took his bow, and an arrow went through the right eye of\nHaco the Laugher. He laughed no more. The seven died in silence.\nSwaran Swift-foot was the last. When he fell he wiped away the blood\nthat streamed over his face.\n\n\"_Skoal!_\" he cried to the hero of the Gael, and with that he whirled\nhis battle-axe at Toscar mac Aonghas: and the soul of Toscar met his,\nin the dark mist, and upon the ears of both fell at one and the same\ntime the glad laughter of the gods in Valhalla.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAUGHTER OF SCATHACH THE QUEEN\n\n_Scathach (pronounced Sc\u00e1-ya or Sk\u00fd-ya) was an Amazonian queen of the\nIsle of Skye, and is supposed to have given her name to that island._\n\n\nIn the year when Cuchullin left the Isle of Skye, where Scathach the\nwarrior-Queen ruled with the shadow of death in the palm of her\nsword-hand, there was sorrow because of his beauty. He had fared back\nto Eir\u00e9, at the summons of Concobar mac Nessa, Ard-Righ of Ulster. For\nthe Clan of the Red Branch was wading in blood, and there were seers\nwho beheld that bitter tide rising and spreading.\n\nCuchullin was only a youth in years: but he had come to Skye a boy,\nand he had left it a man. None fairer had ever been seen of Scathach\nor of any woman. He was tall and lithe as a young pine: his skin was\nas white as a woman's breast: his eyes were of a fierce bright blue,\nwith a white light in them as of the sun. When bent, and with arrow\nhalf-way drawn, he stood on the heather, listening against the belling\nof the deer; or when he leaned against a tree, dreaming not of\neagle-chase or wolf-hunt, but of the woman whom he had never met; or\nwhen, by the d\u00fbn, he played at sword-whirl or spear-thrust, or raced\nthe war-chariot across the machar--then, and ever, there were eyes\nupon his beauty and there were some who held him to be Angus Ogue\nhimself. For there was a light about him, such as the hills have in\nthe sun-glow an hour before set. His hair was the hair of Angus and of\nthe fair gods: earth-brown shot with gold next his head, ruddy as\nflame midway, and, where it sprayed into a golden mist of fire, yellow\nas windy sunshine.\n\nBut Cuchullin loved no woman upon Skye, and none dared openly to love\nCuchullin, for Scathach's heart yearned for him, and to cross the\nQueen was to put the shroud upon oneself. Scathach kept an open face\nfor the son of Lerg. There was no dark frown above the storm in her\neyes when she looked at his sunbright face. Gladly she slew a woman\nbecause Cuchullin had lightly reproved the maid for some idle thing:\nand once, when the youth had looked in grave silence at three\nviking-captives whom she had spared because of their comely manhood,\nshe put her sword through the heart of each, and sent him the blade,\ndripping red, as the flower of love.\n\nBut Cuchullin was a dreamer, and he loved what he dreamed of, and that\nwoman was not Scathach, nor any of her warrior-women who made the Isle\nof Mist a place of terror for those cast upon the wild shores, or\nstranded there in the ebb of inglorious battle.\n\nScathach brooded deep upon her vain desire. Once, in a windless\nshadowy gloaming, she asked him if he loved any woman.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"Et\u00e1in.\"\n\nHer breath came quick and hard. It was for pleasure to her then to\nthink of Cuchullin lying white at her feet, with the red blood\nspilling from the whiteness of his breast. But she bit her underlip,\nand said quietly:\n\n\"Who is Et\u00e1in?\"\n\n\"She is the wife of M\u00eddir.\"\n\nAnd with that the youth turned and moved haughtily away. She did not\nknow that the Et\u00e1in of whom Cuchullin dreamed was no woman that he had\nseen in Eir\u00e9, but the wife of M\u00eddir the King of Faerie, who was so\npassing fair that Mac Greine, the beautiful god, had made for her a\ngrianan all of shining glass, where still she lives in a dream, and in\nthat sun-bower still is fed at dawn upon the bloom of flowers and at\ndusk upon their fragrance. _O ogham mhic Gr\u00e9ine, tha e boidheach_,[15]\nshe sighs for ever in her sleep: and that sigh is in all sighs of love\nfor ever and ever.\n\n    [15] \"O beauty of my love the Sun-lord\" (_lit._ \"O Youth, son of\n    the Sun, how fair he is!\")\n\nScathach watched him till he was lost behind the flare of the\ncamp-fires of the rath. For long she stood there, brooding deep; till\nthe sickle of the new moon, which had been like a blown feather over\nthe sun as it sank, stood out in silvershine against the blue-black\nsky, now like a wake in the sea because of the star-dazzle that was\nthere. And what the queen brooded upon was this: whether to send\nemissaries to Eir\u00e8ann, under bond to seek in that land till they found\nM\u00eddir and Et\u00e1in, and to slay M\u00eddir and bring to her the corpse, for a\ngift from her to lay before Cuchullin: or to bring Et\u00e1in to Skye,\nwhere the Queen might see her lose her beauty and wane into death.\nNeither way might win the heart of Cuchullin. The dark tarn of the\nwoman's mind grew blacker with the shadow of that thought.\n\nSlowly she moved d\u00fbn-ward through the night. \"As the moon sometimes is\nseen rising out of the east,\" she muttered, \"and sometimes, as now, is\nfirst seen in the west, so is the heart of love. And if I go west, lo\nthe moon may rise along the sunway: and if I go east, lo the moon may\nbe a white light over the setting sun. And who that knoweth the heart\nof man or woman can tell when the moon of love is to appear full-orbed\nin the east or sickle-wise in the west?\"\n\nIt was on the day following that tidings came out of Eir\u00e8ann. An\nUltonian brought a sword to Cuchullin from Concobar the Ard-righ.\n\n\"The sword has ill upon it, and will die, unless you save it, Cuculain\nson of Lerg,\" said the man.\n\n\"And what is that ill, Ultonian?\" asked the youth.\n\n\"It is thirst.\"\n\nThen Cuchullin understood.\n\nOn the night of his going none looked at Scathach. She had a flame in\nher eyes.\n\nAt moonrise, she came back into the rath. No one, meeting her, looked\nin her face. Death lay there, like the levin behind a cloud. But Maev\nher chief captain sought her, for she had glad news.\n\n\"I would slay you for that glad news, Maev,\" said the Dark Queen to\nthe warrior-woman, \"for there is no glad news unless it be that\nCuchullin is come again: only, I spare, for you saved my life that day\nthe summer-sailors burned my rath in the south.\"\n\nNevertheless, Scathach had gladness because of the tidings. Three\nviking-galleys had been driven into Loch Scavaig, and been dashed to\ndeath there by the whirling wind and the narrow furious seas. Of the\nninety men who had sailed in them, only a score had reached the rocks:\nand these were now lying bound at the d\u00fbn, awaiting death.\n\n\"Call out my warriors,\" said Scathach, \"and bid all meet at the oak\nnear the Ancient Stones. And bring thither the twenty men that lie\nbound in the d\u00fbn.\"\n\nThere was a scattering of fire and a clashing of swords and spears,\nwhen the word went from Maev. Soon all were at the Stones beneath the\ngreat oak.\n\n\"Cut the bonds from the feet of the sea-rovers, and let them stand.\"\nThus commanded the Queen.\n\nThe tall fair men out of Lochlin stood, with their hands bound behind\nthem. In their eyes burned wrath and shame, because that they were the\nsport of women. A bitter death theirs, with no sword-song for music.\n\"Take each by his long yellow hair,\" said Scathach, \"and tie the hair\nof each to a down-caught bough of the oak.\"\n\nIn silence this thing was done. A shadow was in the paleness of each\nviking-face.\n\n\"Let the boughs go,\" said Scathach.\n\nThe five score warrior-women who held the great boughs downward,\nsprang back. Up swept the branches, and from each swung a living man,\nswaying in the wind by his long yellow hair.\n\nGreat men they were, strong warriors: but stronger was the yellow hair\nof each, and stronger than the hair the bough wherefrom each swung\nand stronger than the boughs the wind that swayed them idly like\ndrooping fruit, with the stars silvering their hair and the\ntorch-flares reddening the white soles of their dancing feet.\n\nThen Scathach the Queen laughed loud and long. There was no other\nsound at all there, for none ever uttered sound when Scathach laughed\nthat laugh, for then her madness was upon her.\n\nBut at the last Maev strode forward, and struck a small clarsach that\nshe carried, and to the wild notes of it sang the death-song of the\nvikings.\n\n    O arone a-ree, eily arone, arone!\n    'Tis a good thing to be sailing across the sea!\n    How the women smile and the children are laughing glad\n    When the galleys go out into the blue sea--arone!\n              O eily arone, arone!\n\n    But the children may laugh less when the wolves come,\n    And the women may smile less in the winter--cold--\n    For the Summer-sailors will not come again, arone!\n              O arone a-ree, eily arone, arone!\n\n    I am thinking they will not sail back again, O no!\n    The yellow-haired men that came sailing across the sea:\n    For 'tis wild apples they would be, and swing on green branches,\n    And sway in the wind for the corbies to preen their eyne,\n              O eily arone, eily a-ree!\n\n    And it is pleasure for Scathach the Queen to see this:\n    To see the good fruit that grows upon the Tree of the Stones.\n    Long, speckled fruit it is, wind-swayed by its yellow roots,\n    And like men they are with their feet dancing in the void air!\n              O, O, arone, a-ree, eily arone!\n\nWhen she ceased, all there swung swords and spears, and flung flaring\ntorches into the night, and cried out:\n\n    _O, arone a-ree, eily arone, arone,\n    O, O, arone, a-ree, eily arone!_\n\nScathach laughed no more. She was weary now. Of what avail any joy of\ndeath against the pain she had in her heart, the pain that was called\nCuchullin?\n\nSoon all was dark in the rath. Flame after flame died out. Then there\nwas but one red glare in the night, the watch-fire by the d\u00fbn. Deep\npeace was upon all. Not a heifer lowed, not a dog bayed against the\nmoon. The wind fell into a breath, scarce enough to lift the fragrance\nfrom flower to flower. Upon the branches of a great oak swung\nmotionless a strange fruit, limp and gray as the hemlock that hangs\nfrom ancient pines.\n\n\n\n\nULA AND URLA[16]\n\n    \"Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World!\n    You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled\n    Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring\n    The bell that calls us on: the sweet far thing.\n    Beauty grown sad with its eternity\n    Made you of us, and of the dim gray sea.\"\n\n    [16] The first part of the story of Ula and Urla, as Isla and\n    Eilidh, is told in \"Silk o' the Kine,\" at the end of _The\n    Sin-Eater_. [The name, Eilidh, is pronounced Eily (_liq._) or\n    Isle-ih.]\n\n\nUla and Urla were under vow to meet by the Stone of Sorrow. But Ula,\ndying first, stumbled blindfold when he passed the Shadowy Gate: and,\ntill Urla's hour was upon her, she remembered not.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThese were the names that had been given to them in the north isles,\nwhen the birlinn that ran down the war-galley of the vikings brought\nthem before the Maormor.\n\nNo word had they spoken that day, and no name. They were of the Gael,\nthough Ula's hair was yellow and though his eyes were blue as the\nheart of a wave. They would ask nothing, for both were in love with\ndeath. The Maormor of Siol Tormaid looked at Urla, and his desire\ngnawed at his heart. But he knew what was in her mind, because he saw\ninto it through her eyes, and he feared the sudden slaying in the\ndark.\n\nNevertheless he brooded night and day upon her beauty. Her skin was\nmore white than the foam of the moon: her eyes were as a starlit dewy\ndusk. When she moved, he saw her like a doe in the fern: when she\nstooped, it was as the fall of wind-swayed water. In his eyes there\nwas a shimmer as of the sunflood in a calm sea. In that dazzle he was\nled astray.\n\n\"Go,\" he said to Ula, on a day of the days. \"Go: the men of Siol\nTorquil will take you to the South Isles, and so you can hale to your\nown place, be it Eir\u00e8ann or Manannan, or wherever the south wind puts\nits hand upon your home.\"\n\nIt was on that day Ula spoke for the first time.\n\n\"I will go, Coll mac Torcall: but I go not alone. Urla that I love\ngoes whither I go.\"\n\n\"She is my spoil. But, man out of Eir\u00e8ann--for so I know you to be,\nbecause of the manner of your speech--tell me this: of what clan and\nwhat place are you, and whence is Urla come: and by what shore was it\nthat the men of Lochlin whom we slew took you and her out of the sea,\nas you swam against the sun, with waving swords upon the strand when\nthe viking-boat carried you away?\"\n\n\"How know you these things?\" asked Ula, that had been Isla, son of the\nking of Islay.\n\n\"One of the sea-rovers spake before he died.\"\n\n\"Then let the viking speak again. I have nought to say.\"\n\nWith that the Maormor frowned, but said no more. That eve Ula was\nseized, as he walked in the dusk by the sea, singing low to himself an\nancient song.\n\n\"Is it death?\" he said, remembering another day when he and Eilidh,\nthat they called Urla, had the same asking upon their lips.\n\n\"It is death.\"\n\nUla frowned, but spake no word for a time. Then he spake.\n\n\"Let me say one word with Urla.\"\n\n\"No word canst thou have. She too must die.\"\n\nUla laughed low at that.\n\n\"I am ready,\" he said. And they slew him with a spear.\n\nWhen they told Urla she rose from the deer-skins and went down to the\nshore. She said no word, then. But she stooped, and she put her lips\nupon his cold lips: and she whispered in his unhearing ear.\n\nThat night Coll mac Torcall went secretly to where Urla was. When he\nentered, a groan came to his lips, and there was froth there: and that\nwas because the spear that had slain Ula was thrust betwixt his\nshoulders by one who stood in the shadow. He lay there till the dawn.\nWhen they found Coll the Maormor he was like a seal speared upon a\nrock, for he had his hands out, and his head was between them, and his\nface was downward.\n\n\"Eat dust, slain wolf,\" was all that Eilidh whom they called Urla said\nere she moved away from that place in the darkness of the night.\n\nWhen the sun rose, Urla was in a glen among the hills. A man who\nshepherded there took her to his mate. They gave her milk, and because\nof her beauty, and the frozen silence of her eyes, bade her stay with\nthem, and be at peace.\n\nThey knew, in time, that she wished death. But, first, there was the\nbirthing of the child.\n\n\"It was Isla's will,\" she said to the woman. Ula was but the shadow of\na bird's wing: an idle name. And she, too, was Eilidh once more. \"It\nwas death he gave you when he gave you the child,\" said the woman\nonce.\n\n\"It was life,\" answered Eilidh, with her eyes filled with the shadow\nof dream. And yet another day the woman said to her that it would be\nwell to bear the child and let it die: for beauty was like sunlight on\na day of clouds, and if she were to go forth young and alone and so\nwondrous fair, she would have love, and love is best.\n\n\"Truly, love is best,\" Eilidh answered. \"And because Isla loved me, I\nwould that another Isla came into the world, and sang his songs--the\nsongs that were so sweet, and the songs that he never sang, because I\ngave him death when I gave him life. But now he shall live again--and\nhe and I shall be in one body, in him that I carry now.\"\n\nAt that the woman understood, and said no more. And so the days grew\nout of the nights, and the dust of the feet of one month was in the\neyes of that which followed after: and this until Eilidh's time was\ncome.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDusk after dusk, Ula that was Isla the Singer, waited by the Stone of\nSorrow. Then a great weariness came upon him. He made a song there,\nwhere he lay in the narrow place: the last song that he made, for\nafter that he heard no trampling of the hours.\n\n    The swift years slip and slide adown the steep;\n      The slow years pass; neither will come again.\n    Yon huddled years have weary eyes that weep,\n      These laugh, these moan, these silent frown, these plain,\n      These have their lips acurl with proud disdain.\n\n    O years with tears, and tears through weary years,\n      How weary I who in your arms have lain:\n    Now, I am tired: the sound of slipping spears\n      Moves soft, and tears fall in a bloody rain,\n      And the chill footless years go over me who am slain.\n\n    I hear, as in a wood, dim with old light, the rain,\n      Slow falling; old, old, weary, human tears:\n    And in the deepening dark my comfort is my Pain,\n      Sole comfort left of all my hopes and fears,\n      Pain that alone survives, gaunt hound of the shadowy years.\n\nBut, at the last, after many days, he stirred. There was a song in his\nears.\n\nHe listened. It was like soft rain in a wood in June. It was like the\nwind laughing among the leaves.\n\nThen his heart leapt. Sure, it was the voice of Eilidh!\n\n\"_Eilidh! Eilidh! Eilidh!_\" he cried. But a great weariness came upon\nhim again. He fell asleep, knowing not the little hand that was in his\nand the small flower-sweet body that was warm against his side.\n\nThen the child that was his looked into the singer's heart, and saw\nthere a mist of rainbows, and midway in that mist was the face of\nEilidh his mother.\n\nThereafter the little one looked into his brain that was so still, and\nhe saw the music that was there: and it was the voice of Eilidh his\nmother.\n\nAnd, again, the birdeen, that had the blue of Isla's eyes and the\ndream of Eilidh's, looked into Ula's sleeping soul: and he saw that it\nwas not Isla nor yet Eilidh, but that it was like unto himself, who\nwas made of Eilidh and Isla.\n\nFor a long time the child dreamed. Then he put his ear to Isla's brow,\nand listened. Ah, the sweet songs that he heard. Ah, bitter-sweet\nmoonseed of song! Into his life they passed, echo after echo, strain\nafter strain, wild air after wild sweet air.\n\n\"Isla shall never die,\" whispered the child, \"for Eilidh loved him.\nAnd I am Isla and Eilidh.\"\n\nThen the little one put his hands above Isla's heart. There was a\nflame there, that the Grave quenched not.\n\n\"O flame of love!\" sighed the child, and he clasped it to his breast:\nand it was a moonshine glory about the two hearts that he had, the\nheart of Isla and the heart of Eilidh, that were thenceforth one.\n\nAt dawn he was no longer there. Already the sunrise was warm upon him\nwhere he lay, newborn, upon the breast of Eilidh.\n\n\"It is the end,\" murmured Isla when he waked. \"She has never come.\nFor sure now, the darkness and the silence.\"\n\nThen he remembered the words of Maol the Druid, he that was a seer and\nhad told him of Orchil, the dim goddess who is under the brown earth,\nin a vast cavern, where she weaves at two looms. With one hand she\nweaves life upward through the grass: with the other she weaves death\ndownward through the mould: and the sound of the weaving is Eternity,\nand the name of it in the green world is Time. And, through all,\nOrchil weaves the weft of Eternal Beauty, that passeth not, though its\nsoul is Change.\n\nAnd these were the words of Orchil, on the lips of Maol the Druid,\nthat was old, and knew the mystery of the Grave:\n\n    _When thou journeyest towards the Shadowy Gate take neither\n    Fear with thee nor Hope, for both are abashed hounds of\n    silence in that place: but take only the purple nightshade\n    for sleep, and a vial of tears and wine, tears that shall be\n    known unto thee and old wine of love. So shalt thou have thy\n    silent festival, ere the end._\n\nSo therewith Isla, having in his weariness the nightshade of sleep,\nand in his mind the slow dripping rain of familiar tears, and deep in\nhis heart the old wine of love, bowed his head.\n\nIt was well to have lived, since life was Eilidh. It was well to cease\nto live, since Eilidh came no more.\n\nThen suddenly he raised his head. There was music in the green world\nabove. A sun-ray opened the earth about him: staring upward he beheld\nAngus Ogue.\n\n\"Ah, fair face of the god of youth,\" he sighed. Then he saw the white\nbirds that fly about the head of Angus Ogue, and he heard the music\nthat his breath made upon the harp of the wind.\n\n\"Arise,\" said Angus; and, when he smiled, the white birds flashed\ntheir wings and made a mist of rainbows.\n\n\"Arise,\" said Angus Ogue again; and, when he spoke, the spires of the\ngrass quivered to a wild sweet haunting air.\n\nSo Isla arose, and the sun shone upon him, and his shadow passed into\nthe earth. Orchil wove it into her web of death.\n\n\"Why dost thou wait here by the Stone of Sorrow, Isla that was called\nUla at the end?\"\n\n\"I wait for Eilidh, who cometh not.\"\n\nAt that the wind-listening god stooped and laid his head upon the\ngrass.\n\n\"I hear the coming of a woman's feet,\" he said, and he rose.\n\n\"Eilidh! Eilidh!\" cried Isla, and the sorrow of his cry was a moan in\nthe web of Orchil.\n\nAngus Ogue took a branch, and put the cool greenness against his\ncheek.\n\n\"I hear the beating of a heart,\" he said.\n\n\"Eilidh! Eilidh! Eilidh!\" Isla cried, and the tears that were in his\nvoice were turned by Angus into dim dews of remembrance in the\nbabe-brain that was the brain of Isla and Eilidh.\n\n\"I hear a word,\" said Angus Ogue, \"and that word is a flame of joy.\"\n\nIsla listened. He heard a singing of birds. Then, suddenly, a glory\ncame into the shine of the sun.\n\n\"_I have come, Isla my king!_\"\n\nIt was the voice of Eilidh. He bowed his head, and swayed; for it was\nhis own life that came to him.\n\n\"_Eilidh!_\" he whispered.\n\nAnd so, at the last, Isla came into his kingdom.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut are they gone, these twain, who loved with deathless love? Or is\nthis a dream that I have dreamed?\n\nAfar in an island-sanctuary that I shall not see again, where the wind\nchants the blind oblivious rune of Time, I have heard the grasses\nwhisper: _Time never was, Time is not._\n\n\n    PRINTED BY JOHN WILSON AND SON AT\n    THE UNIVERSITY PRESS IN CAMBRIDGE\n      DURING JUNE M DCCC XCVI. FOR\n           STONE AND KIMBALL\n               NEW YORK\n             [Decoration]\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note\n\nSome stories are divided into roman numbered sections. In some cases,\nthe first section had no number. This is preserved as printed.\n\nMinor punctuation errors have been repaired.\n\nHyphenation and accent usage have been made consistent where there was\na clear prevalence of one form over another.\n\nThe footnote on page 321 had no corresponding marker in the text. The\ntranscriber has guessed the most likely position of the marker.\n\nVariations in spelling are preserved as printed, for example,\nAnnir-Coille and Annir-Choille; Cailliach and Cailleach; Halival and\nHaleval; Haskeval and Haskival. However, the following appeared to be\nprinter errors, and have been amended as follows:\n\n    Page 50--Brighde-nam-Bratj amended to Brighde-nam-Brat--...\n    is \"Brighde-nam-Brat,\" that is, ...\n\n    Page 54--Loc amended to Loch--... that was then called Loch\n    Feobal.\n\n    Page 135--Padruice amended to Padruic--... I sailed with\n    Padruic Macrae and Ivor McLean, ...\n\n    Page 254--Bad-a-sgailch amended to Bad-a-sgailich--_Baille 'n\n    Bad-a-sgailich_: the Farm of the Shadowy Clump of Trees.\n\n    Page 329--thae amended to that--... that passeth not, though\n    its soul is Change.\n\nRepeated titles have been deleted.","title":"The Washer of the Ford: Legendary moralities and barbaric tales","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":53300}