{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_43485/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_43485","id":"gutenberg_43485","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43485","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","Category: Romance","Scotland -- Fiction"],"text":"The Writings of\n  \"FIONA MACLEOD\"\n\n  _UNIFORM EDITION_\n\n  ARRANGED BY\n  MRS. WILLIAM SHARP\n\n\n  _I too will set my face to the wind and\n  throw my handful of seed on high._\n\n  --F. M.\n\n\n[Illustration: Fiona Macleod]\n\n\n  Pharais\n  and\n  The Mountain Lovers\n\n  BY\n  \"FIONA MACLEOD\"\n  (WILLIAM SHARP)\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  NEW YORK\n  DUFFIELD & COMPANY\n  1910\n\n\n  COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY\n  STONE & KIMBALL\n\n  COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY\n  JOHN LANE\n\n  COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY\n  DUFFIELD & COMPANY\n\n\n  THE TROW PRESS, NEW YORK\n\n\n\n\n  CONTENTS\n\n\n                                  PAGE\n\n  FOREWORD                         vii\n  By ELIZABETH A. SHARP\n\n  PHARAIS                           11\n\n  THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS              181\n\n  BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE             401\n  By MRS. WILLIAM SHARP\n\n\n\n\n\"_It is Loveliness I seek, not lovely things._\"\n\n\n\n\nFOREWORD\n\n\nInto this collected edition are gathered all the writings of William\nSharp published under his pseudonym \"Fiona Macleod,\" which he cared to\nhave preserved; writings characterised by the distinctive idiom he\nrecognised to be the expression of one side of his very dual nature--of\nthe spiritual, intuitive, subjective self as distinct from the mental,\nreasoning, objective self.\n\nIn the preparation of this edition I have carefully followed the\nauthor's written and spoken instructions as to selection, deletion, and\narrangement. To the preliminary arrangement he gave much thought,\nespecially to the revision of the text, and he made considerable changes\nin the later version of certain of the poems and tales. In one instance\nonly have I acted on my own judgment, and have done so because I felt\nsatisfied he would have offered no objection to my suggestion. In\naccordance with his decision the romance _Green Fire_ is not reissued\nin its entirety, because he considered the construction of it to be\nseriously defective. He rewrote the second half of the story--the only\nportion he cared to keep--renamed it \"The Herdsman\" and included it in\n_The Dominion of Dreams_. Scattered throughout _Green Fire_ there are a\nnumber of \"Thoughts\" which I and other readers are desirous of\npreserving; I have therefore gathered them together and have included\nthem in the form of detached \"Fragments.\"\n\nThe _Laughter of Peterkin_ is also excluded, because it is a retelling\nof old familiar Celtic tales and not primarily an original work. Two of\nthese retellings, however, _Deirdre and the Sons of Usna_, and _The Four\nWhite Swans_ have been published separately in America by Mr. Mosher\n(Portland, Maine).\n\nThough the \"Fiona Macleod\" phase belongs to the last twelve years of\nWilliam Sharp's life, the formative influences which prepared the way\nfor it went back to childhood. Though \"the pains and penalties of\nimpecuniosity\" during his early struggles in London tended temporarily\nto silence the intuitive subjective side of his nature in the necessary\ndevelopment of the more objective intellectual \"William Sharp\"--critic,\nbiographer, essay and novel writer as well as poet--he never lost sight\nof his desire to give expression to his other self.\n\nWilliam Sharp was born in 1855 of Scottish parents (he died at Maniace,\nSicily, in 1905), was educated at the Academy and University of Glasgow,\nand spent much of his youth among the Gaelic-speaking fisher-folk and\nshepherds of the West Highlands. After a voyage to Australia for his\nhealth, he settled in London in 1878 and strove to make for himself a\nplace in the profession of Literature. His friendships with Rossetti,\nBrowning, Pater, Meredith were important factors in his development; and\nlater he came into valued personal touch with W. D. Howells, Richard\nStoddart, Edward Clarence Stedman, and other English and American men of\nletters.\n\nIn 1886, not long after his marriage, he suffered a serious illness and\na protracted convalescence. During the enforced leisure he dreamed many\ndreams, saw visions, and remembered many things out of the past both\npersonal and racial. He determined, should he recover, to bend every\neffort to ensure the necessary leisure wherein to write that which lay\nnearest his heart. Accordingly in 1889 he left London for a time. The\nfirst outcome of a wonderful winter and spring in Rome was a volume of\nverse, in unrhymed metre, _Sospiri di Roma_, privately published in\n1891, and followed in 1893 by a volume of dramatic interludes, _Vistas_;\nand, though both are a blending of the two elements of the poet's dual\nnature, they to some extent foreshadowed the special phase of work that\nfollowed. He was feeling his way, but did not find what he sought until\nhe wrote _Pharais_, the first of the series of books which he issued\nunder the pseudonym of \"Fiona Macleod.\"\n\nIn the sunshine and quiet of a little cottage in Sussex; in the delight\nin \"the green life\" about him; impelled by the stimulus of a fine\nfriendship, he had gone back to the influences of his early memories,\nand he began to give expression to his vision of the Beauty of the\nWorld, of the meaning of Life, of its joys and sorrows. The ultimate\ncharacteristic expression of his \"dream self\" was due to the inspiration\nand incentive of the friend to whom he dedicated _Pharais_. It was, as\nhe states in a letter to me written in 1896, \"to her I owe my\ndevelopment as 'Fiona Macleod,' though in a sense, of course, that began\nlong before I knew her, and indeed while I was a child\"; and again,\n\"without her there would never have been any 'Fiona Macleod.'\"\n\nThe volumes appeared in quick succession. _Pharais_ in 1894; _The\nMountain Lovers_ in 1895; _The Sin-Eater_ in 1895; _The Washer of the\nFord_ in 1896; _Green Fire_ in 1896; _The Laughter of Peterkin_ in 1897;\n_The Dominion of Dreams_ in 1899; and a volume of poems, _From the Hills\nof Dream_, in 1896. A second serious illness intervened, and in 1900 he\npublished _The Divine Adventure_, and in 1904 _The Winged Destiny_. Of\nhis two dramas, written in 1898-9, _The House of Usna_ was performed by\nthe Stage Society in London in 1900, and was issued in book form in\nAmerica by Mr. Mosher in 1903; _The Immortal Hour_ was published in\nAmerica in 1907 and in England in 1908. The volume of nature essays,\n_Where the Forest Murmurs_, and an enlarged edition of _From the Hills\nof Dream_ were also published posthumously.\n\nFor twelve years the name of \"Fiona Macleod\" was one of the mysteries of\ncontemporary literature. The question of \"her\" identity provoked\ndiscussion on both sides of the Atlantic; conjecture at times touched\nthe truth and threatened disclosure. But the secret was loyally guarded\nby the small circle of friends in whom he had confided. \"'Fiona' dies\"\nhe was wont to say, \"should the secret be found out.\" These friends\nsympathised with and respected the author's desire to create for\nhimself, by means of a pseudonym, the necessary seclusion wherein to\nweave his dreams and visions into outward form; to write a series of\nCeltic poems, romances and essays different in character from the\nliterary and critical work with which William Sharp had always\napproached his public.\n\nIn a letter to an American friend written in 1893, before he had decided\non the use of the pseudonym, he relates: \"I am writing a strange Celtic\ntale called _Pharais_, wherein the weird charm and terror of the night\nof tragic significance is brought home to the reader (or I hope so) by a\nstretch of dew-sweet moonflowers glimmering white through the mirk of a\ndust laden with sea-mist. Though the actual scene was written a year ago\nand one or other of the first parts of _Pharais_, I am going to rewrite\nit.\" In 1895 he wrote to the same friend who had received a copy of the\nbook, and who, remembering the statement, was puzzled by the name of the\nauthor: \"Yes, _Pharais_ is mine. It is a book out of the core of my\nheart.... Ignored in some quarters, abused in others, and unheeded by\nthe general reader, it has yet had a reception that has made me deeply\nglad. It is the beginning of my true work. Only one or two know that I\nam 'Fiona Macleod.'\" To the last the secret was carefully guarded for\nhim, until he passed \"from the dream of Beauty to Beauty.\"\n\nIn the author's \"Foreword\" to the Tauchnitz selection of the Fiona\nMacleod Tales, entitled _Wind and Wave_, he has set down in explanation\nwhat here may be fittingly reprinted. He explains that in certain\nsections are tales of the old Gaelic and Celtic-Scandinavian life and\nmythology; that in others there is a blending of Paganism and\nChristianity; in others again \"are tales of the dreaming imagination\nhaving their base in old mythology or in a kindred mythop\u0153ic source....\nThey divide broadly into tales of the world that was and tales of the\nworld that is, because the colour and background of the one series are\nof a day that is past, and past not only for us, but for the forgetting\nrace itself; while the colour and background of the other, if\ninterchangeable, is not of a past, but only of a passing world which\nlies in essential truth in nature, material or spiritual, the truth of\nactual reality, and the truth of imaginative reality....\n\n\"Many of these tales are of the grey wandering wave of the West, and\nthrough each goes the wind of the Gaelic spirit, which everywhere\ndesires infinitude, but in the penury of things as they are turns upon\nitself to the dim enchantment of dreams. And what are these, whether of\na single heart on the braes of sorrow or of the weariness of unnumbered\nminds in the maze of time and fate, but the dreams of the wavering\nimages of dreams, with which for a thousand years the Gael has met the\nignominies and sorrows of a tragical destiny; the intangible merchandise\nwhich he continually creates and continually throws away, as the May\nwind gathers and scatters the gold of the broom.\"\n\nElizabeth A. Sharp.\n\n\n\n\n  PHARAIS\n\n  A ROMANCE OF THE ISLES\n\n\n\n\n  \"_Mithich domh triall gu tigh Pharais._\"\n  (It is time for me to go up unto the House of Paradise.)\n                                           Muireadhach Albannach.\n\n\n  \"_How many beautiful things have come to us from Pharais._\"\n                                             \"Bileag-na-Tosc\u00f9il.\"\n\n\n\n\n  _To_\n  _E.W.R._\n\n\n_Dear friend,--While you gratify me by your pleasure in this\ninscription, you modestly deprecate the dedication to you of this story\nof alien life--of that unfamiliar island-life so alien in all ways from\nthe life of cities, and, let me add, from that of the great mass of the\nnation to which, in the communal sense, we both belong. But in the\nDomhan-T\u00f2ir of friendship there are resting-places where all barriers of\nrace, training, and circumstance fall away in dust. At one of these\nplaces of peace we met, a long while ago, and found that we loved the\nsame things, and in the same way. You have been in the charmed West\nyourself; have seen the gloom and shine of the mountains that throw\ntheir shadow on the sea: have heard the wave whisper along that haunted\nshore which none loves save with passion, and none, loving, can bear to\nbe long parted from. You, unlike so many who delight only in the magic\nof sunshine and cloud, love this dear land when the mists drive across\nthe hillsides, and the brown torrents are in spate, and the rain and the\nblack wind make a gloom upon every loch, and fill with the dusk of storm\nevery strath, and glen, and corrie. Not otherwise can one love it\naright_: \"Tir nam Beann s'nan gleann' s'nan ghaisgach,\" _as one of our\nancient poets calls it--\"The land of hills, and glens, and heroes.\" You,\ntoo, like Deirdre of old, have looked back on \"Alba,\" and, finding it\npassing fair and dear, have, with the Celtic Helen, said in your\nheart_--\n\n  Inmain tir in tir ud thoir,\n  Alba cona lingantaibh! . . .\n  _'Belov\u00e9d is that eastern land,\n  Alba of the lochs._'\n\n_In the mythology of the Gael are three forgotten deities, children of\nDelbaith-Dana. These are Seithoir, Teithoir, and Keithoir. One dwells\nthroughout the sea, and beneath the soles of the feet of another are the\nhighest clouds; and these two may be held sacred for the beauty they\nweave for the joy of eye and ear. But now that, as surely none may\ngainsay, Keithoir is blind and weary, let us worship at his fane rather\nthan give all our homage to the others. For Keithoir is the _god of\nthe earth; dark-eyed, shadowy brother of Pan; and his fane is among the\nlonely glens and mountains and lonelier isles of_ \"Alba cona\nlingantaibh.\" _It is because you and I are of the children of Keithoir\nthat I wished to grace my book with your name._\n\n_The most nature-wrought of the English poets hoped he was not too late\nin transmuting into his own verse something of the beautiful mythology\nof Greece. But while Keats spun from the inexhaustible loom of genius,\nand I am but an obscure chronicler of obscure things, is it too\npresumptuous of me to hope that here, and mayhap elsewhere, I, the\nlatest comer among older and worthier celebrants and co-enthusiasts,\nlikewise may do something, howsoever little, to win a further measure of\nheed for, and more intimate sympathy with, that old charm and stellar\nbeauty of Celtic thought and imagination, now, alas, like so many other\nlovely things, growing more and more remote, discoverable seldom in\nbooks, and elusive amid the sayings and oral legends and fragmentary\nsongs of a passing race?_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_A passing race: and yet, mayhap not so. Change is inevitable; and even\nif we could hear the wind blowing along Magh Mell--the Plain of\nHoney--we might list to a new note, bitter-sweet: and, doubtless, the\nwaves falling over the green roof of Tir-na-Thonn' murmur drowsily of a\nshifting of the veils of circumstance, which Keithoir weaves blindly in\nhis dark place. But what was, surely is; and what is, surely may yet be.\nThe form changes; the essential abides. As the saying goes among the\nisle-folk: The shadow fleets beneath the cloud driven by the wind, and\nthe cloud falls in rain or is sucked of the sun, but the wind sways this\nway and that for ever. It may well be that the Celtic Dream is not\ndoomed to become a memory merely. Were it so, there would be less joy in\nall Springs to come, less hope in all brown Autumns; and the cold of a\ndeathlier chill in all Winters still dreaming by the Pole. For the\nCeltic joy in the life of Nature--the Celtic vision--is a thing apart:\nit is a passion; a visionary rapture. There is none like it among the\npeoples of our race._\n\n_Meanwhile, there are a few remote spots, as yet inviolate. Here, Anima\nCeltica still lives and breathes and hath her being. She dreams: but if\nshe awake, it may not necessarily be to a deepening twilight, or to a\nforlorn passage to Tir Tairngire--that Land of Promise whose borders\nshine with the loveliness of all forfeited, or lost, or banished dreams\nand realities of Beauty. It may be that she will arise to a wider\nsway, over a disfrontiered realm. Blue are the hills that are far from\nus. Dear saying of the Gael, whose soul as well as whose heart speaks\ntherein. Far hills recede, recede! Dim veils of blue, woven from within\nand without, haunt us, allure us, always, always!_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_But now, before I send you my last word of greeting, let me add (rather\nfor other readers than for you, who already know of them) a word\nconcerning the Gaelic runes interpolated in_ Pharais.[1]\n\n     [1] _A slightly anglicised lection of the Gaelic word_ P\u00e0ras =\n     Paradise, _Heaven_. \"Pharais,\" _properly, is the genitive and\n     dative case of P\u00e0ras, as in the line from Muireadhach Albannach,\n     quoted after the title page_. \"Mithich domh triall gu tigh\n     Pharais\"--\"_It is time for me to go up unto the House of\n     Paradise_.\"\n\n_The_ \"Urnuigh Smalaidh an Teine\" (_p. 42_) _and_ \"Au t Altachadh Leapa\"\n(_p. 43_)--_respectively a prayer to be said at covering up the\npeat-fire at bed-time and a Rest-blessing--are relics of ancient Celtic\nfolklore which were sent to the Rev. Dr. Alexander Stewart, of \"Nether\nLochaber\" fame, by Mr. A. A. Carmichael, of South Uist, who took them\ndown from the recitation of a man living at Iocar of Uist. From the same\nHebridean source came the \"Rann Buacbailleac,\" or rune to be said over\ncattle when led to pasture at morn, introduced at p. 49. The English\nversions, by Dr. Stewart, appeared first in_ \"The Inverness Courier,\"\n_over twenty years ago. There are several versions current of the\nauthentic incident of the innocent old woman held to be a witch, and of\nher prayer. I weave into my story the episode as I heard it many years\nago, though with the rune rescued from oblivion by Dr. Stewart, rather\nthan with the longer and commonly corrupted version still to be heard by\nthe croft-fire in many localities, all \"the far cry\" from the Ord of\nSutherland to the Rhinns of Islay. The_ \"Laoidh Mhnathan\"--_the Chant of\nWomen, at p. 100--is not ancient in the actual form here given, which is\nfrom an unpublished volume of_ \"Or\u00e0in' Spioradail.\"\n\n_The sweetest-voiced of the younger Irish singers of to-day has spoken\nof the Celtic Twilight. A twilight it is; but, if night follow gloaming,\nso also does dawn succeed night. Meanwhile, twilight voices are sweet,\nif faint and far, and linger lovingly in the ear._\n\n_There is another P\u00e0ras than that seen of Alastair of Innisr\u00f2n--the\nTir-Nan-Oigh of friendship. Therein we both have seen beautiful visions\nand dreamed dreams. Take, then, out of my heart, this book of vision and\ndream._\n\n                                                       _FIONA MACLEOD._\n\n\n\n\n          \"_O bileag-geal,\n  O bileag-na-Tosc\u00f9il, bileag Pharais,\n          O tha e boidheach!\n          Tha e boidheach!_\"\n\n\n\n\nPharais\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nIt was midway in the seventh month of her great joy that the child\nmoved, while a rapture leaped to her heart, within the womb of Lora,\ndaughter of the dead Norman Maclean, minister of Innisr\u00f2n, in the Outer\nIsles.\n\nOn the same eve the cruel sorrow came to her that had lain waiting in\nthe dark place beyond the sunrise.\n\nAlastair, her so dearly beloved, had gone, three days earlier, by the\nWestern Isles steamer, to the port of Greenock, thence to fare to\nGlasgow, to learn from a great professor of medicine concerning that\nwhich so troubled him--both by reason of what the islesmen whispered\namong themselves, and for what he felt of his own secret pain and\napprehension.\n\nThere was a rocky spur on Innisr\u00f2n, whence the watcher could scan the\nheadland round which the _Clansman_ would come on her thrice-weekly\nvoyage: in summer, while the isles were still steeped in the yellow\nshine; in autumn, when the sky seaward was purple, and every boulder in\neach islet was as transparent amber amid a vapour of amethyst rising\nfrom bases and hollow caverns of a cold day-dawn blue.\n\nHither Lora had come in the wane of the afternoon. The airs were as\ngentle and of as sweet balmy breath as though it were Summer-sleep\nrather than only the extreme of May. The girl looked, shading her eyes,\nseaward; and saw the blue of the midmost sky laid as a benediction upon\nthe face of the deep, but paler by a little, as the darkest turquoise is\npale beside the lightest sapphire. She lifted her eyes from the\npearl-blue of the horizon to the heart of the zenith, and saw there the\nsoul of Ocean gloriously arisen. Beneath the weedy slabs of rock whereon\nshe stood, the green of the sea-moss lent a yellow gleam to the\nslow-waving dead-man's-hair which the tide laved to and fro sleepily, as\nthough the bewitched cattle of Seumas the seer were drowsing there\nunseen, known only of their waving tails, swinging silently as the bulls\ndreamed of the hill-pastures they should see no more. Yellow-green in\nthe sunlit spaces as the sea-hair was, it was dark against the shifting\ngreen light of the water under the rocks, and till so far out as the\nmoving blue encroached.\n\nTo Lora's right ran a curved inlet, ending in a pool fringed with\ndappled fronds of sea-fern, mare's-tails, and intricate bladder-wrack.\nIn the clear hollow were visible the wave-worn stones at the bottom,\nmany crowned with spreading anemones, with here and there a star-fish\nmotionlessly agleam, or a cloud of vanishing shrimps above the patches\nof sand, or hermit crabs toiling cumbrously from perilous shelter to\nmore sure havens. Looking down she saw herself, as though her wraith had\nsuddenly crept therein and was waiting to whisper that which, once\nuttered and once heard, would mean disunion no more.\n\nSlipping softly to her knees, she crouched over the pool. Long and\ndreamily she gazed into its depths. What was this phantasm, she\nwondered, that lay there in the green-gloom as though awaiting her? Was\nit, in truth, the real Lora, and she but the wraith?\n\nHow strangely expressionless was that pale face, looking upward with so\nstraightforward a mien, yet with so stealthy an understanding, with dark\nabysmal eyes filled with secrecy and dread, if not, indeed, with\nsomething of menace.\n\nA thrill of fear went to the girl's heart. A mass of shadow had\nsuddenly obscured her image in the water. Her swift fancy suggested that\nher wraith had abruptly shrouded herself, fearful of revelation. The\nnext moment she realised that her own wealth of dark hair had fallen\ndown her neck and upon her shoulders--hair dusky as twilight, but\ninterwrought with threads of bronze that, in the shine of fire or sun,\nmade an evasive golden gleam.\n\nShe shuddered as she perceived the eyes of her other self intently\nwatching her through that cloudy shadow. A breath came from the pool,\nsalt and shrewd, and cold as though arisen from those sea-sepulchres\nwhence the fish steal their scales of gold and silver. A thin voice was\nin her ears that was not the lap of the tide or the cluck of water\ngurgling in and out of holes and crannies.\n\nWith a startled gesture she shrank back.\n\n\"What is it? What is it?\" she cried; but the sound of her own awed voice\nbroke the spell: and almost at the same moment an eddy of wind came\ncircling over the rock-bastions of the isle, and, passing as a tremulous\nhand over the pool, ruffled it into a sudden silvery sheen.\n\nWith a blithe laugh, Lora rose to her feet. The sunlight dwelt about her\nas though she were the sweetest flower in that lost garden of Aodh the\npoet, where the streams are unspanned rainbows flowing to the skyey\ncauldrons below the four quarters, and where every white flower has at\ndusk a voice, a whisper, of surpassing sweetness.\n\n\"O Alastair, Alastair!\" she cried, \"will the boat never be coming that\nis to bring you back to me!\"\n\nNot a black spot anywhere, of wherry or steamer, caught the leaping\ngaze. Like a bird it moved across the sea, and found no object whereon\nto alight.\n\nThe _Clansman_ was often late; but her smoke could be seen across\nDunmore Head nigh upon quarter of an hour before her prow combed the\nfroth from the Sound.\n\nWith a sigh, the girl moved slowly back by the way she had come. Over\nand over, as she went, she sang, crooningly, lines from a sweet song of\nthe Gael, _O, Till, a Leannain!_\n\nAs she passed a place of birchen undergrowth and tall bracken, she did\nnot see an old man, seated, grey and motionless as a heron. He looked at\nher with the dull eyes of age, though there was pity in them and\nsomething of a bewildered awe.\n\n\"Ay,\" he muttered below his breath, \"though ye sing for your dear one\nto return, ye know not what I know. Have I not had the vision of him\nwith the mist growin' up an' up, an' seen the green grass turn to black\nmools at his feet?\"\n\nLora, unwitting, passed; and he heard her voice wax and wane, as falling\nwater in a glen where the baffled wind among the trees soughs now this\nway and now that:--\n\n  \"_Mo chridhe-sa! 's tusa 'bhios truagh, 'bhios truagh,\n  Mur pill is' 'thog oirre gu cluaidh, gu cluaidh!_\"\n\nShe went past the boulder on the path that hid the clachan from view,\nand within a net-throw of which was the byre of Mrs. Maclean's cottage,\nwhere, since her father's death, she had dwelt.\n\nA tall, gaunt, elderly woman, with hair of the ivory white of the\nsnowberry, was about to pass from behind the byre with a burthen of\nfresh bracken for Ian Maclean's bed--for the old islesman abode by the\nway of his fathers, and was content to sleep on a deerskin spread upon\nfresh-gathered fern--when she caught sight of Lora. She stopped, and\nwith an eager glance looked at the girl: then beyond, and finally\nseaward, with her long, thin, brown arm at an angle, and her hand\ncurved over her eyes against the glare of the water.\n\nSilence was about her as a garment. Every motion of her, even, suggested\na deep calm. Mrs. Maclean spoke seldom, and when she said aught it was\nin a low voice, sweet and serene, but as though it came from a distance\nand in the twilight. She was of the shadow, as the islesmen say; and\nstrangers thought her to be austere in look and manner, though that was\nonly because she gazed long before she replied to one foreign to her and\nher life: having the Gaelic, too, so much more natively than the\nEnglish, that oftentimes she had to translate the one speech into the\nother nearer to her: that, and also because the quiet of the sea was\nupon her, as often with hill-folk there is a hushed voice and mien.\n\nLora knew what was in her mind when she saw her gaze go seaward and then\nsweep hither and thither like a hawk ere it settles.\n\n\"The boat is not yet in sight, Mary; she is late,\" she said simply:\nadding immediately, \"I have come back to go up Cnoc-an-Iolair; from\nthere I'll see the smoke of the _Clansman_ sooner. She is often as late\nas this.\"\n\nMrs. Maclean looked compassionately at the girl.\n\n\"Mayhap the _Clansman_ will not be coming this way at all to-night,\nLora. She may be going by Kyle-na-Sith.\"\n\nA flush came into Lora's face. Her eyes darkened, as a tarn under rain.\n\n\"And for why should she not be sailing this way to-night, when Alastair\nis coming home, and is to be here before sundown?\"\n\n\"He may have been unable to leave. If he does not come to-day, he will\ndoubtless be here to-morrow.\"\n\n\"To-morrow! O Mary, Mary, have you ever loved, that you can speak like\nthat? Think what Alastair went away for! Surely you do not know how the\npain is at my heart?\"\n\n\"Truly, _m\u00f9irnean_. But it is not well to be sure of that which may\neasily happen otherwise.\"\n\n\"To-morrow, indeed! Why, Mary, if the _Clansman_ does not come by this\nevening, and has gone as you say by Kyle-na-Sith, she will not be here\nagain till the day _after_ to-morrow!\"\n\n\"Alastair could come by the other way, by the Inverary boat, and thence\nby the herring-steamer from Dunmore, after he had reached it from Uan\nPoint or by way of Craig-Sionnach.\"\n\n\"That may be, of course; but I think not. I cannot believe the boat will\nnot be here to-night.\"\n\nBoth stood motionless, with their hands shading their eyes, and looking\nacross the wide Sound, where the tide bubbled and foamed against the\nslight easterly wind-drift. The late sunlight fell full upon them,\nworking its miracle of gold here and there, and making the skin like a\nflower. The outline of each figure stood out darkly clear as against a\nscreen of amber.\n\nFor a time neither spoke. At last, with a faint sigh, Mrs. Maclean\nturned.\n\n\"Did you see Ian on your way, _Lora-mo-ghr\u00e0idh_?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Do not have speech with the old man to-night, dear one. He is not\nhimself.\"\n\n\"Has he had the sight again?\"\n\n\"Ay, Lora.\"\n\nAgain a silence fell. The girl stood moodily, with her eyes on the\nground: the elder watched her with a steadfast, questioning look.\n\n\"Mary!\"\n\nMrs. Maclean made no reply, but her eyes brought Lora's there with the\nanswer that was in them.\n\n\"Ian has never had the sight again upon ... upon Alastair, has he?\"\n\n\"How can I say?\"\n\n\"But do you know if he has? If you do not tell me, I will ask him.\"\n\n\"I asked him that only yester-morning. He shook his head.\"\n\n\"Do you believe he can foresee all that is to happen?\"\n\n\"No. Those who have the vision do not read all that is in the future.\nOnly God knows. They can see the thing of peril, ay, and the evil of\naccident, and even Death--and what is more, the nearness and sometimes\nthe way of it. But no man sees more than this--unless, indeed, he has\nbeen to Tir-na-h'Oigh.\"\n\nMrs. Maclean spoke the last words almost in a whisper, and as though she\nsaid them in a dream.\n\n\"Unless he has been to Tir-na-h'Oigh, Mary?\"\n\n\"So it is said. Our people believe that the Land of Eternal Youth lies\nfar yonder across the sea; but Aodh, the poet, is right when he tells us\nthat that land is lapped by no green waves such as we know here, and\nthat those who go thither do so in sleep, or in vision, or when God has\nfilled with dusk the house of the brain.\"\n\n\"And when a man has been to Tir-na-h'Oigh in sleep, or in dream, or in\nmind-dark, does he see there what shall soon happen here?\"\n\n\"It is said.\"\n\n\"Has Ian been beyond the West?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then what he sees when he has the sight upon him is not _beannaichte_:\nis not a thing out of heaven?\"\n\n\"I cannot say. I think not.\"\n\n\"Mary, is it the truth you are now telling me?\"\n\nA troubled expression came into the woman's face, but she did not\nanswer.\n\n\"And is it the truth, Mary, that Ian has not had the sight upon Alastair\nsince he went away--that he did not have it last night or this morning?\"\n\nLora leaned forward in her anxiety. She saw that in her companion's eyes\nwhich gave her the fear. But the next moment Mrs. Maclean smiled.\n\n\"I too have the sight, _Lora-mo-ghr\u00e0idh_; and shall I be telling you\nthat which it will be giving you joy to hear?\"\n\n\"Ay, surely, Mary!\"\n\n\"Then I think you will soon be in the arms of him you love\"--and, with a\nlow laugh, she pointed across the sea to where a film of blue-grey\nsmoke rose over the ridge of Dunmore headland.\n\n\"Ah, the _Clansman_!\" cried Lora, with a gasp of joy: and the next\nmoment she was moving down the path again toward the little promontory.\n\nThe wind had risen slightly. The splash, splash, of the sunny green\nwaves against each other, the lapping of the blue water upon the ledges\nto the east, the stealthy whisper where the emerald-green tide-flow\nslipped under the hollowed sandstone, the spurtle of the sea-wrack, the\nflashing fall and foam-send of the gannets, the cries of the gulls, the\nslap of wind as it came over the forehead of the isle and struck the sea\na score of fathoms outward--all gave her a sense of happiness. The world\nseemed suddenly to have grown young. The exultant Celtic joy stood over\nagainst the brooding Celtic shadow, and believed the lances of the\nsunlight could keep at bay all the battalions of gloom.\n\nThe breeze was variable, for the weft of blue smoke which suddenly\ncurled round the bend of Dunmore had its tresses blown sea-ward, though\nwhere Lora stood the wind came from the west, and even caused a white\nfoam along the hither marge of the promontory.\n\nWith eager eyes she watched the vessel round the point. After all, it\nwas just possible she might not be the _Clansman_.\n\nBut the last sunglow shone full against Dunmore and upon the bows of the\nsteamer as she swung to the helm; and the moment the red funnel changed\nfrom a dusky russet into a flame of red, Lora's new anxiety was\nassuaged. She knew every line of the boat, and already she felt\nAlastair's kisses on her lips. The usual long summer-gloaming darkened\nswiftly; for faint films of coming change were being woven across the\nspan of the sky from mainland oceanward. Even as the watcher on Innisr\u00f2n\nstood, leaning forward in her eager outlook, she saw the extreme of the\nlight lift upward as though it were the indrawn shaft of a fan. The\ncontours of the steamer grew confused: a velvety duskiness overspread\nDunmore foreland.\n\nThe sky overhead had become a vast lift of perishing yellow--a spent\nwave of daffodil by the north and by the south; westward, of lemon,\ndeepening into a luminous orange glow shot with gold and crimson, and\nrising as an exhalation from hollow cloud-sepulchres of amethyst,\nstraits of scarlet, and immeasurable spaces of dove-grey filled with\nshallows of the most pale sea-green.\n\nLora stood as though wrought in marble. She had seen that which made the\nblood leap from her heart, and surge in her ears, and clamour against\nher brain.\n\nNo pennon flew at the peak of the steamer's foremast. This meant there\nwas neither passenger nor freight to be landed at Innisr\u00f2n, so that\nthere was no need for the ferry.\n\nShe could scarcely believe it possible that the _Clansman_ could come,\nafter all, and yet not bring Alastair back to her. It seemed absurd:\nsome ill-timed by-play; nay, a wanton cruelty. There must be some\nmistake, she thought, as she peered hungrily into the sea-dusk.\n\nSurely the steamer was heading too much to the northward! With a cry,\nLora instinctively stretched her arms toward the distant vessel; but no\nsound came from her lips, for at that moment a spurt of yellow flame\nrent the gray gloom, as a lantern was swung aloft to the mast-head.\n\nIn a few seconds she would know all; for whenever the _Clansman_ was too\nlate for her flag-signal to be easily seen, she showed a green light a\nfoot or so beneath the yellow.\n\nLora heard the heavy pulse of the engines, the churn of the beaten\nwaves, even the delirious surge and suction as the spent water was\ndriven along the hull and poured over and against the helm ere it was\nswept into the wake that glimmered white as a snow-wreath. So wrought\nwas she that, at the same time, she was keenly conscious of the rapid\n_tweet-tweet-tweet-tweet-tweet--o-o-h sweet!--sweet!_ of a yellow-hammer\namong the whin close by, and of the strange, mournful cry of an\noyster-opener as it flew with devious swoops toward some twilight eyrie.\n\nThe throb of the engines--the churn of the beaten waves--the sough of\nthe swirling yeast--even the churning, swirling, under-tumult, and\nthrough it and over it the heavy pulse, the deep panting rhythmic throb:\nthis she heard, as it were the wrought surge of her own blood.\n\nWould the green light never swing up to that yellow beacon?\n\nA minute passed: two minutes: three! It was clear that the steamer had\nno need to call at Innisr\u00f2n. She was coming up the mid of the Sound,\nand, unless the ferry-light signalled to her to draw near, she would\nkeep her course north-westward.\n\nSuddenly Lora realised this. At the same time there flashed into her\nmind the idea that perhaps Alastair was on board after all, but that he\nwas ill, and had forgotten to tell the captain of his wish to land by\nthe island ferry.\n\nShe turned, and, forgetful or heedless of her condition, moved swiftly\nfrom ledge to ledge, and thence by the path to where, in the cove beyond\nthe clachan, the ferry-boat lay on the tide-swell, moored by a rope\nfastened to an iron clank fixed in a boulder.\n\n\"Ian! Ian!\" she cried, as she neared the cove; but at first she saw no\none, save Mrs. Maclean, black against the fire-glow from her cottage.\n\"Ian! Ian!\"\n\nA dark figure rose from beside the ferry-shed.\n\n\"Is that you, Ian? _Am bheil am bh\u00e0ta deas?_ Is the boat ready? _Bi\nealamh! bi ealamh! mach am bh\u00e0ta_: quick! quick! out with the boat!\"\n\nIn her eager haste she spoke both in the Gaelic and the English: nor did\nshe notice that the old man did not answer her, or make any sign of\ndoing as she bade him.\n\n\"_Oh, Ian, bi ealamh! bi ealamh! Faigh am bh\u00e0ta deas! rach a stigh do'n\nbh\u00e0ta!_\"\n\nWord for word, as is the wont of the people, he answered her:--\n\n\"Why is it that I should be quick? Why should I be getting the boat\nready? For what should I be going into the boat?\"\n\n\"The _Clansman_! Do you not see her? _Bi ealamh; bi ealamh!_ or she will\ngo past us like a dream.\"\n\n\"She has flown no flag, she has no green light at the mast. No one will\nbe coming ashore, and no freight; and there is no freight to go from\nhere, and no one who wants the ferry unless it be yourself, _Lora\nnighean Tormaid_!\"\n\n\"Alastair is there: he was to come by the steamer to-day! Be quick, Ian!\nDo you hear me?\"\n\n\"I hear,\" said the old man, as he slowly moved toward the boulder to his\nleft, unloosed the rope from the iron clank, and drew the boat into the\ndeep water alongside the landing-ledge.\n\n\"There is no good in going out, _Lora bh\u00e0n_! The wind is rising: ay, I\ntell you, the wind goes high: we may soon hear the howling of the\nsea-dogs.\"\n\nBut Lora, taking no notice, had sprung into the boat, and was already\nadjusting the long oars to the old-fashioned wooden thole-pins. Ian\nfollowed, grumblingly repeating, \"_Tha gaoth ruh\u00f2r am! Tha coltas\nstairm' air!_\"\n\nOnce, however, that the wash of the sea caught the wherry, and the\nshrewd air sent the salt against their faces, the old man appeared to\nrealise that the girl was in earnest. Standing, he laid hold of the\nsloped mast, to steady himself against the swaying as the tide sucked at\nthe keel and the short waves slapped against the bows, and then gave a\nquick calculating glance seaward and at the advancing steamer.\n\nRapidly he gave his directions to Lora to take the helm and to keep the\nboat to windward:\n\n\"_Gabh an stiuir, Lora: cum ris a' gh\u00e0oth i!_\"\n\nThe next moment the long oars were moving slowly, but powerfully,\nthrough the water, and the ferry-boat drove into the open, and there lay\nover a little with the double swing of wind and tide.\n\nThe gloaming was now heavy upon the sea; for a mist had come up with the\ndipping of the sun, and thickened the dusk.\n\nSuddenly Ian called to Lora to hold the oars. As soon as she had caught\nthem, and was steadying the boat in the cross surge of the water, he\nlifted a lantern from under the narrow fore-deck, lighted the wick below\nthe seat (after the wind had twice blown the flame into the dark), and\nthen, gripping the mast, waved the signal to and fro overhead.\n\nIt was well he thought of this, for the steamer was going at full speed,\nand would not have slackened.\n\nIn a few minutes thereafter the heavy stertorous throb and splash was\nclose by them, while the screw revolved now at quarter-speed.\n\nA hoarse voice came from the _Clansman_:\n\n\"Ferry ahoy!\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, ta ferry she will pe,\" called back Ian in the quaint English of\nwhich he was so proud: though he thought the language a poor, thin\nspeech, and fit only for folk who never left the mainland.\n\n\"What are ye oot for, Ian? Ha' ye ony body comin' aboard?\"\n\n\"We've come out for Mr. Alastair Macleod,\" Lora broke in eagerly: \"we've\ncome to take him off.\"\n\n\"Hoots, my girl, what for d'ye fash yersel an' us too for the like o'\nsic havers. There's no one aboard who wants to land at Innisr\u00f2n: an' as\nfor Alastair Macleod, he was na' on the _Clansman_ when we left\nGreenock, so he could na' well be on her the now! As for you, Ian\nMaclean, are ye doited, when, wi' neither flag nor green light aloft, ye\nstop the steamer like this, a' for a lassie's haverin'! Ye'll hear o'\nthis yet, my man, I'se telling ye! Auld fule that ye are, awa' wi' ye!\nkeep aff the wash o' the steamer: ... an' by the Lord, I'll ...\"\n\nBut already the _Clansman_ was forging ahead, and the second-officer's\nmenace was swallowed up in the tumult of churned seas.\n\nA minute later the steamer was a dark mass to the nor'-west, with a\nsheet of white writhing after her, and a swirl of flaming cinders from\nher funnel riding down the night like a shoal of witch-lights.\n\nThe wherry rocked heavily, caught as she was in the surge from the\nscrew, and lying adrift in the sliding hollows and rough criss-cross of\nthe waves.\n\nLora sat motionless and speechless. The old man stared down into the\ndarkness of the boat: but though his lips moved continuously, no sound\ncame from them.\n\nFor a time it was as though a derelict were the sport of the sea, which\nhad a dull moan in it, that partly was from the stifled voice of the\ntide as it forced its way from the cauldrons of the deep, and partly\nfrom the fugitive clamour of breaking waves, and mostly from the now\nmuffled, now loud and raucous sough of the wind as it swung low by the\nsurge, or trailed off above the highest reach of the flying scud.\n\nAt last, in a whisper, the girl spoke.\n\n\"Ian, has aught of evil come to Alastair?\"\n\n\"God forbid!\"\n\n\"Do you know anything to his undoing?\"\n\n\"No, _Lora bh\u00e0n_.\"\n\n\"You have not had the sight upon him lately?\"\n\nThe islesman hesitated a moment. Raising his eyes at last, he glanced\nfirst at his companion and then out into the dusk across the waves, as\nthough he expected to see some one or something there in answer to his\nquest.\n\n\"I dreamt a dream, Lora, wife of Alastair. I saw you and him and another\ngo away into a strange place. You and the other were as shadows; but\nAlastair was a man, as now, though he walked through mist, and I saw\nnothing of him but from the waist upward.\"\n\nSilence followed this, save for the wash of the sea, the moan of wind\nathwart wave, and the soft rush of the breeze overhead.\n\nIan rose, and made as though he were going to put out the oars; but as\nhe saw how far the boat had drifted from the shore, and what a jumble of\nwater lay between them and the isle, he busied himself with hoisting the\npatched brown sail.\n\nAs if no interval had occurred, Lora abruptly called him by name.\n\n\"Ian,\" she added, \"what does the mist mean? ... the mist that you saw\nabout the feet and up to the waist of Alastair?\"\n\nThere was no reply. Ian let go the sail, secured it, and then seated\nhimself a few feet away from Lora.\n\nShe repeated the question: but the old man was obstinately silent, nor\ndid he speak word of any kind till the wherry suddenly slackened, as she\nslipped under the lee of the little promontory of the landing-place.\n\n\"The tide will be on turning now,\" he exclaimed in his awkward English,\nchosen at the moment because he did not dare to speak in the Gaelic,\nfearful as he was of having any further word with his companion; \"and\nsee, after all, the wind she will soon pe gone.\"\n\nLora, who had mechanically steered the boat to its haven, still sat in\nthe stern, though Ian had stepped on to the ledge and was holding the\ngunwale close to it so that she might step ashore with ease. She looked\nat him as though she did not understand. The old man shifted uneasily.\nThen his conscience smote him for having used the cold, unfriendly\nEnglish instead of the Gaelic so dear to them both: for was not the girl\nin the shadow of trouble, and did he not foresee for her more trouble to\ncome? So, in a gentle, apologetic voice, he repeated in Gaelic what he\nhad said about the tide and the wind:\n\n\"_Thill an sruth: Dh' fhalbh a' gh\u00e0oth._\n\n\"There will be peace to-night,\" he added. \"It was but a sunset breeze,\nafter all. There will be no storm. I think now there will be a calm. It\nwill be bad for the herring-boats. It is a long pull and a hard pull\nwhen the water sleeps against the keel. A dark night, too, most likely.\"\n\nLora rose, and slowly stepped on shore. She took no notice of Ian's\nsudden garrulity. She did not seem to see him even.\n\nHe looked at her with momentary resentment: but almost simultaneously a\npitiful light came into his eyes.\n\n\"He will be here to-morrow,\" he murmured, \"and if not, then next day for\nsure.\"\n\nLora moved up the ledge in silence.\n\nIn the middle of the cove she stopped, waved her hand, and, in a dull\nvoice bidding good-night, wished sound sleep to him:\n\n\"_Beannachd leibh! Cadal math dhiubh!_\"\n\nIan answered simply, \"_Beannachd leibh!_\" and turned to fasten the rope\nto the iron clamp.\n\nThe dew was heavy, even on the rough salt spear-grass which fringed the\nsand above the cove. On the short sheep-grass, on the rocky soil beyond,\nit was dense, and shone white as a shroud in a dark room. A bat swung\nthis way and that, whirling silently. The fall of the wind still sighed\nin the bent rowan trees to the west of the clachan, where the pathway\ndiverged from the shore. Against the bluff of Cnoc-an-Iolair it swelled\nintermittently: its voice in the hollows and crevices of the crag broken\nup in moans and short gasps, fainter and fainter.\n\nLora noted all this wearily as she advanced. She was conscious, also, of\nthe nibbling of the sheep, quenching their thirst with the wet grass: of\nthe faint swish of her feet going through the dew: of the dark track,\nlike a crack in black ice, made wherever she walked in the glisten. But\nthough she saw and unwittingly noted, her thoughts were all with\nAlastair and with what had kept him.\n\nIn her remote life there was scarce room for merely ordinary\nvicissitudes. It was not a thing to ponder as ominous that one should go\nout to sea after herring or mackerel and not return that night or the\nmorrow, or even by the next gloaming, or second dawn; or that a man\nshould go up among the hills and not come back for long after his\nexpected hour. But that one could miss the great steamer was a thing\nscarce to believe in. To Lora, who had been so little on the mainland,\nand whose only first-hand knowledge of the feverish life of towns was\nderived from her one winter of school-life at Rothesay and brief visits\nto Greenock and Oban, it was difficult to realise how any one could\nfail to leave by the steamer, unless ill or prevented by some serious\nmischance. The periodical coming of the _Clansman_ symbolised for her,\nto a certain extent, the inevitable march of time and fate. To go or\ncome by that steam-driven, wind-heedless vessel was to be above the\nuncertainties and vicissitudes to which ordinary wayfaring mortals are\nsubject. The girl thought she knew so much that to her all of what\ntown-life meant must be bare, because of her reading: knowing not that,\nwith a woman whose heart aches, a tear will drown every word writ in any\nbook, a sigh scatter the leaves into nothingness.\n\nDeep was the puzzle to her as she slowly ascended the path which led to\nMary Maclean's cottage. She stopped once or twice, half unconsciously,\nto smell the fragrance of the bog-myrtle where the gale grew in tufts\nout of the damper patches, or of the thyme as it was crushed under her\nfeet and made over-sweet, over-poignant by the dew.\n\nThe peat-reek reached her nostrils from the cottage, blent with the\nbreaths of the cows that still loitered afoot, munching the cool wilding\nfodder. Her gaze, too, fell upon the fire-lit interior, with a table\noverspread by a white cloth, flushed by the glow that wavered from\nbetwixt the red-hot bars; and, later, upon the figure of Mrs. Maclean,\nwho had come out to meet her, or, more likely, had been there ever since\nthe ferry-boat had gone off upon its useless errand.\n\n\"Are you wet, Lora? Are you cold?\" she asked, as the girl drew near.\nThere was no need to say aught of the bitter disappointment, any more\nthan to speak of the glooming of the dusk: both were obvious facts\nbeyond the yea or nay of speech.\n\n\"I am very tired, Mary.\"\n\n\"Come in, dear, and have your tea. It will do you good.\n_Lora-mo-ghr\u00e0idh_, you should not have gone out in the ferry-boat. It\nwas no use, and the sea was rough, and you might have come to harm; and\nwhat would Alastair Macleod be saying, to-morrow, if he found his\nheart's-delight ill, and that I had stood by and seen her do so foolish\na thing?\"\n\n\"Oh, Mary, do you really think he will be here to-morrow?\"\n\n\"Surely.\"\n\n\"But I fear he will wait now till the next sailing of the _Clansman_.\"\n\n\"We cannot say. Come in, my fawn, out of the chill.\"\n\n\"It is going to be a lovely night. The wind falls fast; even now it is\nalmost still. The purple peace will be upon everything to-night. I am\nrestless: I do not wish to go indoors.\"\n\n\"No, no, Lora dear to me! Come in and have your tea, and then rest. You\ncan rise at daybreak, if you will, and go round the island, lest he\nshould be coming in any of the herring-smacks.\"\n\n\"I want to speak to Ian.\"\n\n\"Ian has gone across to Ivor Maquay's; he will not be here to-night.\"\n\nLora looked suspiciously at the speaker. Had she not left Ian a few\nminutes ago, and was he not even now following her? She stared about\nher, but saw no one. In the gloaming she could just descry the black\nmass of the wherry. Ian was nowhere visible. She did not think of\nscrutinising the shadow of the beached and long disused coble which lay\na few yards away. Had she done so, she might have perceived the old\nislesman standing rigid. He had overheard his kinswoman, and understood.\nAs soon as the two women had entered the cottage, he moved swiftly and\nsilently away, and, traversing the clachan, was soon swallowed up of the\ndarkness.\n\nAfter the meal was ended, Lora found herself overworn with excitement.\nAll wish to go out again went from her. From where she lay resting, she\nwatched Mrs. Maclean put away the things and then seat herself by the\nfire.\n\nFor a long time neither woman spoke. A drowsy peace abode upon the\nthreshold.\n\nThe hot red glow of the peats shone steadily.\n\nAt first there had been a little lamp on the table, but after a time\nMrs. Maclean had extinguished it. Instead, she had thrown upon the fire\na log of pinewood. The dry crackle, the spurt of the sap as it simmered\nin the heat, the yellow tongues and sudden red fangs and blue flames,\ngave the sound and glow whereof a sweeter silence can be wrought into\nwhat has been but stillness before.\n\nAn hour went by. With brief snatches of talk, all made up of fears and\nhopes, another hour passed. Then a long quietness again, broken at the\nlast by a low crooning song from the elder woman, as she leaned to the\nfire and stared absently into its heart. The song was old: older than\nthe oldest things, save the summits of the mountains, the granite isles,\nand the brooding pain of the sea. Long ago it had been sung by wild\nCeltic voices, before ever spoken word was writ in letters--before that\nagain, mayhap, and caught perhaps from a wailing Pictish mother--so\nancient was the moving old-world strain, so antique the words of the\nlullaby that was dim with age when it soothed to sleep the child\nOssian, son of Fingal.\n\nWhen the crooning died away, Lora slept. With soft step Mrs. Maclean\nmoved across the room, and lightly dropped a plaid over the girl's\nfigure, recumbent in beautiful ease upon the low bed-couch.\n\nShe returned slowly to her place by the fire. After a while she was\nabout to seat herself, when she started violently. Surely that was a\nface pressed for a moment against the window?\n\nWith a strange look in her eyes, she reproved herself for her nervous\nfolly. She sat down, with gaze resolutely fixed on the glowing peats:\nnor would she have stirred again, but for a sound as of a low moan.\n\nThe blood ran chill in her veins; her mouth twitched; and the\nintertwisted fingers of her hands were white and lifeless with the\nfierce grip that came of her fear.\n\nBut she was not a woman to be mastered by terror. With a quivering sigh\nshe rose, looked round the room, forced herself to stare fixedly at the\nwindow, and then moved quietly to the door.\n\nAs soon as she felt the air upon her brows she became calm, and all\ndread left her.\n\n\"Is that you, Ian?\" she whispered.\n\nThere was no one visible; no sound.\n\n\"Is that you, Alastair Macleod?\"\n\nSo low was the utterance that, if any one had been there, he could\nscarce have heard it.\n\nTo her strained ears it was as though she heard a light susurrus of\nbrushed dew: but it might be a wandering breath of air among the gale,\nor an adder moving through the grass, or a fern-owl hawking under the\nrowan-trees.\n\nShe waited a little; then, with a sigh of relief, re-entered the cottage\nand closed the door.\n\nA glance at Lora showed her that the girl was sleeping unperturbed. For\nsome time there after she sat by the fire, brooding over many things.\nWeary, at last, she rose, cast a farewell glance at the sleeper, and\nthen slipped quietly to her bed in the adjoining room.\n\nNight lay passively upon the sea, upon the isle, upon the clachan. Not a\nlight lingered in any cottage, save the fire-glow in that of Mary\nMaclean: a hollow, attenuating beam that stared through the dark\nunwaveringly.\n\nNeither star nor moon was visible. The clouds hung low, but without\nimminence of rain for the isles, drawn inland as the vapours were by the\nforeheads of the bens.\n\nAn hour later the door of the cottage opened and closed again, silently.\nIt was Lora who came forth.\n\nShe walked hesitatingly at first, and then more swiftly, not pausing\ntill she reached the little boulder-pier. There she stood motionless,\nlistening intently.\n\nThe water lapped among the hollows, above which the ebb-left shellfish\ngaped thirstily. There was a lift among the dulse-heaps, as though a\nfinger stirred them and let loose their keen salt smells. The\nbladder-wrack moved with strange noises, sometimes startlingly loud,\noftenest as if sea-things were being stifled or strangled.\n\nFrom the promontory came a cry: abrupt, strident--the hunger-note of a\nskua. The thin pipe of the dotterel fell into the darkness beyond the\nshallows where the sea-mist lay. In the Kyle a muffled, stertorous\nbreath, near and twice as far away, told that two whales were in the\nwake of the mackerel.\n\nFrom the isle, no sound. The sheep lay on the thyme, or among the\nbracken, still as white boulders. The kye crouched, with misty nostrils\nlaid low to the damp grass, rough with tangled gale. The dogs were\nsilent. Even the tufted canna hung straight and motionless. The white\nmoths had, one by one, fallen like a fallen feather. The wind-death lay\nupon all: at the last, too, upon the sea.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nSlowly, as though a veil were withdrawn, the cloudy dusk passed from the\nlift. The moon, lying in violet shadow, grew golden: while the sheen of\nher pathway, trailed waveringly across the sea and athwart the isle,\nmade Innisr\u00f2n seem as a beautiful body motionlessly adrift on the deep.\n\nOne by one the stars came forth--solemn eyes watching for ever the white\nprocession move onward orderly where there is neither height, nor depth,\nnor beginning, nor end.\n\nIn the vast stellar space the moon-glow waned until it grew cold, white,\nineffably remote. Only upon our little dusky earth, upon our restless\nspan of waters, the light descended in a tender warmth. Drifting upon\nthe sea, it moved tremulously onward, weaving the dark waters into a\nweft of living beauty.\n\nStrange murmur of ocean, even when deep calm prevails, and not the most\nhomeless wind lifts a weary wing from wave-gulf to wave-gulf. As a voice\nheard in dream; as a whisper in the twilight of one's own soul; as a\nbreath, as a sigh from one knows not whence, heard suddenly and with\nrecognising awe; so is this obscure, troublous echo of a tumult that is\nover, that is not, but that may be, that awaiteth.\n\nTo Lora it was almost inaudible. Rather, her ears held no other sound\nthan the babbling repetitive chime and whisper of the lip of the sea\nmoving to and fro the pebbles on the narrow strand just beyond her.\n\nHer eyes saw the lift of the dark, the lovely advance of the lunar\ntwilight, the miracle of the yellow bloom--golden here and here white as\nfrost-fire--upon sea and land: they saw, and yet saw not. Her ears heard\nthe muffled voice of ocean and the sweet recurrent whispering of the\nfoam-white runnels beside her: they heard, and yet heard not.\n\nSurely, in the darkness, in the loneliness, she would have knowledge of\nAlastair. Surely, she thought, he would come to her in the spirit. In\ndeep love there is a living invisible line from soul to soul whereby\nportent of joy or disaster, or passion of loneliness, or passion of\nfear, or passion of longing may be conveyed with terrifying surety.\n\nHow beyond words dreadful was this remoteness which environed her, as\nthe vast dome of night to a single white flower growing solitary in a\nwaste place.\n\nInland upon the isle, seaward, skyward, Lora looked with aching eyes.\nThe moonlight wounded her with its peace. The shimmering sea beat to a\nrhythm atune to a larger throb than that of a petty human life. In the\nstarry infinitude her finitude was lost, absorbed, as a grain of sand\nwind-blown a few yards across an illimitable desert.\n\nThat passionate protest of the soul against the absolute unheed of\nnature was hers: that already defeated revolt of the whirling leaf\nagainst the soaring, far-come, far-going wind that knows nothing of what\nhappens beneath it in the drift of its inevitable passage.\n\nWith a sob, she turned, vaguely yearning for the human peace that abode\nin the cottage. As she moved, she saw a shadow, solidly clear-cut in the\nmoonlight, sweep from a rock close by, as though it were a swinging\nscythe.\n\nInstinctively she glanced upward, to see if the cloud-counterpart were\noverhead. The sky was now cloudless: neither passing vapour nor\ntravelling wild-swan had made that shadow leap from the smooth boulder\ninto the darkness.\n\nShe trembled: for she feared she had seen the Watcher of the Dead. At\nthe wane of the last moon, an old islesman had passed into the white\nsleep. Lora knew that his spirit would have to become the Watcher of\nGraves till such time as another soul should lapse into the silence. Was\nthis he, she wondered with instinctive dread--was this Fergus, weary of\nhis vigil, errant about the isle which had been the world to him, a\ndrifting shadow from graveyard to byre and sheiling, from fold to dark\nfold, from the clachan-end to the shore-pastures, from coble to havened\ncoble, from the place of the boats to the ferry-rock? Did he know that\nhe would soon have one to take over from him his dreadful peace? Or was\nhe in no satiate peace, but anhungered as a beast of prey for the death\nof another? And then ... and then ... who was this other? Who next upon\nthe isle would be the Watcher of the Dead?\n\nWith a low, shuddering breath, she sighed, \"_Fergus!_\"\n\nThe fall of her voice through the silence was an echo of terror. She\nclasped her hands across her breast. Her body swayed forward as a\nbulrush before the wind.\n\n\"_Ah, Dia! Dia!_\" broke from her lips; for, beyond all doubt, she saw\nonce again the moving of a darkness within the dark.\n\nYet what she saw was no shadow-man weary of last vigil, but something\nthat for a moment filled her with the blindness of dread. Was it\npossible? Was she waylaid by one of those terrible dwellers in\ntwilight-water of which she had heard so often from the tellers of old\ntales?\n\n\"_Toradh nu f\u00e9udalach gun am faicinn_,\" she muttered with cold lips:\n\"the offspring of the cattle that have not been seen!\"\n\n\"Ah, no, no!\" she cried. The next moment, and with a sob of relief, she\nsaw a moonbeam steal upon the hollow and reveal its quietude of dusk.\nShe would have moved at once from boulder to boulder, eager for that\nlost sanctuary whence she had come--when the very pulse of her heart\nsprang to the burst of a human sob close by.\n\nShe stood still, as though frozen. A moment before, the breath from her\nlips was visible: now not the faintest vapour melted into the night-air.\n\nWas she dreaming, she wondered, when the stifling grip at her heart had\nmercifully relaxed?\n\nNo: there was no mistake. Blent with the gurgle and cluck and whisper of\nthe water among the lifted bladder-wrack and in and out of the pools and\ncrannies in the rocks, there was the piteous sound of a human sob.\n\nAll at once, everything became clear to Lora. She knew that Alastair was\nnear: she did not even dread that he was present as a disembodied\nspirit. He had reached the isle after all, but in some strange sorrow\nhad not sought her straightway.\n\n\"_Alastair!_\" she cried yearningly.\n\nNo one answered; no one stirred; nothing moved. But the muffled sobbing\nwas hushed.\n\n\"Alastair! Alastair!\"\n\nSlowly from a sand-drift beside the ferry-rock a tall figure arose. For\na few moments it stood motionless, black against the yellow shine of the\nmoon. The face was pale; that of a man, young, with the thin lips, the\nshadowy eyes that in sunlight would shine sea-blue, the high oval\nfeatures, the tangled, curly, yellow-tawny hair of the islesmen of the\nancient Suder\u00f6er, in whose veins the Celtic and the Scandinavian strains\ncommingle.\n\nAlastair was as visible as though he were in the noon-light.\n\nLora looked at him, speechless. She saw that in his strained eyes, in\nhis wrought features, which told her he had drunken of sorrow. His\ndishevelled hair, his whole mien and appearance showed that he was in\nsome dire extremity.\n\n\"_Alastair!_\"\n\nHe heard the low, passionate appeal, but at first he did not stir. Then,\nand yet as though constrainedly and in weariness, he raised and\nstretched forth his arms.\n\nSwift as a gliding shadow, Lora was beside him, and clasped to his\nheart.\n\nFor a time, neither spoke. His heart beat loud and heavily: against his\nbreast her head lay, with her breath coming and going like a wounded\nbird panting in the green-gloom of the thicket.\n\n\"O Alastair, Alastair, what is it?\" she murmured at last, raising her\nhead and looking into his pale, distraught face.\n\n\"What made you come out in the dark, _Lora-m\u00f9irnean_?\"\n\n\"I could not rest. I was too unhappy. I thought--I thought--no, I do not\nthink I dared to believe that you might come to-night after all; but\nsomething made me long to go down to the sea. Did you see me only now,\ndear heart?\"\n\n\"No, Lora.\"\n\nFor a moment she was still, while she gazed fixedly at Alastair.\n\n\"Ah,\" she whispered at last, \"then you have been here all this night,\nand I not knowing it! Ah, Al\u00f9inn, it was _your_ heart crying to mine\nthat made me rise and leave the cottage and come out into the dark. But\nwhy did you not come to me? When did you come to Innisr\u00f2n? How did you\ncome?\"\n\n\"Dear, I could not wait for the _Clansman_. I left Greenock three hours\nearlier by the _Foam_, James Gilchrist's tug; for he undertook to put me\nashore at the haven below Craig-Sionnach. Thence I walked to Dunmore.\nBut I was not well, Lora; and I was so long on the way that I missed the\n_Clansman_ as well as the Dunmore herring-steamer. Before nightfall,\nhowever, I persuaded Archibald Macleod, of Tighnacraigh, to bring me\nhere on his smack. I landed at the Rock of the Seafold. It was already\ndusk, and my heart was against yours in longing, my beautiful gloom: yet\nover me came such a sorrow that I could not bear the homing, and so\nmoved restlessly from shadow to shadow. I felt as though it would be\nbetter for me to deal with my sorrow alone and in the night, and that it\nwas more bearable since I was so near you, and that any moment I could\ngo to you.\"\n\n\"Why, why did you not come, Alastair? Oh, I longed, longed for you so!\"\n\n\"Once I came close to the cottage, almost happy since I knew that you\nwere so near to me. The red glow that warmed the dark without comforted\nme. I thought I would look in upon you for a moment; and if you and Mary\nwere awake and talking, that I should let you know I had come. But I saw\nthat you lay in sleep; and I had scarce time to withdraw ere, as I\nfeared, Mary saw me--though see me, indeed, perhaps she did, for in a\nbrief while she opened the door and came out, and would have discovered\nme but that I moved swiftly to the shadow of the birk-shaws. Then, after\na little, I wandered down by the shore. There was a voice in the\nsea--calling, calling. It was so cool and sweet: soft was the balm of\nthe air of it, as the look of your eyes, Lora, as the touch of your\nhand. I was almost healed of my suffering, when suddenly the pain in my\nhead sprang upon me, and I crouched in the hollow yonder, chill with the\nsweat of my agony.\"\n\n\"O Alastair, Alastair, then you are no better: that great doctor you\nwent so far to see has done you no good?\"\n\n\"And in the midst of my pain, Lora my Rest, I saw you standing by the\nsea upon the ferry-ledge. At first I took you for a vision, and my heart\nsank. But when the moonlight reached the isle and enfolded you, I saw\nthat it was you indeed. And once more my pain and my sorrow overcame\nme!\"\n\n\"Alastair, I am terrified! It was not thus for you before you went away.\nGreat as was your pain, you had not this gloom of sorrow. Oh, what is\nit, what is it, dear heart? Tell me, tell me!\"\n\nSlowly Alastair held Lora back from him, and looked long and searchingly\ninto her eyes.\n\nShe shrank, in an apprehension that, like a bird, flew bewildered from\nthe blinding light that flashed out of the darkness--a vain bewilderment\nof foredoom.\n\nThen, with a great effort, she bade him tell her what he had to say.\n\nToo well he knew there was no time to lose: that any day, any moment,\nhis dark hour would come upon him, and that then it would be too late.\nYet he would fain have waited.\n\n\"Lora, have you heard aught said by any one concerning my illness?\"\n\n\"Dear, Father Mantus told me, on the day you went away, that you feared\nthe trouble which came upon your father, and upon your father's father;\nand oh, Alastair my beloved, he told me what that trouble was.\"\n\n\"Then you know: you can understand?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"That which now appals me ... now kills me.\"\n\n\"Alastair!\"\n\n\"Yes, Lora?\"\n\n\"Oh, Alastair, Alastair, you do not mean that ... that ... you too ...\n_you_ are ... are ... that _you_ have the ... the ... mind-dark?\"\n\n\"Dear heart of mine, this sorrow has come to us. I----\"\n\nWith a sharp cry Lora held him to her, despairingly, wildly, as though\neven at that moment he were to be snatched from her. Then, in a passion\nof sobbing, she shook in his arms as a withered aspen-leaf ere it fall\nto the wind.\n\nThe tears ran down his face; his mouth twitched; his long, thin fingers\nmoved restlessly in her hair and upon her quivering shoulder.\n\nNo other sound than her convulsive sobs, than his spasmodic breathing,\nmet in the quietude of whisper-music exhaled as an odour by the sea and\nby the low wind among the corries and upon the grasses of the isle.\n\nA white moth came fluttering slowly toward them, hovering vaguely awhile\noverhead, and then drifting alow and almost to their feet. In the shadow\nit loomed grey and formless--an obscure thing that might have come out\nof the heart of the unguarded brain. Upward again it fluttered, idly\nthis way and that: then suddenly alit upon the hair of Alastair,\npoising itself on spread wings, and now all agleam as with pale\nphosphorescent fire, where the moonlight filled it with sheen as of\nwhite water falling against the sun.\n\nThe gleam caught Lora's eyes as, with a weary sigh, she lifted her head.\n\nA strange smile came into her face. Slowly she disengaged her right arm,\nand half raised it. Alastair was about to speak, but her eyes brought\nsilence upon him.\n\n\"_Hush!_\" she whispered at last.\n\nHe saw that her eyes looked beyond his, beyond him, as it seemed. What\ndid she see? The trouble in his brain moved anew at this touch of\nmystery.\n\n\"What is it, Lora?\"\n\n\"Hush, hush!... I see a sign from heaven upon your forehead ... the sign\nof the white peace that Seumas says is upon them who are of the company\nof the Belov\u00ebd.\"\n\n\"Lora, what are you saying? What is it? What do you see?\"\n\nHis voice suddenly was harsh, fretful. Lora shrank for a moment; then,\nas the white moth rose and fluttered away into the dark, faintly agleam\nwith moonfire till it reached the shadow, she pitifully raised her hand\nto his brow.\n\n\"Come, dear, let us go in. All will be well with us, whatever happens.\"\n\n\"Never ... never ... never!\"\n\n\"O Alastair, if it be God's will?\"\n\n\"Ay, and if it be God's will?\"\n\n\"I cannot lose you; you will always be mine; no sorrow can part us;\nnothing can separate us; nothing but the Passing, and that ...\"\n\n\"Lora!\"\n\nFor answer she looked into his eyes.\n\n\"Lora, it is of that, of the Passing: ... are you ... are you brave\nenough not only to endure ... but to ... if we thought it well ... if I\nasked you...?\"\n\nA deep silence fell upon both. Hardly did either breathe. By some\nstrange vagary of the strained mind, Lora thought the throb of her heart\nagainst her side was like the pulse of the engines of the _Clansman_ to\nwhich she had listened with such intent expectation that very evening.\n\nFrom the darkness to the north came the low monotone of the sea, as a\nmuffled voice prophesying through the gates of Sleep and Death. Far to\nthe east the tide-race tore through the Sound with a confused muttering\nof haste and tumult. Upon the isle the wind moved as a thing in pain, or\nidly weary: lifting now from cranny to corrie, and through glen and\nhollow, and among the birk-shaws and the rowans, with long sighs and\nwhispers where by Uisghe-dhu the valley of moonflowers sloped to the sea\non the west, or among the reeds, and the gale, and the salt grasses\naround the clachan that lay duskily still on the little brae above the\nhaven.\n\n\"Lora ... would you ... would...?\"\n\nOnly her caught breath at intervals gave answer. The short lisp and\ngurgle of the water in the sea-weed close by came nearer. The tide was\non the flood, and the sand about their feet was already damp.\n\nThe immense semicircle of the sky domed sea and land with infinity. In\nthe vast space the stars and planets fulfilled their ordered plan. Star\nby star, planet by planet, sun by sun, universe by universe moved jocund\nin the march of eternal death.\n\nBeyond the two lonely figures, seaward, the moon swung, green-gold at\nthe heart with circumambient flame of pearl.\n\nBeautiful the suspended lamp of her glory--a censer swung before the\nEarth-Altar of the Unknown.\n\nIn their human pain the two drew closer still. The remote alien silences\nof the larger life around vaguely appalled them. Yet Lora knew what was\nin his thought; what he foreshadowed; what he wished.\n\n\"It shall be as you will, Alastair, heart of me, life of me,\" she\nwhispered. Then, with clasping arms, and dear entreaty, she urged him\nhomeward.\n\n\"Come, come home, Alastair, _Al\u00f9inn_. Enough of sorrow to-night. Speak\nto me to-morrow of all that is in your mind; but to-night ... to-night,\nno more! My heart will break. Come, dearest. Come, _mo m\u00f9irnean_! Hark!\nthe wind is crying in the corrie: it is rising again on the other side\nof the isle: and we are already chill--oh, cold, so cold!\"\n\nHand in hand, they moved slowly upward along the little pathway of\nmingled grass and shingle which led to the clachan from the ferry: he\nwith bowed head, she with upward face.\n\nA dog barked from a byre, another answered from a sheiling beyond.\nSuddenly there was a rushing sound, and Ghaoth, Alastair's dog, came\nleaping upon his master, whining and barking with joy. He stooped and\nfondled it; but in vain tried to quell its ecstasy in seeing him again.\n\nWhether aroused by the barking of Ghaoth, or having awoke and found Lora\nabsent from the cottage, Mrs. Maclean had risen, lit a candle, and now\nstood upon the threshold, looking intently at the twain as they\napproached.\n\nAmong the islefolk many words are not used. The over-arching majesty of\nthe sky, the surrounding majesty of the sea, the loneliness of these\nlittle wind-swept spots of earth isled in remote waters, leave a hush\nupon the brain, and foster eloquent silences rather than idle words.\n\nMrs. Maclean knew intuitively that something of disaster was in this\nnocturnal return of Alastair: that he and Lora had met by chance, or\nthrough a summons unknown to her: and that now they came--to her, in\ntheir youth, so tragically piteous under the shadow of calamity--craving\nonly for that impossible boon of the young in sorrow: peace.\n\nWhen they drew near to her, she turned and placed the candle on the\ntable. Then, facing them, she came forward, led them in by the hand, and\nclosed the door. She saw that Alastair was hatless, and his clothes damp\nand travel-stained; so with quiet, home-sweet words, she persuaded him\nto change his things while she laid some food for him to break his long\nfast with.\n\nBut though wearily he did the one, he would have nothing of the other\nsave a draught of warm milk.\n\nA heavy drowsiness was now upon him. He could scarce uplift the lids\nfrom his eyes. His voice, when he spoke at all, was so low that it was\nbarely audible.\n\nAfter a silence, during which he had looked long at the fire, and closed\nhis eyes at the last, with Lora's gaze hungrily set upon him, and the\ndark, sweet gloom of Mrs. Maclean's, wet with the dew of unshed tears,\nupon both of the twain, whom she loved so passing well, he murmured\nhuskily and confusedly:\n\n\"By green pastures ... I will lay me down to sleep.... It calleth,\ncalleth ...\"\n\nSuddenly Mrs. Maclean arose. Taking Lora's hand, she led her to the\nfireside and motioned her to kneel beside Alastair. Then, blowing out\nthe candle-flame, she too knelt. Only the fireglow now lit the room,\nfilled with brooding shadows in the corners and with warm dusk where the\ntwo women kneeled and the man slept.\n\nWith arms lifted as if in invocation, the elder woman--her face wan\nunder her grey hair, though touched with an unreal glow from the flaming\npeats--in a low, crooning voice, repeated the ancient rest-words, the\nancient prayer of her people, said at the covering up of the fire\nagainst the hours of sleep:\n\n  \"_Sm\u00e0laidh mis'n nochd an teine;\n  Mar a sm\u00e0las Mac Moire.\n  Gu'm bu slan an tigh's an teine,\n  Gu'm bu slan a' chiudeachd uile.\n  Co bhios air an lar?\n  Peadair agus P\u00f2l,\n  Co bhios air an phaire nochd?\n  Moire mhin-gheal's a Mac.\n  Bial De a labhras,\n  Aingeal geal a dh' innseas--\n  Ga'r comhnadh's ga'r gleidheadh\n  Gus an tig an solus geal a maireach._\"\n\n  I will cover up the fire aright,\n  Even as directed by the Virgin's Son.\n  Safe be the house, and safe the fire,\n  And safe from harm be all the indwellers.\n  Who is that that I see on the floor?\n  Even Peter himself and Paul.\n  Upon whom shall this night's vigil rest?\n  Upon the blameless Virgin and her Son:\n  God's mouth has spoken it.\n  A white-robed angel shall be with us in the dark,\n  Till the coming of the sun at morn.\n\nWhen she ceased, there was no sound save the low sobbing of Lora and the\nquiet breathing of the sleeper in the high-backed chair.\n\nHaving made the sign of the cross upon her breast and over the fire, she\ncovered up the flame with ash and charred peat. Quietly, then, she\nplaced her strong arm around Alastair, and half guided, half lifted him\nto the bed in the adjoining room where he and Lora were wont to sleep.\nThe girl-wife followed, and, with deft hands, unclad Alastair and laid\nhim gently in the bed. Swiftly disrobing herself, she lay down by his\nside, her dark hair mingling on the pillow with his tangle of dull gold.\n\nThe gleam still emitted between the bars from beneath the covered peats\npassed into the room through the open doorway and fell upon the bed.\n\nAlastair stirred; opened his eyes; looked with wild, startled gaze at\nLora, then at Mrs. Maclean, who had again knelt, and with raised arms\nhad begun her \"Blessing of Peace.\"\n\nWith a sigh he closed his eyes, and the terror passed from his face.\nOnce or twice he muttered parts of the lines of that ancient\nsleep-prayer, familiar to him since his boyhood, and before it was ended\ndeep slumber had come upon him:\n\n  \"_Laidhidh misc 'nochd\n  Le Moire 's le 'Mac,\n  Le mathair mo Righ,\n  'Ni mo dhion 'o dhroch-bheairt,\n  Cha laidh mise leis an olc,\n  'S cha laidh an t' olc leam;\n  Ach laidhidh m\u00ec le Dia,_\n  _'S laidhidh Dia Ma' rium.\n  Lamh dheas Dhe fo'm cheann,\n  Crois nan naoi aingeal leam.\n  'O mhullach mo chinn\n  Gu craican mo bhonn,\n  Guidheam Peadair, guidheam P\u00f2l,\n  Guidheam Moir-Oigh' 'sa Mac.\n  Guidheam an da ostal deug,\n  Gun mise 'dhol eug le'n cead.\n  'Dhia 'sa Mhoire na gloire.\n  'S a Mhic na oighe cubhraidh\n  Cumabh mise o na piantan dorcha,\n  'S Micheal geal' an c\u00f2 'ail m'anama._\"\n\n  This night I will lay me down to sleep\n  With Mary Virgin and her Son,\n  Even with the mother of my King,\n  Who protects me from all evil;\n  Nor shall evil lie down to sleep with me,\n  But I shall sleep with God:\n  And with me shall God lie down.\n  His right arm shall be under my head:\n  The cross of the Nine Angels be about me,\n  From the top of my head\n  To the soles of my feet.\n  I supplicate Peter, I supplicate Paul,\n  I supplicate Mary the Virgin and her Son,\n  I supplicate the twelve Apostles,\n  That evil befall us not this night.\n  Mary, in thy goodness and glory,\n  And Thou, Son of the sweet-savoured Virgin,\n  Protect us this night from all the pains of darkness.\n  And thou, Michael, guardian of souls, abide with us, watching.\n\nWhen she looked down, at the end of her prayer, Mary saw that Lora's\neyes also were closed; though by the muttering of the lips she knew her\ndear one was not asleep.\n\nSoftly she closed the door behind her; then, passing by the fire, went\ninto the third room of the cottage.\n\nSoon she too was in bed, softly repeating, as the weariness of sleep\ncame over her:\n\n  _Cha laidh mise leis an olc,\n  'S cha laidh an t' olc leam._\n\nWithout, came the rising sound of the tide among the pebbles on the\nshore, the incessant chime of wave lapsing over wave on flat rocks. The\nsough of the wind fell from the corries of Craig-an-Iolair, and died in\nwhispers among the fern and dew-cold grasses.\n\nSo went the hours from silence into silence. And in time came the dawn,\nand an ashen-grey upon the sea, and a grey gloom upon each leaf and\nevery dusky frond and blade. But when the black of the mainland became\ngold, and a trouble of light moved, swiftly-throbbing, across the\neastern water, Michael the Watcher withdrew.\n\nAt the window of the room where Alastair and Lora slept, the beautiful\nsunflood of the new day poured in rejoicingly.\n\nOne long streamer of light fell upon his yellow hair and kissed the\neyelids of a veiled, subsiding mind. Downward it moved, and filled with\nits gleam the dark-brown hair which lay across the white breast of Lora.\nThen, surely, it passed beneath the flower of her bosom and into her\nheart, and warmed it with joy; for with a smile she awoke, murmuring,\n\n\"_Pharais, Pharais._\"\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nBefore the want of that day, the rumour went among the scant population\nof Innisr\u00f2n that Alastair, son of Diarmid of Macleod, was mad: that, in\nthe phrasing of the islesman, he had the mind-dark.\n\nMen and women whispered the thing with awe. In the West, something\nalmost of a hieratic significance is involved in the poetic phrase that\nGod has filled with dusk the house of the brain. Not thus is spoken of\nthe violence of insanity--the mere insurgence of delirium from the fever\nof hate, or from jealousy, or love, or evil of the blood, or the curse\nof drink. But that veil of darkness which comes down upon the mind of\nman or woman in the fullness of life, and puts an impermeable mist or a\ntwilight of awful gloom about the soul, is looked upon not only with an\nexceeding tenderness, but with awe, and as of a bowing of the head\nbefore a divine mystery.\n\nYet the rumour was not true, for Alastair Macleod, though he stood\nwithin the shadow, had not yet sunk into the darkness.\n\nAs it had chanced, Mrs. Maclean was not the only person who had seen him\nand Lora on their return.\n\nLate in the night Ian Maclean had come back from the western side of the\nisle, and was standing in the shadow of the byre when, hand in hand,\nLora and Alastair approached.\n\nThe old man had been unhappy, and, after leaving his kinsman at\nArdfeulan, had wandered up among the corries. In the wail of the wind\nalong the heights, in the sough of it in the little glens and shelving\nuplands, he heard voices to which he would fain not have listened, for\nthey spoke of a terror that was in the air.\n\nThe moment he saw Alastair's eyes, dark within the moonlit pallor of the\nface, he knew that his premonitions were no mere imaginings. On his\nforehead he saw the shadow of doom.\n\nWith a sigh he turned, and, having entered the byre and gone to the\npart of it shut off for his use, lay down upon his bed of fragrant fern.\nBut, weary as he was, he could not sleep.\n\nAgain the vision came to him: and once more he saw Alastair move blindly\nin an unfamiliar place, with the mist no longer up to his waist only,\nbut risen now to his throat, and with thin tongues reaching upward\nstill.\n\nThe long night went drearily past. When the day was come, Ian rose and\nlet out the kye. The sweet freshness of the air was as balm to his\nweariness. The wind blew cool upon his brows, and a breath of the sea\nmingled with the myriad suspiration of the earth and gave him the\nintoxication of the dawn. His eyes grew brighter, his step firmer, his\nmien no longer that of profound dejection; and when Ghaoth came leaping\ntoward him, and barked about the half-amused, half-angry cows--who\nstopped to plash their hoofs in the thick white dew, against which the\nwarm breaths fell revolvingly like grey whorls of steam, and to swing\ntheir great horns against their flanks, wild and shaggy as the brown\nhill-sides in autumn--then all the gloom of the night went from him.\n\n\"Mayhap it was but a dream,\" he muttered: \"and who can tell the folly of\nthe mind?\"\n\nThen, with Ghaoth's help, he got the steers from the neighbouring shed\nand \"Righ-geal,\" the great tawny-shaggy bull, whose either horn could\nhave pierced right through and beyond the biggest drover who ever\ncrossed the Kyles at Colintraive, and urged all the kine upward to the\nhigher pastures, where the thyme was so sweet, close-clustered as it was\namong the soft green hair of the isle-grass.\n\nIt seemed to him as though all the larks on Innisr\u00f2n were singing at one\ntime and just there, everywhere around and above him. In the birk-shaws,\nthere was a mavis that was as a fount wherefrom music spilled\nintoxicatingly: by the burn, the merles called, recalled, and called yet\nagain, and over and over, sweet and blithe, and with loud, reckless\ncries of mirth and joy. On every gorse-bush, yellow with bloom, fragrant\nalmost to pain, and filled with the murmur of the wild-bee and the high,\nthin hum of the wood-wasp, a yellow-hammer flitted to and fro, or sang\nits _tweet--tweet--tweet--o-o-oh sweet!--sweet!_\n\nThe sky was almost cloudless save for an angry flush in the\nnorth-east--a deep, living blue of infinite, though indiscernibly faint\ngradation. Here and there, too, were thin, almost invisible grey\nmare's-tails swept upward, as though they were snow-dust or sea-spray,\nbefore the flying feet of the Weaver of the Winds.\n\nAs soon as Ian had reached the last dyke, and had seen \"Righ-geal\" lead\nhis impatient following toward the uplands, he stood swaying his grey\nhead slowly to and fro, with his right hand moving automatically in\nrhythmic accord, while he repeated the familiar \"Rann Buacbailleac,\" or\nRune on the driving of the cattle to the pasture:\n\n\n  I\n\n  \"_Siubhal beinne, siubhal baile,\n  Siubhal gu re fada farsuinn;\n  Buachaille Mhic De m'ar casaibh,\n  Gu mu slan a thig sibh dachaidh,\n    Buachaille Mhic De m'ar casaibh\n    Gu mu slan a thig sibh dachaidh._\n\n  II\n\n  \"_Comraig, Dhia agus Chalum-Chille,\n  Bhith m'ar timchioll a fabh's a tilleadh,\n  Agus nan or-chiabh down!\n    Agus Banachaig nan basa min-gheal,\n    Bride nan or-chiabh down!_\"\n\n\n  I\n\n  Travel ye moorland, travel ye townland,\n  Travel ye gently far and wide,\n    God's Son be the Herdsman about your feet,\n    Whole may ye home return.\n    God's Son be the Herdsman about your feet,\n    Whole may ye home return.\n\n  II\n\n  The protection of God and of Columba,\n  Encompass your going and coming;\n    And about you be the milkmaid of the smooth white palms,\n    Bridget of the clustering hair, golden brown,\n    And about you be the milkmaid of the smooth white palms,\n    Bridget of the clustering hair, golden brown!\n\n\nTurning aside, the shepherd searched here and there among the boulders\nand split rocks which everywhere obtruded from the sea of heather. For a\ntime his quest was unrewarded; but just as he was about to relinquish it\nhe gave an abrupt exclamation. He had seen the _Torranan_, that rare\nplant, of which he had often heard, but had never found: and, for sure,\nhe would never have sought it there, for it was said to be a plant of\nthe sea's lip--that is to say, of the shore, within reach of the\ntide-breath.\n\nMuttering over and over, \"_Buainams' thu thorranain!_\"--Let me pluck\nthee, Torranan,--he gained the precious bloom at last, and then, holding\nit before him, half spoke, half chanted this ancient incantation, known\nin the isles as the \"Eolas an Torranain,\" a spell of good service to\nkeep the cows from the harm of the evil eye, and also to increase their\nmilk:\n\n  \"_Buainams' thu thoranain\n  Le'd uile bheannachd's le'd uile bhuaidh--_\"\n\n  Let me pluck thee, Torranan!\n  With all thy blessedness and all thy virtue.\n  The nine blessings came with the nine parts,\n  By the virtue of the Torranan.\n  The hand of St. Bride with me.\n      I am now to pluck thee.\n\n  Let me pluck thee, Torranan!\n  With thine increase as to sea and land;\n  With the flowing tide that shall know no ebbing\n  By the assistance of the chaste St. Bride,\n  The holy St. Columba directing me,\n  Gentle Oran protecting me,\n  And St. Michael, of high-crested steeds,\n  Imparting virtue to the matter the while,\n  Darling plant of all virtue,\n      I am now plucking thee!\n\nAll the time the old man had been carefully disengaging the cream-white,\ndome-shaped flower, he had crooned over and over:\n\n  \"_Lamh Bhride leam,\n  Tha mi 'nis ga'd bhuain!_\"\n\n  The hand of St. Bride with me\n  I am now to pluck thee!\n\nSo, too, now--now that he had the Torranan safe at last, he kept\nrepeating:\n\n  \"_'Cuir buaidh anns an ni,\n  Tha mo lus lurach a nis air a bhuain!_\"\n\n  Darling plant of all virtue,\n  I am now plucking thee!\n\nBut the line that was on his lips for long that day--even after he had\ngiven the flower to Mary Maclean, with assurance that it was gathered\nduring the lift of the tide, was _Ri lionadh gun tra'adh_--\"With the\nflowing tide that shall know no ebbing.\" Over and over he said this\nbelow his breath. _Ri lionadh gun tra'adh_; strange words these: what\nwas the hidden thing in them? What was the _lionadh_, the flowing tide:\nwas it life or death?\n\nBut now the rare bloom was found: he was glad of that. He doffed his\nweather-worn bonnet, and placed the flower in the hollow of it: then,\ncalling Ghaoth from the already scattered kye, he turned and made his\nway back to the clachan.\n\nWhen he entered Mrs. Maclean's cottage, where his breakfast of porridge\nwas ready, he made and received the usual salutation of blessing: and\nthen sat down in silence.\n\nThe room was full of sunlight--so full that Mrs. Maclean had hung a\nscreen of bracken from an iron hook, so that it shielded the peat-fire\nand let the life of the flame burn unchecked.\n\nHe did not look at Alastair; and, indeed, all the morning-blitheness had\ngone out of the eyes of the old man. Not that any there noticed his\ntaciturnity. Mrs. Maclean moved softly to and fro. Alastair sat\nbroodingly in the leathern chair before the fire: Lora on a stool at his\nfeet, with her right hand clasped in his left and her eyes fixed on his\nface. On the table the porridge was untouched, the new bread uncut, the\nwarm milk grown tepid.\n\nWith a sigh, Alastair rose at last. Crossing the room, he went to the\neast window and stared forth unseeingly, or, at any rate, without sign\nof any kind. Then, restlessly, he began to pace to and fro. Repressing\nher tears, Lora seated herself at the table and tried to eat, hopeful\nthat she might thus induce him to do likewise. Mrs. Maclean followed her\nexample, but ate in silence. She had almost ended, when Lora saw that\nshe had abruptly laid down her spoon and was looking intently at Ian.\n\nThe old man now followed every motion of the invalid with a look as of\none fascinated. When, suddenly, Alastair turned, went to the door and\ncrossed the threshold, Ian rose and followed.\n\nA few seconds later he came back, his withered face almost as white as\nhis hair.\n\nMrs. Maclean met him ere he could speak.\n\n\"Not a word before _her_\" she whispered.\n\n\"Meet me at the byre: I shall be there in a minute or two.\"\n\nBut just then Lora rose and went out.\n\n\"Ian Maclean, what is it?\"\n\n\"Mary, my kinswoman, he is not alone.\"\n\n\"Not alone?\"\n\n\"I have seen _the other_\"\n\nShe knew now what he meant. He had seen the shadow-self, the phantasm of\nthe living that, ere death, is often seen alongside the one who shall\nsoon die. Mrs. Maclean knew well that this shadowy second-self simulated\nthe real self, and that even all the actions of the body were reproduced\nwith a grotesque verisimilitude. But she was also aware how, sometimes,\none may learn from the mien of the phantasm what is hidden in the aspect\nof the doomed.\n\n\"Last night,\" Ian went on in a dull voice, \"I had the sight again. I saw\nthe mist of death as high about him as when a man is sunken in a\npeat-bog up to the eyes.\"\n\n\"Well? I know you have more to say.\"\n\n\"Ay.\"\n\n\"Speak, Ian!\"\n\nWith a long, indrawn breath, the old man resumed in a slow, reluctant\nvoice.\n\n\"When I came in, a little ago, I saw the sorrow there was on every face.\nMy vision, too, came back upon me, and I had trouble. I meant to eat and\ngo out quickly. But when Mr. Alastair began to move about, I saw that he\nwas not alone. I knew _the other_ at once. There could be no mistake. In\ndress, in height, in face, in movement, they were the same. But there\nwas a difference.\"\n\nMrs. Maclean shuddered slightly, and her lips opened as though she were\nabout to speak. With a gesture, however, she signed to Ian to continue.\n\n\"Ay, there was a difference. I hoped against my eyes; but when I\nfollowed him yonder I saw what I saw, and what killed my hope.\"\n\n\"Speak, speak, Ian!\"\n\n\"In all things, the same but one, and that was in the eyes, in the\nexpression. Those of Mr. Alastair were dull and lightless, and brooding\nlow; those of _the other_ were large and wild, and stared in terror and\namaze; and on the face of the thing the Fear lay, and moved, and was\nalive.\"\n\n\"O Ian, Ian, what does it mean?\"\n\n\"It means this, Mary, daughter of Donnacha, what, sure, you know well:\nthat not only is the shadow of death near this house, but that upon\nAlastair Mac Diarmid is the mind-dark that lay upon his father and upon\nhis father's father.\"\n\n\"The curse of Michael be upon this evil, Ian!\"\n\n\"Even so, _Mhoire nighean Donnacha_.\"\n\n\"His father was the third of his race in succession, who, soon or late,\nfell under that shadow. And we all know, sure we all know, that after\nthe third generation the veil is withdrawn. This thing is an evil dream\nof yours, Ian Maclean!\"\n\n\"It is an evil doing of _some one_,\" muttered the old man, with sombre\neyes.\n\n\"Perhaps\"--\n\nBut before Mrs. Maclean could say what was in her mind, Alastair and\nLora entered.\n\nWith downcast eyes Ian passed out, giving a furtive, terrified look\nbehind him ere he closed the door.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was through the old islesman that the rumour of Alastair Macleod's\nmadness went abroad.\n\nLong before the stormy afternoon which followed the beautiful youth of\nthat day, with its ominous morning-red in the north-east, had waned to\ngloaming, there was not a soul on Innisr\u00f2n who did not know of the\nsorrow.\n\nYet no one came near out of a cruel sympathy: no one spoke heedless\nwords either of question or solace to Mrs. Maclean; for none could be\nsaid to the two most concerned, neither Alastair nor Lora having been\nseen throughout the day.\n\nNevertheless, a deep resentment prevailed against one person upon the\nisland. Not only had the spring gone ill with the fishing, but the nets\nhad been torn and trailed in a way that suggested something beyond the\nblind malice of wind and wave and the currents of the deep sea and the\nsavage dog-fish. Several cows had ceased to give milk; hens had ceased\nto lay; and Gregor McGregor's white mare had dropped a dead foal, the\nfirst time such a thing had happened on the isle. And now that,\nunforeseen and in the heyday of youth and health, the worst of all\ntroubles had come upon Alastair Macleod, many recalled how his father,\nMacleod of Dunvrechan, who had died on Innisr\u00f2n, had not only once\ndenounced old Ealasaid MacAodh as a woman of the evil eye, but had\ncursed her ere he died, and attributed his misery to a blight of her\nworking.\n\nAs one spake to another, the same thought came into each mind: that the\nold widow who lived at Craig-Ruaidh, at the head of the Glen of the Dark\nWater, had put her malice upon Alastair Mac Diarmid.\n\nSome one, in a group by the ferry, reminded her hearers that, by a\nmischance, every one on the isle save Widow MacAodh had been invited to\nthe feast in the little mission-house, when \"_Lora nighean maighstir\nTormaid_\" was wedded; and how it was well known that old Ealasaid had\nbeen full of anger and pain at the slight, and had since scarce spoken\nwith any one save Mrs. Maclean, with whom no bitterness was ever long to\nendure.\n\n\"Ay, ay, it's her doing--it's her doing,\" was muttered all round; \"she\nhas put the spell of the evil eye upon him--foreigner that she is.\"\n\nMany years had gone by since Duncan b\u00e0n MacAodh, a Hebridean, who had\nsettled in Innisr\u00f2n, brought thither a wife out of remote St. Kilda.\nLong since he had gone to his rest, and lay among the few dead under the\ngreat runic cross at the extreme of Ardfeulan, on the west of the isle;\nyet he was still \"the man from Uist,\" as his widow was still the\n\"outlander.\"\n\n\"Ian,\" said P\u00f2l Macdonald, one of the oldest of the fishermen, \"you too\nare said to have _the thing_ in you, though you always look through\nboth eyes, and with good will to man and beast. Let you, and two others\nof us, go to-night to Widow Ealasaid's, do upon her and find out if she\nis accursed:...and then...and then....\"\n\nNo one spoke, though a veiled consenting glance went between Macdonald\nand Ian and a young islesman, Ronald Macrae, who lived over by\nArdfeulan.\n\nIt was not a subject to discuss further in that hour of uncertainty. One\nor two members of the group had already edged away, when Kathia\nMacdonald suddenly drew attention to the appearance of the first three\nof the returning herring-boats, anxiously expected for over an hour\npast.\n\nThe brown-sailed wherries came in under the lee of the isle in a smother\nof foam. Already a snarling north-easter was racing over the sea, still\nsmelling of the ling and bracken it had flattened as it tore over the\nsummits of the mainland hills.\n\nThe water was of a shifting emerald near the haven; of a dark\nbottle-green beyond; and, out in the open, black, fretted and torn with\nstaring white splashes and a myriad-leaping surge.\n\nThe race of the sea-horses had begun, and no one on Innisr\u00f2n was at\nease till the last boat had come safely round from Ardgheal, the point\nwhence on the yestereve Lora had so eagerly watched for the coming of\nher husband.\n\nA fiery sunset disclosed the immense and swirling procession of clouds\nhigh over the isle--cloud not only racing after cloud, but often leaping\none upon the other as flying sheep in panic. Toward the east, the\nvapours were larger and darker: the cohorts more densely massed. Above\nthe mainland stretched one vast unbroken phalanx of purple-livid gloom,\nout of the incessant and spasmodically convulsive travail in whose\ndepths swept monstrous cloudbirths.\n\nAs the night fell, there was audible beyond the hills the noise of a\nbaffled thunderstorm--a tempest which had been caught among the\nmountains, and could no more lift itself over the summits than a\nscreaming and wrestling eagle could tear itself from a stag in whose\nhide its talons had become irremovably gripped.\n\nAbove the peaks and along the flank of the mass of livid gloom, spears\nof lightning were swung against the wind; and with splinter and flash,\nthere was a rain of whirled lances as against some unseen assault from\nbelow.\n\nThe tumult soared, hurled downward, and fell upon Innisr\u00f2n. The\nisle-folk listened in the dark with awe. Roar and crash, and a\nfrightful, terrifying howling followed every blast, as of a volcano\nbelching forth avalanche after avalanche, and shaking to the valleys the\n_d\u00e9bris_ of all the hills. Roar upon roar, crash upon crash, howl upon\nhowl: with the strident raucous scream of the wind, yelling a p\u00e6an of\ntriumph as it leaped before the javelins of the lightning and tore in\nits ruinous might far out across the heaving, swaying, moaning sea.\n\nIt was a night for all who fare by or upon the deep waters to remember\nwith awe: for those whose lives, and kin, and gear had gone scatheless,\nto recollect with thanksgiving: for those whose weal went with it, to\nrecall with bowed heads or wet eyes.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAn hour or more after nightfall, three figures moved with the wind\nacross the isle: blurred shadows astir in the tempest-riven dark. Ronald\nMacrae carried a lantern; but speedily laid it down by a cairn, for the\nflame could not live.\n\nHe and Ian and P\u00f2l were grimly silent, not only on the path through the\nwind-swept heather, but when under shelter from a bight of hillside or\noverhanging crag. The business that took them out in that tempest lay\nheavy upon them.\n\nIf, out of her own mouth, or by sign or deed of her own, Ealasaid should\nconvict herself of the use of the evil eye, her doom would be fixed.\nEven in the bitterness of superstition, however, the islesmen were not\nbent upon the extreme penalty, the meed of those who deal in witchcraft.\nThe dwellers on Innisr\u00f2n, as all who live among the outer isles in\ngeneral, are too near the loneliness of life and death to be wanton in\nthe taking away of that which is so great in the eyes of man and so\nsmall in the eyes of God.\n\nThe worst they intended was to make Ealasaid bring her own doom upon\nher: then, on the morrow, her sheiling would be burned to the ground and\nthe ashes scattered to the four quarters, while she herself would be\nexiled from the island under ban of cross, mystic word, and the ancient\nCeltic anathema.\n\nSo wild was the wind and dark the way, that a full hour passed before\nthey reached the Glen of the Dark Water, and heard the savage ramping\nand charging of the endless squadrons of the waves against the\npromontory of Ardfeulan.\n\nAs they drew near the little cottage, a lonely dwelling on the brae\nwhich sloped to the glen, they saw that the occupant had not yet gone\nto bed, for a red gleam of light stole comfortingly across the forlorn\ndark.\n\nWith a significant touch on the shoulder of each of his companions, Ian\nled them to within a yard or two of the window.\n\n\"Hush,\" he whispered, in a momentary lull; \"make no noise as we look in.\nShe might hear, and blast us with her evil eye. Perhaps she is even now\ntalking with some warlock or fiend.\"\n\nTrembling, the three men huddled under the wall. At last, slowly, and\nwith hearts wildly a-throb, they raised themselves and looked within.\n\nThe room was bare in its clean poverty. On the rickety wooden table was\na bowl with a little unfinished porridge in it. A yard away was an open\nGaelic Bible, with a pair of horn spectacles laid across the open page.\nAt a spinning stool between the table and the peat-fire was an old\nwoman, kneeling, with her hands clasped and her face upraised. On the\npoor, tired, worn features was a look of pathetic yearning, straining\nfrom a white and beautiful peace.\n\nSo rapt was she that she did not see a hand move the outer latch of the\nwindow, or feel the sudden breath of the night-air.\n\nThen those without, waiting to hearken to sorcery more appalling than\nthe savagery of the tempest, heard old Ealasaid repeat this prayer:\n\n  \"_Tha 'n la nis air falbh \u00f9ainn,\n  Tha 'n oidhche 'tighinn orm dl\u00f9th;\n  'S ni mise luidhe gu dion\n  Fo dhubhar sgiath mo r\u00f9in.\n  O gach cunnart 's o gach b\u00e0s,\n  'S o gach n\u00e0mhaid th' aig Mac Dhe,\n  O n\u00e0dur dhaoine borba,\n  'S o choirbteachd mo n\u00e0duir f\u00e8in,\n  Gabhaidh mis' a nis armachd Dhe,\n  Gun bhi reubta no brisd',\n  'Sge b' oil leis an t' s\u00e0tan 's le ph\u00e0irt\n  Bi'dh mis' air mo ghe\u00e0rd a nis._\"\n\n  The day is now gone;\n  Dark night gathers around,\n  And I will lay me safely down (to sleep)\n  Under the shadow of my Beloved One's wing.\n  Against all dangers, and death in every form,\n  Against each enemy of God's good Son,\n  Against the anger of the turbulent people,\n  And against the corruption of my own nature,\n  I will take unto me the armour of God--\n  That shall protect me from all assaults:\n  And in spite of Satan and all his following,\n  I shall be well and surely guarded.\n\nWhen, after an interval of speechless prayer, the lonely old woman rose\npainfully to her feet, she noticed the open window, and heard the sough\nof the wind without.\n\nWith a tired sigh, she crossed the room to close the inside latch. But,\nat the window, she stood irresolute, held by the noise of the sea\nbeating against the clamour of the wind. She stooped, and peered forth.\n\nNot a thing was visible. Suddenly a broad wavering gleam of\nsheet-lightning lit up the whole brae. Almost, she fancied, she could\nhave sworn she saw three human figures, with bowed heads, moving across\nthe brow of the slope.\n\nShe could not know that three men, stricken with shame and\nremorse--remorse which would ere long bloom into the white flower of\nrepentance, to be worn lovingly by all on the isle--were stealing\nhomeward from a vain and wicked errand.\n\nWith a shudder, she crossed herself, fearing that the figures she had\nimagined, or had really seen, were the three dreadful Accursed who drove\nthe spear into Christ's side and the nails into His hands and feet, and\nwith mocking offered Him the bitter sponge.\n\nSlowly repeating:\n\n  \"_O gach cunnart 's o gach b\u00e0s,\n  'S o gach n\u00e0mhaid th' aig Mac Dhe,_\"\n\nshe quenched with charred peat the flame of her fire, and was soon in a\nchild-like rest \"under the shadow of the wing of her Beloved One.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen midnight came upon the isle, the worst violence of the storm was\nover. Nevertheless, upon the sea was the awfulness of desolation, the\nrumour of a terrible wrath.\n\nAll slept at last: the innocent Ealasaid, the foolish seekers of evil,\nthe isle-folk one and all--except two.\n\nAlastair and Lora lay in each others' arms as children terrified in the\ndark.\n\nThat afternoon his madness had come upon him for a while; and he had\nsmiled grimly at he knew not what, and laughed while the tears streamed\nfrom the eyes of Lora and Mary; and moaned betimes; and cried out\nagainst the calling of the sea; and closed his ears against the\nfrightful wailing of a kelpie in the tarn beyond the byre; and, at the\nlast, shook as in an ague before the fire, fearful of some informulate\nterror, but with such a crown of sorrow on his forehead that the two\nwomen bowed their faces in their hands, speechless with grief: with such\na horror in his eyes that Ghaoth shrank from him with bristling fell and\nupcurled, snarling lip.\n\nBut with the night came yet another merciful lifting of the veil.\n\nWhile the storm raged at its worst, the three kneeled, and Mrs. Maclean\nread from the beautiful Gaelic Scripture. Then, with all the tenderness\nof her childless passion of maternity, she prayed for God's balm and\npeace and the healing of His hand.\n\nWhen, in time, she went to her own room, Alastair and Lora talked for\nlong in a low voice.\n\nOn the day he had first heard that the seed of life had taken root in\nher womb, and knew that a child was to be born of their great love, he\nhad known a thrill of such rapture that he could scarce see Lora for the\nblinding of the tears of joy.\n\nBeautiful she was to all: to him, lovely and tender as twilight and dear\nbeyond words: but at that moment, when he learned from her own lips of\nher only half explicable trouble, he knew he had passed into a Holy of\nHolies of love and reverent passion such as he had but vaguely dreamed\nof as possible.\n\nBut now, on this wild night of storm without and more awful dread\nwithin, he recalled with horror what had been driven from his mind.\n\nBitter as was the doom he and Lora had to face, tenfold bitter was it\nmade by the thought that they were to bring into the world yet another\nsoul shrouded in the shadow of his own intolerable ill.\n\nAnd so it was that, at the last, Alastair and Lora Macleod, knowing his\nmadness was at hand and could be cured of no man, and that their lives\nwere spilled out as lees from a cup, and that they were witlessly\ndooming the unborn child to a heritage of grief, gave solemn troth to\neach other that on the morrow they would go forth hand in hand, and,\ntogether in death as in life, lay themselves beneath that ever-wandering\nyet ever-returning wave which beats day and night, and week by week, and\nyear by year, and without end for ever, about the sea-gathered graveyard\non the remote west of Innisr\u00f2n.\n\nThen was a great peace theirs. For the last time they laid themselves\ndown on their bed: for the last time twined their arms around each\nother, while on the same pillow their heads lay side by side, the hair\nabout his forehead wet with her falling tears: for the last time they\nkept vigil through the terror of the dark--an awful terror now, with the\nwrath of the sea without, with the shadow of Death within the room, with\nthe blackness of oblivion creeping, creeping from chamber to chamber in\nthe darkened house of a dulled, subsiding brain.\n\nEre dawn, Alastair slept. Lora lay awake, trembling, longing for the\nday, yet praying God to withhold it; sick with baffled hope, with the\nache of weariness, with the sound of the moan and hollow boom of the\nsea. More deep and terrible in her ears grew that midnight Voice,\nreverberant in the room as in the whorl of a shell: a dreadful iterance\nof menace, a dirge that confusedly she seemed to know well, a swelling\nchant, a requiem.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nAn hour after sunrise there was not a cloud in the sky. The first day of\nJune came clad in the fullness of summer. Sea and land seemed as though\nthey had been immersed in that Fount of Life which wells from the hollow\nof the Hand which upholdeth Tir-na-h' Oighe, the isle of eternal youth.\n\nThe low island-trees had not suffered as had those on the mainland: yet\neverywhere were strewn branches, and, on the uplands, boughs wrenched\naway, and often hurled far from the parent tree.\n\nBut upon all the isle there was now a deep quiescence. In the warm\nlanguor, even the birds sang less wildly clear, though the high, remote,\nfalling lark-music floated spirally earthward, poignantly sweet. An\nindescribably delicate shimmer of haze lay on the heights and pastures,\nand where the corries sloped jaggedly seaward, each with a singing burn\nsplashing or wimpling adown its heart. From the uplands came the lowing\nof the kine, the bleating of the ewes and lambs, the rapid whirring\ngurgle of the grouse among the heather. The wailing of curlews rose and\nfell; the sharp cries of the cliff-hawks beat against Craig-Ruaidh. High\noverhead, as motionlessly in motion as the snow-white disc of the moon\nlying immeasurably more remote within the vast blue hollow of the sky,\nan eagle poised on outspread wings, and then, without visible effort or\nmovement, drifted slowly out of sight like a cloud blown by the wind.\n\nOnly upon the sea was something of the tumult of the past night still a\nreality.\n\nAround the isle, and in the wide Sound between it and the mainland, the\n\"white sheep\" moved in endless procession, no longer wildly dispersed\nand huddled and torn by the wolves of the tempest. Oceanward the\nsea-horses swept onward magnificently, champing and whirling white foam\nabout their green flanks, and tossing on high their manes of sunlit\nrainbow gold, dazzling-white and multitudinous far as sight could reach.\n\nClamour of gulls, noise of waves, lisp and chime and flute-call of the\nshallows among the rock-holes and upon the whispering tongues of the\nsea-weed--what joy, and stir, and breath of life!\n\nHand in hand, in the hot noon, Lora and Alastair went idly along the\nsheep-path leading from the clachan to the promontory of Ardgheal. The\nsmell of the brine from the sea and wrack-strewn shore, the sun-wrought\nfragrance of the grass and thyme, of bracken and gale, of birch and\nhawthorn and trailing briar, of the whole, beautiful, living, warm body\nof the earth so lay upon the tired senses with a healing as of balm,\nthat even the tears in Lora's eyes ceased to gather, leaving there only\na softness as of twilight-dew in violets.\n\nIt was to be their last walk in the sunshine of that day--their last\nparticipance in the sunshine of life.\n\nAll the morning had been spent by Alastair in writing and brooding. Once\nagain he had talked over with Lora that projected deed, which to them\nseemed the one right and fitting end to the tragedy of circumstance. She\nhad promised that even if the darkness came down upon his mind\nirretrievably she would fulfill her troth with him. Great love casteth\nout fear; but even if this had not been so with her, she bore in mind\nthe menace of what he had said about the child.\n\nShe, too, had spent a little of that last morning in writing, though her\nletter was not to go across the sea to the mainland, but to be left with\nold Ian to give to Mary on the morrow.\n\nIt was close upon noon when she saw that Alastair's gloom was upon him\nagain, though he was now as quiet as a child. Taking his hand, she led\nhim forth, heedful to avoid the clachan, and vaguely wishful to visit\nonce more that little eastern haven of Ardgheal where, but two days ago,\nshe had longingly awaited Alastair's return, and where, months before,\nhe had first won her love.\n\nHe seemed to take pleasure in the sight of the sea he loved so well, and\nin the songs of the birds, and to be vaguely displeased because Ghaoth\nwould not leap to his caress as usual, or else would crouch at his feet\nwith startled eyes and low whine.\n\nWhen Lora spoke, he answered seldom; but when he did, she knew that he\nunderstood. Once or twice he looked at her strangely; and once, with a\nthrill of awe and dread, she saw that it was unrecognisingly.\n\nShe caught the fragment of an _Eolas_, a spell, as his lips moved; and\nthe fear was upon her because of the mystery behind the words:\n\n  \"_'S i'n t-suil a chi,\n  'S e'en cridhe a smuainicheas,\n  'S i'n teanga 'labhras:\n  'S mise'n Triuir qu tilleadh so ortsa,\n            Lora-mo-b\u00e8an,\n  An ainm an Athar, a Mhic, 's an\n            Spioraidh Naoimh!_\"\n\n  'T is the eye that sees,\n  'T is the heart that thinks,\n  'T is the tongue that speaks:\n  I am the Three to turn this off to you,\n            Lora, my wife:\n  In the name of the Father, of the Son,\n            and of the Holy Ghost.\n\nWith a sob, she turned and put her arms about him. Never had he seemed\nso fair in her sight--tall and comely as a young pine, of a beauty\nbeyond that of any man she had ever seen. No wonder that her father,\nfamiliar lover of the Ossianic ballads, had been wont, remembering the\nbeauty of the second son of Usnoth, lord of Etha, to call Alastair\n_Ailthos_.\n\n\"Dear, my dear one, Ailthos, Alastair!\" she cried, clinging close.\n\"Look at me! Speak to me! Do you not know me?\"\n\nSlowly he turned his eyes upon her, and after a brief perplexity the\nshadow went out of them, and he smiled gently.\n\n\"Let us go home, my fawn,\" he whispered. \"I am tired. It would be too\nsad to go down to Ardgheal.\"\n\nHe had already caught sight of the smoke of a steamer beyond Dunmore\nPoint; and fearing that it might be the _Clansman_--for he thought the\nhour much later than it was--he hoped to spare Lora another needless\npang. Moreover, his growing dread of seeing any one was stronger than\never upon him.\n\nSo they turned thus soon even in that last sunshine, and entering the\ncottage, sat before the smouldering peat-fire; he brooding darkly, Lora\ndreaming through her slow-welling tears, and both ... waiting.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThough, at dusk, a heavy sea still ran, it was partly due to the surge\nof the ground-swell and to the turbulence of the tide, for there was but\nlittle wind even away from the shelter of the isle, and what there was\ncame mostly in short, sudden puffs and wandering breaths.\n\nIn the quietude of the gloaming, it was as though the sea called all\nround Innisr\u00f2n as a beast of prey stalks about a high sheepfold,\ngrowling, breathing heavily, ravening.\n\nAfter the supper, eaten frugally and in silence, Lora and Alastair\nlistened once again to the peat-prayer and the Blessing of Peace of Mrs.\nMaclean; then, not daring to say any word to her but that of a husky\nfarewell for the night, and fearful even of meeting the glance of her\nquiet eyes, they went to their room, there to sit silently awhile in the\ndarkness, hand in hand.\n\nNo one saw them leave the cottage an hour later: not a soul heard them\nas they passed through the clachan.\n\nThe road they chose was that sheep-path through the heather which led to\nArdfeulan by the Glen of the Dark Water. Each knew the way well,\notherwise their faring westward would have been difficult, for the sky\nwas veiled by a thin mist and the moon was not visible.\n\nThey walked in silence; sometimes Lora in advance, but, whenever\npracticable, together, and hand in hand.\n\nAt last they reached the Glen of the Dark Water, and perceived through\nthe gloaming the sheiling of Ealasaid MacAodh. This they skirted, and\nthen entered a sloping hollow, at the base of which was audible the\nhoarse murmuring of the sea. Lora knew the place well. A week ago she\nhad been there with Alastair, and remembered that the whole slope was a\nmass of moonflowers, tall, white, and so close-clustered that the green\nstems could hardly be seen.[2]\n\n     [2] A tall, cream-white margu\u00e9rite, native to the Outer Isles and\n     the Hebrides, is known to the Islanders as the Moonflower.\n\nThe wan glimmer of them was perceptible now, like the milky way on a\nnight when a faint frost-mist prevails. Around, there was nothing else\nvisible. Not a tree grew in that place: not a crag rose out of the sea\nof death-white blooms. The low-hanging mist-cloud veiled all things. It\nwas as though the grave had been passed, and this was the gloom of the\nDeath-sleep land that lies beyond. Only _there_ is eternal silence:\nhere, the dull menace of the sea made a ceaseless murmur about the\nobscure coasts.\n\nAs they entered the valley of moonflowers, dimly seeing their way a few\nyards beyond them, and hearkening to the inwash and resurgence of the\ntide moving along the extreme frontiers of the land, a sense of\nunspeakable dread came over Alastair and Lora.\n\nThey stood still, hardly daring to breathe. Both vaguely remembered\nsomething: they knew not what, save that the tragic memory was linked\nwith reminiscence of a valley of moonflowers seen in a dark twilight.\nWas it all a dream, coincident in their minds? Or had life once before,\nin some unremembered state, wrought tragic issues for them by a valley\nof white flowers seen in the darkness, with a deeper darkness around, a\nveiled sky above, and the hoarse, confused prophesying of the sea\nbeyond?\n\nAs they stood, the moon--about an hour risen--glimmered through the veil\nof cloud. As with a hand, the rift was slowly made; but though the light\nwas now clearly visible, it still gleamed through filmy shrouds of\nvapour. There was no shape, no central luminous spot even: only a\ndiffused sheen which spread for a great span northward and southward,\nthough it illumed nothing beneath save the long sloping hollow filled\nwith moonflowers. The blooms rose almost to the knees of the two silent\nand trembling figures. For some inscrutable reason, the advance of light\nhad not brought any comfort to either: rather, their vague terror\nincreased almost unendurably.\n\nThe sea called below. Lora shuddered, and drew back a step or two.\n\nA long, wavering, greenish light appeared high above the south-west. As\nthe sheet-lightning fled shudderingly northward, it lapsed into ashen\ntremors before it was swallowed up of the darkness, as a wounded\nsea-bird in the deep.\n\nIn that brief gleam, Alastair turned and looked into Lora's eyes.\n\nShe moved to his side again, and once more took his hand. Then, slowly,\nand still without word one to the other, they moved downward through the\nhollow.\n\nThere was not a sound about them save the susurrus of their feet going\nthrough the moonflowers. From the glen alone came any break in the\ninland stillness, the noise of water running swiftly from ledge to\nledge. In the darkness where the sea was, there broke the fluctuating\nmoan and boom of ocean. From far across the wave came a thin, forlorn\nsound that was the crying of the wind.\n\nMinute by minute, as they waded through that death-white wilderness, the\nmoon wove the cloud-shroud into thinner veils, till at last, as the two\nfigures emerged upon the shore by the side of a precipitous scaur, they\nwere of a filmy gossamer that no longer obscured the golden-yellow globe\nthat wheeled solemnly through the appalling upper solitudes of the\nnight.\n\nThe tide, at the last reach of the ebb for nearly an hour past, was now\non the flood: though the first indeterminate babble of returning waters\nwas scarce different from the lapsing ebb-music in aught save a gurgling\nswiftly repetitive undertone.\n\nThe scaur by whose side they stood was hollow, and was known as the Cave\nof the Sea-Woman. It could be reached dry-shod, or nearly so, only at\nlow-water, and even then only during calm, or when the wind did not blow\nfrom the south or west. For years beyond record it had been almost\nunvisited, for the cavern was a place of deadly peril except just before\nand after the extreme ebb. But after the death of two of his sons--one\nin the effort to swim outward against the inrush of the tide; the other\nby falling, or being swept backward to the deep chasm that lay at the\nfar end of the cave--old Macrae, of Ardfeulan Farm near by, had caused\nrude steps to be cut in the funnel-like hollow rising sheer up from the\nsloping ledge that lipped the chasm and reached the summit of the scaur.\n\nThe smell of the brine from the dripping boulders smote shrewdly upon\nAlastair and Lora as they stood at the weedy mouth of the cavern. Then\nfor the first time that night they turned their backs upon the sea, and\nmoved slowly across the long, flat slabs of rock.\n\nIt was not dark at the entrance to the Cavern of the Sea-Woman, for the\nmoonlight moved within it as the hand of a blind man groping blankly in\nan unfamiliar place. The arch of the rock was clear, and even the\nfrondage of fern and sea-plants suspended from its lower curve; also,\nbeneath, a mass of mossed crag, just beyond the highest reach of the\ntides. Among this dark crag-vegetation grew strange plants; but none\nstranger or so rare as the sea-grape, or mermaid's-fruit of the\nislanders. No one on Innisr\u00f2n knew its proper designation, and it had\nbecome known at all as the sea-grape only because some student of rare\nthings discovered and wrote about it under that name, as perhaps the\nculminating treasure-trove of the botanist in the Scottish West. It is a\nplant which clings as a tendril, choosing only the summit of high rocks\nor boulders in some sunless place where it can breathe the ooze from\ndead or dying sea-weed, and can feel the salt air reach it with a chilly\ntouch. It lies low, with its thin, moist, ash-grey stems; its round,\npale-green, transparent leaves faintly spotted with livid blotches; and\nits infrequent clusters of small, juicy berries of a hue of dusky\nyellow.\n\nThe isle-folk regard it with awe. Though the fruit is poisonous, and a\ndeadly draught can be distilled from the leaves, a few berries would\nnot suffice to kill. To eat sparingly of the sea-grape is not to invite\ndeath necessarily, but to bring about a stupor so deep that for an hour\nor more no familiar sound can reach the ear, no ordinary shock vibrate\nalong the nerves, no common pain affect the body. If the eater of the\nmermaid's-fruit be left undisturbed, he will not stir for twelve or even\nfifteen hours, though the first death-like trance does not prevail\nbeyond an hour, or at most two: while, if forcibly aroused, he is so\nweak in body and so dazed in mind that he cannot long be kept awake\nwithout peril to the brain, and indeed to life itself.\n\nIt was because of this fruit of oblivion that Alastair and Lora had\nsought the Cave of the Sea-Woman.\n\nThey had feared not so much their own instinctive evasion of death as\nthat, in the final struggle, they might not go down into the shadow\ntogether.\n\nThe idea that the Silence should come upon them unawares--that, arms\nabout each other in a last embrace, the wave should encroach upon their\ndeep unheeding slumber--had given them a strange elation. The thought\nwas Alastair's. Though he was not a native of Innisr\u00f2n, he had often\nvisited it from Dunvrechan even before he had come to love Lora, and\nwas familiar with each of the treacherous caves and all the desolate,\nboulder-strewn, uninhabited south-western side of the island, as well as\nwith everything in animate or inanimate nature which was to be found\ntherein. Not only had he often heard of the sea-grape which grew almost\ninaccessibly in some of the caverns on the western side, but he knew\nwhere in the Cave of the Sea-Woman it was to be obtained with little\ndifficulty.\n\nLetting Lora's hand drop gently to her side, he climbed the rough,\nbroken ledges to the right, and swiftly returned holding in his hand a\ncluster of limp leaves from which hung snakily several stems of the\ndusky-yellow fruit.\n\nLora looked at the berries curiously, and yet with a strange\nindifference. With that awful menacing sound of the sea beyond, with\nthat more awful murmur of dread in her heart, with that rising tide of\ndeath all about them, it mattered little to her that Alastair laid such\nstress on those small, poisonous things, those petty messengers of a\nmere oblivion of the senses.\n\nJust beyond where they stood, and at the beginning of those long, flat,\ninward-sloping ledges which formed the floor of the cavern till the\nabrupt ending over the dark chasm at the extreme end, was a bed of soft\nwhite sand, shelving from one of the ledges past and underneath another,\nand then among rocks covered with bladder-wrack and adder's-tongues and\nother sea-weed, with tangled masses of the long, trailing\ndead-man's-hair.\n\nStill without speech, here Alastair and Lora lay down, side by side.\n\nThere is an ebb in the tide of human hope that must reach a limit. When\nthis limit is attained there is too great weariness for any further\nrevolt, for any protest, for anything but dull acquiescence.\n\nSlowly Alastair stripped a few of the dusky berries from the plant and\nheld them in the hollow of his hand to Lora.\n\nTaking them, she leaned forward, looking intently upon his face, but\nfailing to see into his eyes, because of a deeper shadow therein than\nthat which environed them.\n\n\"_Alastair_,\" she whispered.\n\nHe made no answer; but wearily raised his hand to his mouth, and with\nhis tongue crushed against his palate the acrid juice of the sea-grapes.\n\n\"O Alastair! speak to me! speak to me!\"\n\nHe turned slowly. Then suddenly he put out his arms, and gathered her to\nhis breast.\n\n\"My beautiful gloom--Lora--my Rest--my Joy--O you who are my\nPharais--all the Pharais I care for now or dream of--if there be indeed\na pitiful God, He will have mercy upon us. If we do wrong, we sin\nbelieving that we are doing the right, the sole right thing. But sweet\nit is--O Lora, sweet and dear at the last, after all our dark bewildered\npain, to be here and know that all is over now, and that we two go into\nthe Silence together: and if there be any waking, that together we shall\nwake. _Mo ghr\u00e0idh, mo m\u00f9irnean_, my dear one, what peace there is for\nyou and me that I die thus: free from that crushing, crushing pain and\ndarkness that has filled my brain.\"\n\n\"Alastair! O my dear love--dearest--shall we--shall we meet again after\nthis dreadful night? Shall there be any day for us? I cannot die--oh, I\ncannot die in this awful darkness ... thus.... We are both so young ...\nand I....\"\n\nShe ceased abruptly.\n\nA low splashing sound, with long-drawn suffocating surge and susurrus,\ntold that the sea had begun to creep forward with stealthy swiftness.\n\nIt was not the menace of the tide, however, that froze the words upon\nher lips.\n\nAlastair had begun to croon, in a drowsy, yet strained, uncertain\nvoice, a snatch of fisher-lore.\n\n\"Alastair! Alastair! Alastair!\"\n\nHe gave a low laugh, as he turned on his side, and with wandering\nfingers played idly with the sand.\n\n\"Alastair!... my husband!... Beloved ... Alastair!... Oh, say farewell\nto me at the least.... Do not turn from me!\"\n\n\"It called--called--called: and she cried to me, Come, my Belov\u00e8d: and\nthen I knew Lora was dead. Why do you laugh at me? She is dead, I tell\nyou: _dead, dead, dead_! She, my beautiful Lora--my dream--my joy--she\nwho to me was Pharais itself: she is _dead_!\"\n\nIn the grip of supreme woe, a woman has a heroism of abnegation beyond\nall words to tell of it.\n\nHer grief rose within Lora as a phantom, and chilled her to the very\nheart and to the very brain. But with a great effort she stirred, leaned\nover and plucked some of the fatal fruit and swallowed it: for she had\ncrushed in her hand the berries he had given her.\n\nThen, having risen, with deft hands she pulled toward her some long\nstrings of dead-man's-hair and rope-weed; and, with those which were\nfirmly affixed to rocks or heavy stones, she wove a girdle about the\nwaist of Alastair, and so round her own.\n\nShe could scarce see to finish her task, for the moon had passed upward\ninto the denser cloud, and the faintly luminous veils of vapour beneath\nit were now scarce distinguishable from the obscurity all around.\n\nThe insistent wash of the tide was coming steadily nearer. She could\nfeel the cold breath of its moving lip.\n\nAbsolute darkness prevailed; while, with shaking hands, having unloosed\nher long, black hair, she tied it firmly in two places with the curly\ntangle of him whom she loved so passing well in death as in life.\n\nNot a gleam fell from the veiled moon. Not a thing was visible save a\nfaint phosphorescent line that moved slowly inward. Lora could not see\nAlastair's face, not even his body, not even the two shaking hands she\nheld over him while she prayed inaudibly, and with a suffocating,\nbewildering pain at her heart, at her lungs, in her head.\n\nNo sound came from the isle. The noise of the falling stream in the glen\nwas merged in the confused clamour of the tide-race. Shoreward, there\nwas that awful tidal whisper. Seaward, the march of wave after wave, of\nbillow after billow, in vast processional array; squadron after\nsquadron, battalion after battalion, of the innumerable army of the\ndeep: and among them all, over them all, beneath them all, a Voice,\nloud, reverberant, menacing, awful as brooding thunder, terrible as the\nquaking of the dry land when the hills o'er-topple the cities of the\nplain: a Voice as of the majesty of Death, swelling through the night\nwith all the eternal pain, the forlorn travail, the incommunicable ache\nof all the weary, weary World.\n\nThen, ere all remembrance died for her, Lora knew that Alastair slept\nand was at peace.\n\nShe stole her arm round his neck and held him close, but was too weak\nnow to lean over and kiss those white lips, parted as a child's in\ndreamless slumber.\n\nIt was her last pain: the last unavailing bitterness of woman's woe.\n\nThereafter she lay still, vaguely hearkening the tide run up the deep\nchannel beyond the little isle of sand, already damp with the underooze.\n\nShe listened to the slipping of the water along the ledges. A wave came\nout of the darkness and stalked through the gloom as a wild beast to its\nlair. Ledge over ledge she heard it swiftly move: then suddenly there\nwas a blank ... a hoarse muffled noise ... the hollow reverberation of\nthe billow as it fell heavily into the black unfathomed gulf wherein at\nthe flood was swept all that drifted into the cave.\n\nA windy sigh arose in the cavern. The tide moved upward, feeling along\nthe walls with stealthy, groping hands. A faint phosphorescence appeared\nmomently, now here, now there.\n\nThe second channel, to the left, suddenly brimmed. The water spilled\nover upon the sandy tract beyond. Then a long rolling wave raced inward,\nleaped along one of its ledges, poised a moment, and, breaking into a\nseething foam in its fall, tore this away and that the weedy bonds which\nbound the sleepers.\n\nBeyond, in the darkness, the loud moan, the deep, monotonous boom of the\nsea filled the whole vast void of the night.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nThe loud and terrifying violence of the sea throughout that day; the\noppressive gloom of that night; the weight of undischarged electricity\nwhich everywhere brooded; all made sleep impossible for Ealasaid\nMacAodh.\n\nSo ill was she when evening set in, that she had moved her things from\nthe bed in the second of the two rooms of which the sheiling consisted,\nso as to sleep in the box-bed in the larger, within sight and feel of\nthe fire-glow.\n\nShe had not slept there since her husband died. Perhaps this was because\nthat, even after the lapse of years, she could not endure the solitudes\nof memory. They had been lovers in their youth, she and her Hebridean:\nthey had been lovers during their brief married life, ere he, after the\ntoo frequent wont of the islesmen, found death in the wave wherein he\nsought the means of life: and when his drifted body had been recovered,\nand laid in the island soil, she had remained his lover still.\nDoubtless, she thought of him even yet with his yellow hair and laughing\neyes; perhaps of herself, too, as lithe of limb and with soft, fair skin\nas unwrinkled and hair as brown and supple as when he had first caused\nthe trouble of a new and strange tide in the calm waters of her girl's\nheart.\n\nTo sleep in the bed where she had lain by his side, where a child had\nbeen born to her and had died just as with glad pain she had recognised\nin the little one the eyes of its father, may have seemed to her a\ncross of suffering which she was unable to take up and bear.\n\nOr, it may be, there lurked darkly in her mind the ancient secret Celtic\ndread of sleeping in the bed where any of one's own bloodkin has died:\nthe dread of the whisper that is on the pillow in the dark hours, of the\nhand that gropes along the coverlet, of the chill breath that comes\nwithout cause and stirs the hair as it falls suddenly upon the cheek of\nthe awakened sleeper.\n\nOn this night, however, she dreaded not only her own weakness, but the\ndark. Vaguely, she wondered how she had for so long a time slept away\nfrom the comforting light and warmth of her peat-fire.\n\nShe was so old, so weary, she thought pitifully. Would Duncan be sure to\nknow her again? Why was she kept so long there, waiting for the summons\nthat never came? Had God forgotten her? No kin had she: not one to claim\nher body for the place of sleep when her dark hour came. Useless were\nher days to all: to herself, each day a rising sorrow; each night a\nsetting grief.\n\nYet that infinite patience of the poor was hers, that poignant pathos of\nwomanhood in childless and husbandless old age, which to the very end\nendures--till the last thread has been used in the weaving of the Crown\nof Sorrow.\n\nBeautiful this austere Diadem worn by aged and lonely women: sweet-eyed\nbearers of crowns among the myriad procession of the weary poor of all\nthe world, all going gloriously apparelled and wreathed with green\ngarlands which fade not in the sight of Him who leadeth His feeble folk\nto kingship and honour.\n\nFor a brief while she lay brooding, with dull old eyes fixed upon the\nred heart of the peats. Then the gaze withdrew slowly, and the lids\nclosed; as though a bird, flying softly through the twilight, had passed\nbeneath the low-hung leaves over its nest.\n\nShe could not have been long asleep, for the glow was still ruddy upon\nthe floor, when she was startled by a sudden barking and whining. She\nsat up, listening intently. She could hear no step, no voice. The\nwhining terrified her. If the noise were that of a dog at all, and not\nof Luath or some other phantom hound, whose dog was it, and why its\nsudden appearance at her door at that hour of night--its eager,\nunceasing clamour?\n\nBut when, with louder and louder barks and an impatient scraping, the\nunwelcome visitor showed he was not to be denied, she rose, put on her\nthings, and then, having wrapped a shawl about her head and lit a\nlantern which she lifted from a hook, opened the door.\n\nFor a moment, she thought that nothing was there. Then her ears caught\nthe sound of panting breath, and something wet and warm touched her\nsuspended left hand.\n\nWith timid, yet caressing voice, she lured the dog across the threshold.\nThe moment she could see clearly, she recognised him as Ghaoth, the\nwhite-breasted, tawny-haired, amber-eyed collie that belonged to\nAlastair Macleod.\n\nThe dog would not bide. His whining never ceased, save when it was\ninterrupted by loud, eager barks. To and fro he ran, and at last sprang\nout into the night again, only to return a few moments later in a state\nof excitement bordering on frenzy.\n\n\"Some evil must have happened to Alastair Macleod,\" Ealasaid muttered,\nas after a brief hesitation she took the lantern and followed Ghaoth.\n\nTo her dismay, the dog tried to lead her toward the hollow of the\nmoonflowers. Could Alastair possibly be there, or on the shore beyond?\nWhy, if he were down there, lying helpless, the tide would be upon him\nshortly, and then his doom would be certain. Again, of what avail was\nshe, so old and frail, and now with some new weakness upon her? She\nfeared she had not the strength to move downward in the dark through\nthat dense jungle of white blooms: still less to climb homeward again.\nBut while she pondered, she saw that Ghaoth leaped no more in the\ndirection of the valley, but along the grassy ridge which led to the\nsummit of Craig-Geal, so perilous by night because of the sloping,\nprecipitous hole which gave entrance to the funnel-like passage issuing\nfrom the Cave of the Sea-Woman.\n\n\"Ah,\" she cried, as it flashed upon her that Alastair had fallen, or\nbeen hemmed in in the cavern by the tide, \"God help him if he is\n_there_!\"\n\nWith panting breath she hurried along the ridge, heedless now of Ghaoth,\nwho had suddenly darted off to the left and disappeared among the\nmoonflowers. She had not gone far, however, before she stopped. What use\nto hurry onward, if all she could do was to shout down into the\ndarkness--a cry that would likely never be heard, and if heard would be\nof no avail to the hearer?\n\nNo sooner did she realise the uselessness of her errand than she turned,\nand, with shaking limbs and labouring breath, made her way along a\nsheep-path which led to the opposite brae of Craig-Ruaidh, where Angus\nMacrae and his son Ranald lived.\n\nSo exhausted was the old woman by the time she had reached the farm and\naroused the inmates, that two or three minutes passed before she could\nexplain.\n\nRanald Macrae saw at once that one of two things had happened: either\nthat Alastair had wandered to the cave in his madness, and there,\nignorant or oblivious of the steps cut in the hollow columnar passage at\nthe far end, been cut off by the sea; or else that he had wittingly made\nhis way there, with intent to drown himself in the Kelpie's Pool--an\nabyss that never gave back what it swallowed.\n\nIt was during this hurried explanation to his father that Ealasaid\nlearned for the first time the truth of what had reached her as a vague\nrumour in the mouth of a herd-boy. Eager as she was to be of help, she\nwas now too weak to accompany the men, even if it were possible for her\nto keep pace with them, which it was not, as they had started off at a\nrun.\n\nShe knew that old Macrae's advice was right: that she could best help by\ngoing home at once, and making preparation to receive Alastair if he\nwere still alive. There was no room for him at the farm, where Ranald's\nwife had given birth to a child two days before. So with little P\u00f2l,\nthe herd-boy, she set out once more, leaning often upon the lad's\nshoulder; and wondering if, after all, God were going to let her be of\nsome service before he led her through the blind way till her hand\nshould slip into that of her husband. As she went, she muttered to\nherself part of a rune now almost lost among the people, an ancient\n_sian_--that part of the _Tuaitheal_, beginning _Clogaid na salainte mu\nd'cheann_:\n\n  \"The helmet of Salvation about your head,\n  The ring of the Covenant about your neck,\n  The priest's breastplate about your breast;\n  If it be rout on the rear,\n  The shoes of the Virgin to take you swiftly away.\n\n  Charm of the Three in one on you\n  From crown of head to sole of foot,\n  And the charm of the pater of the seven paters\n  A-going anti-sunwise and sunwise, sunwise and anti-sunwise,\n  To protect you from behind,\n  From wound and from slaying,\n  Till the hour and time of your death.\"\n\nBefore they left the farmstead, the Macraes had provided themselves\nwith lanterns, a long rope, and a pine torch dipped in tar.\n\nAs they neared the summit of Craig-Geal, they could hear the frenzied\nbarking of Ghaoth in the darkness down by the sea--loud when caught on\nan eddy of wind and borne upward, scarce audible when overborne by the\nmoan and boom and ever recurrent breaking surge of the advancing tide.\n\nAt the dark circular exit of the cavern, they waved lanterns and shouted\nthemselves hoarse: but without seeing aught, or winning response.\n\nAngus Macrae silently drew back, rose, and lit the pine torch. Flaring\nabruptly into the dark before a gust of wind, it was like a blood-red\nwound in the flank of some vast black creature of night.\n\nHaving fastened the torch to the rope, he swung it far down the narrow\nfunnel, up which came the smell of wrack and sea-damp and an obscure,\nmuffled sound.\n\nStill there was nothing visible. No shout followed the sudden glare.\n\nThe old man stood silent, craning forward with brooding eyes; for now he\nwas thinking of the two sons he had lost. With a shudder, he moved\nslowly back and turned to Ranald.\n\n\"Will you go down?\"\n\n\"Ay, father, that I will: if you will breathe the holy word before me\nand after me. The kelpie ... the Sea-Woman ... won't catch _me_, for I\nam sure of hand and foot.\"\n\n\"So your brother Seumas thought.\"\n\nRanald hesitated, looked at the cave-mouth, then at his father.\n\n\"Is it true Seumas died in _that_ way?\"\n\n\"It is true. The tide hemmed him in, and a heavy sea foamed at the mouth\nof the cavern. There was no chance but to gain some ledge high above the\nSea-Woman's Pool. He did gain a hold on a ledge, for long afterward we\nfound his knife on it. Then the accursed kelpie rose out of her lair and\ntook him by the legs, and pulled him down, and tore him, and broke the\nbones of him--my son, my son, my beautiful Seumas!\"\n\nAs the old man spoke, his voice had grown louder, his tone more intense;\nand at the last the memory of his loss so wrought upon him that, with a\nsudden cry, he dashed forward and whirled one of the lanterns into the\ndark, echoing chasm.\n\n\"Let me go, let me go,\" he cried, as his son tried to withhold him. \"If\nshe must have one of us again, let it be me! Let go, boy! You have your\nwife and child: and I am old, and have lost Seumas and Andras and the\nmother who bore them!\"\n\nWithout a word, Ranald desisted. The old man went on his knees, crawled\nforward, and pulled up the flaming torch. Then, having fastened the rope\nround his waist and secured a lantern to his belt, he slipped over the\nedge and began the descent, cautiously feeling his way with his feet as\nhe went.\n\nAs he reached further and further into the darkness, he wondered why he\nheard no more the barking of Ghaoth. A grim thought came into his mind:\nthe dog had been caught by the Sea-Woman, and was even now drifting\nround and round in her pool, strangled, with glazed, protruding eyes.\n\nAt last, both sight and sound told him that he was nearly over the\nabyss--sight and sound, and his careful counting of the steps in his\ndescent.\n\nThe tidal wash, the heavy lapse and then heavier resurge, with the rush\nand cataract-roar of the seas as they fell far down into the chasm,\nassailed his ears continuously. Peering down, he could see the foam upon\nthe flood, as it swept ravening round the cave and then fell headlong\ninto the abyss, above which was a misty pulsating whiteness, the send\nand spray of tons of whirled water.\n\nThere was almost no need to descend further, he thought. The strongest\nswimmer, if caught in that inrush, would be swept irresistibly into the\nhorrible caldron where the Sea-Woman brewed her spells of storm and\ndisaster.\n\nThere was but one chance for Alastair; if, in truth, he were in the cave\nat all and still alive. A little way below where the islesman stood,\nthere were three or four broad ledges of which even the lowest would\nstill be unswept by the sea. He dreaded to descend; for it was on the\nfirst of those ledges that his son, Seumas, had been dragged, screaming,\ninto the abyss. With a muttered prayer, however--a prayer that was half\nan incantation--he once more slowly crawled downward.\n\nWhen he came to the third ledge, he stopped, crouched, and peered\ndownward and forward.\n\nFor a moment his brain swung.\n\nWhat was it that he saw? What fantasy was this? What horrible caprice of\nhis eyes? Had Ghaoth slain the kelpie, and was he now perishing there\nwith his teeth fixed in the neck of the Sea-Woman?\n\nFor Ghaoth, and no other, was the dog that crouched on the lowest ledge;\nand a woman it was who lay beside him, upheld at the neck by his strong\nteeth.\n\nHe saw the gleam in the dog's eyes, fixed upon him unwaveringly. He\nunderstood their appeal. Slowly he unfastened and raised his lantern.\n\nWhen he recognised Lora, he knew intuitively what had happened. With\nuplifted arm, he let the light fall all around--above weedy, sea-swept\nboulders, and the dark, inward-moving flood, broken here and there into\na seethe of foam that shone ghastly white in the lantern-glow.\n\nThere was no sign of Alastair.\n\nIt was clear he was either already swept into the chasm, or had been\nsucked seaward in the undertow.\n\nWith utmost care, Macrae stepped on to the lowest ledge.\n\nStooping, he looked intently in Lora's white face. Then he put his hand\nto her heart. He fancied he felt it beat, but could not be sure. Drawing\na flask from his pocket, he poured some of the contents down her throat,\nthen upon her temples and breast, with rough hand laving the spirit\nacross the bosom, which, cold as it was, had not the unmistakable chill\nof death. A new strength came to the old man. He had lost all fear now,\nand had no other thought but to save this poor creature who had already\nlooked on the face of Death, and nigh perished with the horror of it.\n\nTaking her in his arms, he was swiftly securing her to his body by the\nrope, when he was startled to see Ghaoth, who had at once let go his\nhold, leap into the surge and swim seaward.\n\nThe dog went to its doom, he knew, in a vain quest for Alastair. With a\nmoment's sigh, he turned to what he had to do.\n\nAn arduous and perilous climb it was ere the old islesman at last neared\nthe summit, and felt Ranald grasp him by the shoulder and help him and\nhis burden over the edge.\n\nHe would have swooned from the long strain upon him, had not his son\nhastily put the flask of whisky to his mouth and imperatively bid him\ndrink.\n\nAs soon as he could breathe freely once more, he recounted what had\nhappened. The young man wanted to go down at once into the cave and seek\nfor Alastair, in the hope that he might still be swimming in the open,\nor be somewhere afloat, and that Ghaoth might reach him and bring him to\nthe spot where the dog had guarded Lora--almost from the moment, though\nof course neither Macrae nor his son knew aught of this, when the first\nledge-sweeping wave broke upon the sleepers and reft asunder their\nimpotent weedy bonds.\n\nBut of this project Angus Macrae would hear nothing further. Was his son\nmad, he asked him, to believe that Alastair could still be alive, since,\nhe was visible nowhere?\n\n\"No,\" he added, \"he is in the deep sea by now, or lies gripped by the\nWoman in her hole. But, Ranald, if to search for his body you are so\nfain, you can go down later. Maybe you will find the dog, though I think\nneither you, nor I, nor any one else will ever see dog or man again.\nMeanwhile, take up this poor soul and carry her to Widow Ealasaid's.\n\n\"She is big with child,\" whispered the young man, as, awe-struck, he\nwrapped Lora in his warm plaid and raised her in his arms.\n\n\"Ay: God have pity on this lost ewe and her poor, wee lammie. Be\ncareful, Ranald, be tender--ay, as tender as if she were your own\nCairistine, and the babe that is now moving within her were blood of\nyour blood and bone of your bone.\"\n\nIn silence, and as swiftly as possible, the two men, with their still\nmore silent burden, crossed the slopes of the ridge and ascended the\ngrassy, boulder-strewn brae. In due time, they were met at the door by\nEalasaid.\n\nWith a low, crooning wail, the old woman helped to lay Lora on the bed\nin the inner room. She had already warmed the clothes, and had poured\nboiling water in a tub, with hot flannels for swathing. All island-women\nact thus on any hint of accident, for the hunger of the sea is the cause\nof nearly every disaster for them and their loved ones. Besides--had not\nDuncan B\u00e0n once been brought home, and all this and more done for him,\nthough the chill upon him was not that of the sea only?\n\nSuddenly she saw there was no time to lose.\n\n\"Quick, quick, P\u00f2l,\" she cried: \"take a lantern and run like the wind\nacross to the clachan, and tell Mrs. Mary Maclean that she is to come\nhere at once, for Alastair Macleod is dead, and his wife is lying here\nin labour, and that the last pains may come upon her speedily.\"\n\nThe boy hesitated a moment, glanced at his grandfather, and then fled\ninto the night, heedless of any lantern, and sure-footed as a goat.\n\nFinding that he could be of no use, and that Mrs. MacAodh wished only\nhis father to remain, Ranald Macrae slipped quietly away: and in a brief\nwhile had reached the cave entrance, descended, and searched vainly for\nany trace of either Alastair or the dog.\n\nTo Ealasaid's unceasing care Lora owed her life. The old woman seemed to\nhave grown years younger. A new strength was in her arm, a new light in\nher worn eyes, a new spirit in her frail body. With deft hands, she\nrubbed the skin aglow, wrapped warm flannels about the limbs, breathed\ninto breast and back, soothed the convulsive strainings of the sides and\nheavy womb, fed the unconscious sufferer with sips of broth and warmed\nspirit, and often the while kissed the poor faintly quivering lips. It\nseemed to her as if her heart swam in tears; but with the unnoticed\nheroism of women, she let no grief overmaster her, no flagging of mind\nor body usurp her will.\n\nIn the outer room Angus Macrae sat, intent at first upon the keeping up\nof the fire and the fulfilment of Ealasaid's divers commands. Then, nigh\nan hour later, when through the open doorway he heard a strange moaning\nfrom the inner room, he sat down by the low, rude table and, taking the\nGaelic Bible which lay there, began in a slow, monotonous voice to read\nfrom the page which caught his eye as he opened the book:\n\n     \"I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the\n     swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise,\n     nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of\n     skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all. For man also\n     knoweth not his time: as the fishes that are taken in an evil net,\n     and as the birds that are caught in the snare, even so are the sons\n     of men snared in an evil time, when it falleth suddenly upon them.\"\n\nAs he read steadfastly onward through this moving last chapter of\nEcclesiastes, his voice rose, and took a rhythmic chant, and filled the\nroom, as a rising wind fills a valley set among the hills.\n\nBut when he read:\n\n     \"As thou knowest not what is the way of the wind, nor how the bones\n     do grow in the womb of her that is with child; even so thou knowest\n     not the work of God who doeth all----\"\n\nhe stopped abruptly, for he heard a sound at the outer door, and\nguessed, even before he saw her, that the comer was Mrs. Maclean.\n\nAngus rose, and took her hand. Then, seeing the speechless sorrow in her\neyes, he let go his hold of her, and, bowing his head, did not lift up\nhis eyes again till Mary had entered the inner room.\n\nHe knew that, with those two women there, all would go well with Lora,\nif it were ordained that she was to live. But he feared that death was\nalready entered in at the door; and he knew not what passionate sorrow\nmight come upon and undo those who ministered to the woman, who even now\nwas in those pains of labour that ere morn should end in the birth of a\nchild. Long he sat brooding. Then, weary of his vigil, once more he\nbegan to read, resuming with the verse where he had been interrupted:\n\n     \"Even so, thou knowest not the work of God who doeth all.\n\n     \"In the morning sow thy seed, and in the evening withhold not thine\n     hand: for thou knowest not which shall prosper, whether this or\n     that, or whether they both shall be alike good.\"\n\nLooking up, he saw Ealasaid standing at the door, a wonderful light on\nher old face.\n\n\"It lives,\" she said simply. \"Mary said that the child would certainly\nbe born dead; but it lives. She says now it has the shadow upon it, and\nmust die ere long; but they told me that my own little blossom was\nstrong, and would live: ... and even as they were wrong, wrong also may\nMary Maclean be.\"\n\nHearing a call, she turned, and went within.\n\nThe old islesman muttered for a while, with bent head and closed eyes.\nThen he began to read again:\n\n     \"Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes\n     to behold the sun.\"\n\n\"Hush!\"\n\nIt was Mary who spoke. She had that in her face which made him rise.\n\n\"Hush, Angus Macrae. Truly, the eyes are the delight of the body, but\nthis is not the time for the bitterness of that saying. Never for this\nchild, that is born in the shadow of death, and can itself live but a\nbrief while, shall there be the sweet light of which you speak, nor the\npleasantness of beholding the sun, nor the way of the day betwixt rise\nand set.\"\n\n\"Is the child blind?\"\n\n\"Ay ... blind ... blind.\"\n\n\"And weakling?\"\n\n\"Ay.\"\n\n\"And she?\"\n\n\"God hath given her strength to endure.\"\n\n\"Does she know all that has happened?\"\n\n\"If she did, she would be with Alastair. Her mind is dazed. She is as\none distraught. My friend, read no more to-night. Go home now, and God\nbe with you. Bring on the morrow what tidings you have.\"\n\nSoon after the departure of the old man, a great stillness fell upon the\nhouse. Lora slept in a stupor like unto death. The child lay upon her\nbreast, as a frail flower drifted there by a chance wind. Ealasaid sat\nby the bed watching. Mary knelt against it, crying silently.\n\nToward dawn, Mrs. Maclean rose, and looked out upon the chill dusk. When\nshe came back, she kneeled again; and, in a low voice, repeated a\nstrange Celtic \"Prayer of Women\":\n\n  O Spirit, that broods upon the hills\n  And moves upon the face of the deep,\n  And is heard in the wind,\n  Save us from the desire of men's eyes,\n  And the cruel lust of them,\n  And the springing of the cruel seed\n  In that narrow house which is as the grave\n  For darkness and loneliness ...\n  That women carry with them with shame, and weariness, and long pain,\n  Only for the laughter of man's heart,\n  And the joy that triumphs therein,\n  And the sport that is in his heart,\n  Wherewith he mocketh us,\n  Wherewith he playeth with us,\n  Wherewith he trampleth upon us.\n  Us, who conceive and bear him;\n  Us, who bring him forth;\n  Who feed him in the womb, and at the breast and at the knee:\n  Whom he calleth Mother,\n  And Mother again of his wife and children:\n  When he looks at our hair, and sees it is white;\n  And at our eyes, and sees they are dim;\n  And at our lips, straitened out with long pain;\n  And at our breasts, fallen and seared as a barren hill;\n  And at our hands, worn with toil;\n  And, seeing, seeth all the bitter ruin and wreck of us--\n  All save the violated womb that curses him--\n  All save the heart that forbeareth ... for pity--\n  All save the living brain that condemneth him--\n  All save the spirit that shall not mate with him--\n  All save the soul he shall never see\n  Till he be one with it, and equal;\n  He who hath the bridle, but guideth not;\n  He who hath the whip, yet is driven;\n  He who as a shepherd calleth upon us,\n  But is himself a lost sheep, crying among the hills!\n  O Spirit, and the Nine Angels who watch us,\n  And Thy Son, and Mary Virgin,\n  Heal us of the Wrong of Man:\n  We, whose breasts are weary with milk,\n  Cry, cry to Thee, O Compassionate!\n\nEalasaid trembled. She had never heard words such as these before, and\nwas afraid; yet even more of the strange intensity in the voice of Mrs.\nMaclean, in the shine of her usually quiet eyes.\n\n\"God be with you, Mary Maclean.\"\n\n\"And with you, Ealasaid MacAodh.\"\n\nTherewith Mrs. Maclean arose, looked at Lora to see if she still slept,\nand then went into the adjoining room, where she seated herself before\nthe hot glow of the peats; and, as the day broke, read below her breath\nin the third chapter of the Book of Job.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWeeks passed, and there was no word of Alastair. For twenty days after\nthe coming of the child, Lora lay distraught, knowing no one about her,\nthough oftentimes looking long and lovingly in the eyes of Mary, whose\nface had won again an exceeding peace, and who went, as of yore, girt\nabout with a beautiful silence as with a garment.\n\nBut on the last day of the third week, Lora awoke in her right mind.\nMary had given the frail, blind babe to young Cairistine Macrae to\nsuckle. This was well; for had Lora looked upon it on that day, she\nwould have died.\n\nNevertheless, in a brief while thereafter she knew all. It seemed\nstrange, both to Mary and Ealasaid, that she did not appear greatly to\ncare. She had that in her heart which would have enlightened them; but\ngrief, as well as madness or evil, has its cunning, and so she veiled\nher purpose in absolute secrecy.\n\nNot a sign of Alastair! This was what she could not accept. Till his\nbody, or some trace of it, were found, she said she would not return\nwith Mary to her home. Nothing, however, repaid the most scrupulous\nsearch: no clew was gained--unless the discovery of the body of Ghaoth,\ncaught in a trawling net one night a mile seaward, could be called a\nclew.\n\nOn that day of agony when she had at last looked on the face of her\nchild, and knew it stricken with frailty and blind for all its days, and\nheritor perhaps of that curse which had caused her to sin and incur this\npunishment, she had made a covenant with herself to go down as soon as\nshe could to the shore, at low tide, and with her child follow Alastair\ninto that abyss in the cavern where she felt assured he had been swept\nby the sea.\n\nTwo weary weeks passed before an opportunity came. One afternoon Mary\nwent across Innisr\u00f2n, so as to reach the clachan and meet the _Clansman_\nfor somewhat she expected: and as she was to come back with Ranald\nMacrae, and he was not to return till after dark, Lora felt secure.\n\nEarly in the evening, she sent Ealasaid on a message to Parlan\nMacalister's wife, who lived in a cottage about a mile along the shore\nbeyond the promontory of Ardfeulan.\n\nIt was a lovely evening in mid-July. The moon was at the full, and made\na golden dust upon the isle and a glory of pale gold upon the sea.\n\nAs she went once more down the hollow of the moonflowers--not so dense\nnow as then, and many withered by the heat of the sun and the month-long\ndrought--she stopped again and again, overcome by the heat even of the\ndusk.\n\nIn her ears was the bewildered, plaintive cry of the lapwings: and, as\nan undertone, the low, soft chime--the long, sweet ululation of the\nmyriad-swung bell of the sea.\n\nShe was weary when she reached the shore. An unspeakable horror of the\ncavern came upon her, and she turned and went slowly toward the long\nsandy tract that stretched beyond the base of the hollow. There she laid\nthe child gently down in the soft sand at her feet, and seated herself\non a low rock.\n\nAfter all, was it worth while to seek Death, when Death had already\nwhispered that the little one was to be his own so soon, and had\nstealthily removed all but the last barriers that guarded her own poor\nlife?\n\nWould God not be even more wroth with her--punish her even more heavily;\nthough this, indeed, seemed impossible?\n\nHow lovely that vast ocean veiled in violet dusk, save where lit\ngloriously with moonlight: how full of alluring peace, she thought that\nwave-whisper all around her.\n\nSurely the music was woven into a song that was dear and familiar in her\nears?\n\nShe turned her head away from the sea, and looked idly along the sand:\nthough, as she did so, the vague strain ceased.\n\nThen Lora stood, trembling in a great awe, and with a passionate hope in\nher eyes, in her heart, at the very springs of life.\n\nIn the moonshine, she saw a tall figure moving slowly toward her,\nnaked-white, and walking with a proud mien. The erect body, the flashing\neyes, the grace and beauty, were those of a king--of a king among men:\nand as a king the naked figure was crowned, with moonflowers and yellow\nsea-poppies woven into his gold-sheen hair.\n\nSuddenly he saw her. He stood as though wrought in impassioned stone.\nThe moonshine fell full upon his white skin, upon the beauty of his\nface, upon the flower-tangle wherewith he had crowned himself.\n\nThen, without a sound, he turned and fled like the wind, and vanished\ninto the gloom that lay beyond the dusk.\n\nAnd Lora, lifting the child and staggering homeward, knew that she had\nseen Alastair.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nIt was not till many weeks later that the way of Alastair's escape from\ndeath became known.\n\nOn that dark night when he had lain down to die, the wave which fell\nacross Lora and himself, and tore asunder the bonds she had woven, was\nfollowed by no other for a time: otherwise, the end of both would have\nbeen attained. But so great was the shock, that his apathy of mind and\nbody was rudely broken. The tired blood stung in his veins; the instinct\nof life was as a flame of fire that consumed all the stupor due to the\nsea-fruit he had eaten--an instinct that wrought him to a passion of\neffort.\n\nShaken and trembling, he staggered to his feet. Nothing but a profound\ndarkness beyond, behind, above: a darkness filled with the voices of the\nwind, the seething tide, wave falling over wave, billow leaping after\nbillow and tearing it into a yeast of foam--itself to stagger the next\nmoment, and struggle and strangle furiously in a cloud of spray ere\nflung a dead mass upon the shore.\n\nHe had no remembrance of Lora, of what had brought them here, of the\ngrave that was ready where the Sea-Woman watched.\n\nBut fear was left to him: and when he was aware of something moving\nacross the ledges to his left, and heard it splash through the tide-wash\nin its effort to reach him, he gave a terrified cry, and dashed seaward\nto escape the grip of the kelpie.\n\nStumbling, he fell heavily forward. But it was into deep water; and,\npowerful swimmer as he was, he fought the surge, and so was not thrown\nback upon the rocks till, unwittingly, he was caught in a cross-current\nand swept southward on the backs of the reeling sea-horses.\n\nA horrible tumult was in his ears. The darkness was upon him as a heavy\nhand. As idle flotsam, the waves swung him backward and forward.\n\nA deathly cold beset his limbs; then utter weariness. His hands ceased\nto propel, and only automatically and instinctively kept him afloat.\n\nYet even now, at the last extremity, when memory was no more, terror\nremained.\n\nThere was something swimming near, something moving toward him through\nthe dark.\n\nThe next moment he threw up his hands, overcome by the sickness of fear\nand a fatigue that he could no longer withstand. As he sank, he was\nconscious of a body surging up against his; of a hot breath against his\nface; of a gasping whine against his ear. Then in a flash he recognised,\nor by instinct divined, that it was Ghaoth who had followed into the\ndarkness, and was there to save him.\n\nThe dog had indeed followed, having but an hour ago escaped from the\nbyre where Ian Maclean had risen from his sleep to let him out because\nof his ceaseless whining. He had raced across the island, and along\nAlastair's and Lora's track, till he found them where they lay. Thence,\nafter seeing the two whom he loved lying silent and motionless in a way\nthat made him whine with fear, and knowing, as faithful dogs do know,\nthat he must win help without delay, he had sped back to the nearest\ncottage. Once convinced that old Ealasaid was following to succour those\nwhom he had left, he had sprung away again through the moonflowers, and\nhad reached the entrance to the cave after fierce baffling with the\ntide-race. Just as Alastair had risen and was staggering toward the sea,\nGhaoth had caught sight of him, and had plunged without hesitation into\nthe black bewilderment of waters which had swallowed up the friend whom\nhe loved with his life.\n\nFortunately, the spent swimmer was still near the shore--nearer, even,\nthan when he had first fallen; for he was now close to the headland of\nCraig-Geal, and was already in shallow water, which swung on to a long\nshelf of sand lying against the entrance to another of the innumerable\ncaverns of that side of the island. But here the sea, though at\nfull-flood it covered the sand and moved its hungry lip for a few feet\nwithin, did not enter, as a beast of prey halting unassuaged at the\nentrance to its lair.\n\nGhaoth had gripped him by the hair of his neck, and was now struggling\nto reach the shore. Man and dog were still flung to and fro by the\nwaves; but the living sport of the sea was no longer separate. With\nGhaoth's help, Alastair made renewed, if despairing, efforts.\n\nSuddenly his feet touched the ground for a moment. Then, with a\nstaggering rush, having shaken himself free of the dog, he gained the\nshore, stumbled blindly up the low shelve of the sound, and fell\nunconscious among the soft, powdery grit, midway in the wide,\nhalf-roofless hollow known as the Cave of the S\u00f9laire, from the solan\ngeese which often congregated there in the blinding snow-storms of\nwinter.\n\nGhaoth stood panting beside him awhile. At last, with a low whine, the\ndog pressed his muzzle against the white face in the white sand; turned\naside, whined again, and came back with lolling tongue. Then, suddenly,\nhe sprang away into the darkness, and back into the drowning surge, with\nall his loyal, loving heart--beautiful love of the dumb animal-soul that\nGod heedeth and cherisheth no less than that other wandering fire He\nhath placed in the human--eager to baffle with drift and billow till he\nreached the cavern once more, in time to save Lora, of whose body he\nhad caught a glimpse as he dashed after Alastair.\n\nIn time, and no more. He had not long rescued Lora, who, also, had been\npartially roused by the shock of the breaking wave. She had been\nhalf-standing, half-leaning against the higher ledge, to which, with\ndifficulty and in blind instinct, she had clung; but, as Ghaoth reached\nher, she sank wearily and lay back against the dog, dreaming she had\nwaked in terror, but was now safe in Alastair's arms.\n\nIt was thus that Angus Macrae discovered them. Long afterward the\nislesman recalled how he had seen the dog leap back into the darkness.\nWhether Ghaoth failed to reach the Cave of the S\u00f9laire, and was carried\nseaward by a current; or whether his strength failed him in his last\neffort, and he was swung lifelessly from wave to wave; whatever the\nfirst word of his fate was, the last was the finding of his sea-mangled\nbody in the trawl-net of a fisherman more than a mile oceanward from\nInnisr\u00f2n.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen Alastair woke, an hour or more after dawn, he remembered nothing of\nwhat had happened. His memory, though not killed, was clouded by his\nmadness; and, doubtless, the shock of what he had gone through, with the\naction of the mermaid's fruit, had further weakened it.\n\nHe rose and looked about him wonderingly. Around, were the precipitous\nrocks; beyond, the sea stretched far into the morning mists, calm, with\na silver sparkle in the south-east and turquoise-blue elsewhere, except\nin green straits under the shadow of the isle, till it faded into opal\nand dove-grey where the veils of mist slowly dispersed, re-wove, lifted,\nin-wove, and sank to the wave again, or sailed indefinitely away.\n\nThough he could still recall nothing of the past night, he recognised,\nas soon as he stepped from the cave and went down by the sea-marge, the\nhead-land of Craig-Ruaidh and that of Craig-Geal just behind him. His\none wish was to hide, so that none should see him. His fantasy led him\nto seek remote places, and to fear the face of his fellows.\n\nTurning toward the sun, he looked scrutinisingly along the coast.\nSomewhere beyond Craig-Geal, he remembered vaguely, there was another\nhollow which led to a series of intricate and unexplored caves, perilous\nplaces of evil repute among the islanders.\n\nIf he were to go there ... but at that moment his wandering gaze\nlighted upon an object moving black in the shine of the sea.\n\nWas it a whale sunning itself, or a pollack moving idly after the liath?\nThen he saw that it was a boat--one of many torn from moorings or swept\nfrom the beach by the recent gale.\n\nSo methodical were his actions, that none seeing him would believe his\nmind was so darkly veiled, that his reason was only partially in\nexercise.\n\nHaving taken off his coat, he wrapped it round a heavy stone and threw\nthe bundle far into the sea. Then he thrust his boots into a cranny in a\nfissured boulder that at full flood was covered.\n\nA few seconds later he was in the water, swimming swiftly toward the\nderelict.\n\nWhile he neared the boat, amid a sheen of sparkling foam as he urged his\nway through the sun-dazzle which lay upon that part of the sea, he broke\nintermittently into a mournful Gaelic chant, but with words so\nincoherent, and with interjections so wild and strange, that the\nfishermen on a coble, hid in the mist a few fathoms away, believed they\nlistened to a sea-kelpie, or to that vague object of their profoundest\ndread known as \"the thing that hides beneath the boat.\" They were\nsouthward bound; but at that forlorn wailing they hauled down their\nflapping sail, and, with their oars, made all haste northerly to their\nisland or mainland haven. Not a man among them would have persevered in\nthat voyage on that day.\n\nAlastair heard the sound of the oar-wash, and ceased his fitful chant.\nIt must, he thought, be dead seamen rowing to and fro, looking for the\nnewly drowned to take their places as warders of the treasures and\nkeepers of the secrets which lie among the weed-tangle and sunless\ncaverns of the deep. At the thought, he laughed loud, but mirthlessly;\nand the echo of his laughter, falling against the ears of the fishermen,\nadded to their horror and consternation.\n\nWith his hands gripping the gunwale, he swayed for some time to and fro,\nfascinated by the lustrous green beneath the keel--green in the sunlit\nspaces as leaves of the lime in April, and in the lower as emerald\nlapsing into jade, and then as jade passing into the gloom of pines at\ndusk.\n\nAt last he raised himself on the water, bending the gunwale low, and\nhalf fell, half crawled into the boat. Indifferently, he noticed that it\nwas named _Fionnaghal_. Clearly it had drifted away from moorings; for\nnot only were oars and sail-enveloped mast lying taut under the thwarts,\nbut a rope trailed from the bow far down into the water.\n\nHe rowed for some time. At last, becoming weary, or perhaps puzzled by\nthe mists which crept behind and all around him, he desisted. A flurry\nof air struck his right cheek. Instinctively he put up the palm of his\nhand to feel if the wind were coming from the south-east or the\nsouth-west. Then, adjusting the mast and setting the sail, he seated\nhimself at the tiller.\n\nEddy followed eddy, and soon a breeze blew freshly from the south-east.\nBy the time the _Fionnaghal_ was three or four miles to the north-west\nof Innisr\u00f2n, there was not a mist upon the sea. Immeasurably vast it\nstretched; blue, or glittering in a diamond-sparkle sheen, or wimpling\nover in violet hollows, with the white lambs beginning to collect and\nleap merrily onward in the pathway of the sun.\n\nAlastair became drowsy with the warmth of the glow upon his back and the\nchime of the sea-music. Long before noon he slept. For hours the boat\nwent idly adrift.\n\nWhen he woke, he saw an island less than half a mile to starboard.\nLooking northward, he could descry nothing but sea; to the westward,\nnothing but sea; nothing but sea to the southward. Far eastward, a dim\nblue line of hills rose above the horizon: here and there--lying\napparently against it, and scarce bigger to his eye than the gannets and\nsea-mews which flew overhead--two or three patches of amethyst. These\nwere the isles he had left, though he did not recognise them: Ithona,\nmost westerly; Innisr\u00f2n, remote in the south-east;\nI-na-Trilleachan-tr\u00e0had, lost in its northerly purple-greys.\n\nThough the words brought no meaning to him, or awakened nothing beyond\nmere visual reminiscence, his lips, as he looked at the island he was\nnow approaching, framed its name, \"I-M\u00f2nair.\"\n\nHeedless of the fact that he was running straight upon a shore set with\nreefs like gigantic teeth, he tautened the sail and let the boat rush\nforward, and was almost havened when, with a grinding rip, the\n_Fionnaghal_ stopped, filled, leaned over, and hung upon a jagged reef,\nas a dead body suspended on the horn that has gored it.\n\nAlastair was thrown forward by the shock. Bruised and stunned, he lay\nmotionless for a few seconds while the water poured over him. Then,\nrising and casting a keen glance around, he stepped on to the reef,\nsprang thence to a rock nearer the shore, and thence to the shore\nitself.\n\nAs he left the boat, it split. The larger half went drifting on the\ntide.\n\nHe sat down to watch idly for the disappearance of the few planks which\nremained. Suddenly, without cause, he rose, stared wildly at the sea and\nalong the shore on either hand, and then moved rapidly inland--often\ncasting furtive glances behind him, now on the one side, now on the\nother.\n\nNo other lived on I-M\u00f2nair than a shepherd and his wife; and they only\nthrough the summer months. Sometimes weeks passed by without their\nseeing another soul: without other sign of the world of men than the\nsmoke of a steamer far upon the horizon, or the brown patches in the\ndistance when the herring-trawlers ventured oceanward.\n\nNo wonder, then, that Fearghas McIan gave a cry of astonishment, that\nwas partly fear, when he saw a man walking swiftly toward him ... a man\nwho appeared to have dropped from the clouds; for, looking beyond the\nstranger, the shepherd could see no sign of trawler, wherry, or boat of\nany kind.\n\n\"Di\u00f2naid, Di\u00f2naid,\" he cried to his wife, who had come to the door of\nthe cottage to see if he were at hand for his porridge; \"Trothad so ...\nbi ealamh, bi ealamh: quick, quick, come here.\"\n\nThey stood together as Alastair slowly drew near. When he was close, he\nstopped, looking at them curiously, and with an air as if he wondered\nwho they were and why they were there.\n\n\"What is your name?\" he asked quietly, looking at the shepherd.\n\n\"C'ainm' tha ort?\" he repeated, as the man stared at him in surprise and\nsomething of alarm.\n\n\"Fearghas McIan.\"\n\n\"And yours?\" he asked of the woman.\n\n\"Di\u00f2naid McIan.\"\n\n\"C\u00f2 tha sin?\" he added abruptly, pointing to the cottage: \"who is\nthere?\"\n\n\"No one.\"\n\n\"I thought I saw some one come out, look at us, and go in again.\"\n\nFearghas and Di\u00f2naid glanced at each other with eyes of dread.\n\n\"C'ainm' tha ort?\" asked the former, in turn.\n\nAlastair looked at him, as if uncomprehendingly; and then, in a low,\ndull voice, said that he was tired; that he was hungry, and thirsty, and\nwet.\n\n\"Tha mi gl\u00e9 sgith; tha an t acras orm; tha am pathadh orm; tha mi\nfl\u00ecuch.\"\n\n\"How did you come here?\"\n\n\"Tha mi gl\u00e9 sgith.\"\n\n\"Did you come in a boat? Where is the boat you came in?\"\n\n\"Tha mi gl\u00e9 sgith.\"\n\n\"What is your name? Are you of the isles?\"\n\n\"Tha mi gl\u00e9 sgith.\"\n\n\"What do you want with us here, on I-M\u00f2nair, where we do no wrong, O\nstranger who carry your sorrow in your eyes?\"\n\n\"Tha mi gl\u00e9 sgith. Tha mi fl\u00ecuch. Tha an t' acras orm. Tha mi gl\u00e9\nsgith--tha mi gl\u00e9 sgith--tha mi gl\u00e9 sgith.\"\n\nAlastair spoke in a strange, dull voice. It would have terrified\nFearghas and Di\u00f2naid more, but that the stranger was so gentle in his\nmanner, and had a look upon his face that awed while it reassured them.\n\n\"God has sent him,\" said Di\u00f2naid, simply. \"The poor lad has not\nwaked--he is in a dream. God do unto us as we do unto this waif from the\nsea. In His good time He will whisper in the closed ears, and the man\nwill wake, and tell us who he is, and whence he came, and whither he\nwould fain go.\"\n\n\"So be it, Di\u00f2naid. You have said the word, and a good word it is. When\nthis man's hour has come, God will deliver him. Meanwhile, let us call\nhim Donncha, after the boy we lost nigh upon six-and-twenty years ago,\nwho might have been as tall and comely as this stranger that is now a\nstranger no more, but of us and one with us.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd so it was that, from that day, Alastair Macleod, unsought by any,\nand unrecognised because no one came near who might have known or\nguessed who he was, abode on I-M\u00f2nair with Fearghas the shepherd and his\nwife Di\u00f2naid.\n\nHe dwelt in peace. Through the long days he wandered about the shores.\nOften, in the gloaming, he sat on a rock and stared longingly across the\nwaters for he knew not what, for some nameless boon he craved witlessly;\nstared yearningly through the dusk for something that lay beyond, that,\nthough unseen, brought a mist into his eyes, so that when he reached the\npeat-fire again, where Di\u00f2naid McIan awaited him, he often could not see\nto eat for a while for the blur of his slow-falling tears.\n\nWeek succeeded changeless week. The sheep ceased to look up as he\npassed. The yellow-hammers in the gorse sang even when he stopped\nbrooding by the bush whereon they flitted from branch to branch, looking\nat him with quiet eyes.\n\nIt was in the sixth week, after a time of storm which had lapsed into\nanother long spell of exquisite summer, that the dream came to its end.\n\nLate one afternoon, a herring-trawler lay off I-M\u00f2nair. The skipper, a\nkinsman of Fearghas, came ashore to give and learn what news there was.\n\nAlastair had come back about the usual time from one of his day-long\nrambles, and, as he approached the door, his quick ear had caught the\nsound of an alien voice.\n\nWhether he overheard the shepherd tell his friend, in turn for the\nstrange and moving tale of Alastair MacDiarmid Macleod, of Innisr\u00f2n, of\nthe strange visitor he and his wife nourished, with the surmise that he,\nDonncha, might be no other than the missing man; or whether some other\nsuggestion concerning his removal or identification alarmed him, no one\never knew.\n\nBut, in the cloudy dark of that night, when Rory McIan and his two\nmates, D\u00f9ghall and E\u00f2ghann, were drinking the crude spirit from\nFearghas' illicit still, Alastair slipped into the small boat in which\nthey had come ashore, and rowed softly away into the obscure and lonely\nwilderness of the sea.\n\nTruly, as Di\u00f2naid said, God must have whispered in the closed ears, and\ntold him whither to guide the boat, and when to rest while he let it\ndrift, and when to take up the oars again. For, betwixt dawn and\nsunrise, the fugitive, oaring slowly out of a pearly haze, came abruptly\nupon the south-west of Innisr\u00f2n.\n\nWith a cry of gladness, he leaned forward, shading with his right hand\nhis eager eyes. He had recognised familiar features of shore and\nheadlands. The whim took him to capsize the boat and swim ashore. In\nsudden excitement, he sprang to his feet. The little craft rocked\nwildly. The next moment Alastair had left the upturned keel to drift in\nthe grey sea like a water-snake, and was swimming swiftly across the two\nor three hundred yards which lay between the island and the place where\nhe had fallen.\n\nWhen he reached the shore, he wandered slowly to and fro, his new-born\nenergy having lapsed into a vague unrest. Aimlessly he leaned now\nagainst one boulder, now against another. At last, the chill of his\ndripping clothes gave him active discomfort. He looked doubtfully on the\nslopes, then at the sea, then again at the slopes. With the strange\nimpulsiveness of his disease, he turned abruptly; with swift, stumbling\nsteps, crossed the shore; passed the ridges covered with sea-grass, and\nentered the shaws beyond. Thence he walked quickly up the corrie behind\nCraig-Geal. When he gained the upper end, the sunrise shone full upon\nhim. Flinging first one wet garment from him, and then another, he was\nspeedily naked--beautiful in his fair youth, with his white skin and\ntangle of yellow hair, which, as the sun-rays blent with it, seemed to\nspill pale gold.\n\nHe laughed with pleasure; then raced to and fro for warmth. When tired,\nhe stooped to pluck the thyme or tufts of gale. For a while, he wandered\nthus circle-wise, aimlessly happy.\n\nThe day came with heat, and hourly grew hotter. Alastair was glad to lie\ndown in a shady place by a burn, and drowse through the long, warm\nhours. As the afternoon waned into gloaming, he rose, and, forgetful of\nor unheeding his discarded clothes, wandered idly northward by one of\nthe many sheep-paths. It was late when, having woven for himself a crown\nof moonflowers into which he inserted afterward a few yellow\nsea-poppies, he made his way down to the sea, and hungrily ate of what\nshell-fish he could gather--briny cockles from the sand, and whelks and\nmussels from the rocks.\n\nAt the coming of the moonlight across the water, he laughed low with\njoy. It was only in the darkness he heard the Voice in the sea which\ncalled, called, called, and terrified him so even while it allured him.\nThe waves, dancing and leaping in the yellow shine and breaking into a\nmyriad little cups and fleeting hollows, sang a song that filled him\nwith joy.\n\nThen it was that, with erect head, flashing eyes, and proud mien,\ncrowned with moonflowers and sea-poppies, and beautiful in the\ncomeliness of his youth, Alastair appeared before the startled eyes of\nLora, who, for the second time, had come down to that shore to woo and\nwin Death.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen, late that night, Mary Maclean returned, she found Lora in\nEalasaid's arms, sobbing and moaning hysterically.\n\nIt was long ere she was able to learn the exact truth, and at first she\ndoubted if Lora were not suffering from a hallucination. But as the\nyoung mother grew calm, and took up her frail babe and kissed it with\ntears, Mary was won to believe in at least the possibility that the\nvision was, if not of Alastair in the body, at any rate the wraith of\nhim, allowed to be seen of Lora out of God's pity of her despair.\n\nThe night was too far gone for anything to be done straightway; but she\npromised to go forth with Lora at sunrise and see if that white,\nflower-crowned phantom walked abroad in the day, and was no mere fantasy\nof the moonshine.\n\nShe had fallen asleep when, at dawn, Lora aroused her.\n\nWithout a word, she rose from the chair, wrapped a shawl about her, and\nthen, kissing Lora gently, looked at her with quiet, questioning eyes.\n\n\"What is it, Mary?\"\n\n\"You still believe that you saw Alastair ... Alastair in the body?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then had you not better take the child with you? I will carry the\nlittle one. If he should see it--perhaps he would....\"\n\n\"You are right, dear friend. God has put that thought into your mind.\"\n\nA few minutes later, the two women passed out into the cold, fresh\nmorning; Mary going first with the child, and keeping, wherever\npracticable, to the sheep-paths or to the barren ledges that ran out\nevery here and there from the heather and bracken, and this because of\nthe dews which lay heavily, giving a moon-white sheen to the grass, and\nsheathing every frond and leaf and twig as with crystal, glistening\nrainbow-hued.\n\nThey took a path that trailed above the hollow of the moonflowers, and\nled deviously shoreward by the side of Craig-Geal.\n\nWhen they reached the summit of the grassy brae, where the path\ndiverged, they looked long in every direction. Nowhere could they\ndiscern sign of any human being. Not a soul moved upon the upland moors;\nnot a soul moved upon the boulder-strewn, rowan-studded slopes; not a\nsoul moved by the margin of that dead-calm sea, so still that even the\nwhisper of its lip was inaudible, though the faint aerial echo of the\ncrooning of its primeval slumber-song slipped hushfully into the ear.\n\nThey were half-way down toward the shore when Mrs. Maclean, holding up a\nwarning hand, stopped.\n\n\"What is it, Mary?\" Lora whispered. \"Do you see anything? Do you see\nhim?\"\n\n\"Look!\" and, as she spoke, Mary pointed to a dip in the little glen.\n\nUnder a rowan, heavy with clusters of fruit, as yet of a ruddy brown\ntouched here and there with crimson, a white figure stooped, leaning\nover one of the pools wherein the falling burn slept and dreamed awhile\nere it leaped again from ledge to ledge, or slipped laughing and\nwhispering through time-worn channels.\n\nHe was like some beautiful creature of an antique tale. Even as a wild\ndeer, he stooped and drank; looked questioningly through the rowans and\nbirches, and then across the bracken where the sun-rays slid intricately\nin a golden tangle; then, stooping again, again drank.\n\nThe sunlight was warm about him. His shoulders and back gleamed\nivory-white, dusked flickering here and there with leaf-shadows. A\nshadowy green-gloom lay upon his curved breast and against his thighs,\nfrom the sheen of the water passing upward through the dense fern that\noverhung the stream.\n\n\"It is the young god,\" thought Mary; \"the young god who, Seumas the Seer\nsays, was born of human hope, weaned with human tears, taught by dreams\nand memories, and therewith given for his body, Beauty ... and for his\nsoul, Immortal Joy.\"\n\nBut aloud she murmured only, \"It is he--the Beautiful One--of the\n_Domhan T\u00f2ir!\"_\n\nLora did not look at her; but below her breath whispered, \"_It is\nAlastair_.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSwiftly and silently, they moved forward.\n\nSo intent was Alastair, after he had quenched his thirst, upon what he\nsaw or imagined in the pool beneath him, that he did not hear their\nsteps till they were but a few yards away.\n\n\"_Alastair!_\"\n\nHe lifted his head and listened.\n\n\"_Alastair!_\"\n\nThe sudden fear passed from his eyes. A smile came into them, and his\nlips parted:\n\n\"Lora ... Lora bh\u00e0n ... Lora, my beautiful gloom ... my fawn ... my\nlittle one....\"\n\nAs he spoke, with low, caressing, yearning voice, he looked into the\nheart of the pool again, and stretched forward his arms longingly.\n\nA sob behind him fell upon his ears. Startled, he sprang back.\n\nFor more than a minute, he looked intently at Lora and Mrs. Maclean.\nThen, slowly, some reminiscence worked in his brain. Slowly, too, the\ndark veil began to lift from his mind; slightly, and for a brief while\nat most.\n\n\"Mary!\"\n\nMrs. Maclean made a step toward him, but stopped. The peace that was\nabout her at all times breathed from her, and lay upon him. The\nbenediction of her eyes upheld him.\n\nQuietly she spoke, with her right hand pointing to the sobbing woman at\nher side.\n\n\"Alastair ... this is Lora, who has sought you far, and now has found\nyou.\"\n\n\"Lora? Lora is dead! She is a beautiful spirit, and sleeps in that pool\nunder the rowan. She walked with me last night in the moonshine. She has\na beautiful child that is our child. It is now a song, singing in the\nsunshine. I heard it at dawn, when I was listening to the stars calling\none to another. It is a song of joy about the doorway of Pharais. I saw\nthe golden doors open a brief while ago--the doors of Pharais. Our\nlittle child danced in the glory as a mote in a sunbeam. But Lora is\ndead.\"\n\n\"Hush! Lora is not dead, but liveth. Lora is here. See, her tears run\nfor you--her bosom heaves for you--her arms reach for you!\"\n\nSlowly the dreamer advanced. He would not come quite close at first, but\nthere was a wonderful new light in his eyes.\n\n\"Alastair! Alastair! It is I, Lora! Come to me! Come to me!\"\n\n\"If, indeed ... if, indeed, you are Lora ... Lora, my joy ... where is\nour child whose soul I heard singing in the sunshine over against\nTigh-na-Pharais?\"\n\nWithout a word, and swiftly, Lora took her poor blind blossom from Mary,\nand held the child toward him.\n\n\"It is God's gift to us, Alastair,\" she added at last, seeing that he\ncame no nearer, and looked at the child wonderingly.\n\nHe advanced slowly, till his breath fell upon Lora's hands, and made her\nheart strain with its passion. Stopping, he stretched forth his right\nhand and gently touched the sleeping face. A sun-ray fell upon it. Then\na smile grew upon the little parted lips, as the spirit of a flower\nmight grow and bloom bodiless in dreamland.\n\nAlastair smiled. With soft, caressing hand, he smoothed the child's face\nand little, uplifted arm. Then he took it gently from its mother, kissed\nit, handed it to Mary.\n\nAnd having done this, he opened his arms and said one word: \"Lora!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNone saw their return. Mrs. Maclean went before them with the child, and\nat once sent Ealasaid out to keep watch and ward against the coming of\nany one. Thereafter she swiftly made all ready for those whom God had\nlifted out of the grave.\n\nBut so weary was Alastair--so far spent by hunger, and fatigue, and\nexposure--that he could not put on the clothes laid ready for him. So\nLora led him gently to bed; and there, after he had swallowed a little\nbroth and warm milk, he fell into a profound sleep which lasted till\ndark, and then, after a brief interval wherein he ate ravenously, till\nlate on the morrow.\n\nFrom that time forth, Alastair's madness took a new form. All of dark\ngloom, of dread or vague fear, went from him. His reason seemed to be a\nliving energy again, though still bewilderingly distraught at times, and\never veiled.\n\nNevertheless, that day of his awakening after his long, life-saving\nslumber was the last wherein the things of his past and the affairs of\nthe present were realities to him. Concerning these, he could listen to\nlittle and speak less; and, again and again, his struggling thought\nbecame confused and his words incoherent.\n\nYet Lora learned enough to know what his one passionate wish was. Full\nwell he knew that the end was not far from him; but before he entered\ninto the silence he might live many months; and he longed to leave\nInnisr\u00f2n. Beyond words, he longed to die in that little lonely isle of\nIthona which was his sole heritage from his mother, and where he had\nbeen born; for his father had brought his fair Eilidh there from his old\ngloomy castle at Dunvrechan for the travail that was her doom.\n\nUpon Ithona no one dwelt other than an old islander whose fathers had\nbeen there before him for generations.\n\nSeumas Macleod was at once shepherd and fisherman, and caretaker of the\nlong, low farm-house: alone now, since the death of his wife at\nmidsummer of that year. There was room and to spare for Alastair and\nLora and the little one; for Mary also--for Mrs. Maclean never dreamed\nof parting from these her children.\n\nAnd thus it was arranged, ere dusk came and filled with violet shadows\nall the hollows that lay betwixt the cottage and the sea.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThree days thence, late on a hot afternoon scarce cooled by the breeze\nthat moved soundlessly though steadily over the upland crags of\nInnisr\u00f2n, a company of islanders was met at the little western haven\nbetwixt Ardfeulan and Craig-Ruaidh. Every one on the isle was there,\nindeed, except the one or two who were weakly or in extreme old age.\n\nOn the water, moored to a ledge, a herring-trawler, the _Ell\u00f9_, lay with\nher brown sail flapping idly. In the stern sat Lora, with her child at\nher breast, and beside her Mrs. Maclean. In the waist, with a leg on\neither side of the seat, Angus Macrae, who owned the boat, leaned\nagainst the mast.\n\nThe islanders made a semi-circular group. In the middle were six or\nseven old men: on either side were the younger men, women old and young,\nand the children. Behind were the collie dogs, squatted on their\nhaunches or moving restlessly to and fro.\n\nSome mischance had made it impossible for Mr. Macdonald, the old\nminister of these outer isles, to be present. Father Manus, a young\npriest of Iona, took his place, and had already blessed the sea, and the\n_Ell\u00f9_ that was to voyage across it, and those who were going away for\never from Innisr\u00f2n, and the weary hearts they carried with them, and the\nsad hearts of those who were gathered to see them go.\n\nAlastair, tall, frail, with wild eyes strangely at variance with the\nquiet pallor of his face--and to many there scarce recognisable, so\ngreatly had he altered--was bidding farewell to the elders one by one.\n\nNot a word else was spoken by any than the familiar good-bye--_Beannachd\nleibh_. The hearts of all were too full.\n\nAt the last, Alastair came to where Ealasaid MacAodh stood, crying\nsilently. He took her in his arms, and kissed her on the brow and then\nupon both eyes.\n\nShe watched him as he moved slowly down to the _Ell\u00f9_. He stepped on\nboard, followed by Ranald Macrae, and sat down beside Lora, whose hand\nhe took in his, and with the other stroked it gently.\n\nAs old Angus Macrae shook out the sail, Ealasaid suddenly fell on her\nknees, and, swaying to and fro, began a wailing lament:\n\n  \"_Tha mo latha goirid,\n  Tha mo feasgar fada,\n  O, oi, oi, tha c\u00e8o air a' bheinn,\n  O, oi, oi, tha dr\u00f9chd air an fheur!_\"\n\n  My day is short,\n  Long is my night--\n  O, alas, alas, the mist upon the hill,\n  O, alas, alas, the dew upon the grass!\n\nSlowly the _Ell\u00f9_ moved out from the haven.\n\nLora and Mary sat with bowed heads. Alastair had turned and was staring\nseaward, where a glory of gold and scarlet was gathered against the\ngoing down of the sun.\n\n  \"_O, oi, oi, tha c\u00e8o air a' bheinn,\n  O, oi, oi, tha dr\u00f9chd air an fheur!_\"\n\nsang the islanders in a long, wailing chant.\n\nSuddenly the sail filled, became taut. The boat moved swiftly before the\nwind.\n\nA deep silence fell upon all. Then Griogair Fionnladh, the oldest of the\nislesmen, raised the pipes from his shoulder and began to play.\n\nBut the wild, mournful, plaintive air was not the expected Lament of\nFarewell. It was the ancient Coronach for the Dead.\n\nOne by one, every man doffed his bonnet; the white-haired elders bowing\ntheir heads, and, with downcast eyes, muttering inaudibly. Sobs were\nheard and tears fell; but no word was spoken.\n\nWhen the sun set, the _Ell\u00f9_ was far on her way--a black speck in the\ngolden light. With the coming of the gloaming, the islanders slowly\ndispersed. Soon there was none left, save Fionnladh and Ealasaid.\n\nFor a long while thereafter upon the twilight-water rose and fell,\nmingling with the solemn, rhythmic chant of the waves, the plaintive,\nmournful wail of the Coronach for those who have passed into the\nsilence.\n\nWhen that, too, had ceased, there was no sound that the sea heard not\nnightly, save the sobbing of the woman Ealasaid.\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n\nWeek after week, month after month, until nigh the end of the fourth,\npassed by on Ithona: and they who dwelt there took no heed of the\npassage of the days.\n\nThere are no hours for those who are beyonder the rumour of that \"time\nor chance\" of which the Preacher speaks. Day grows out of night, and in\nnight fulfilleth itself again: the stars succeed the diurnal march of\nthe sun, and hardly are they lost in his glory ere they come again.\nScarce distinguishable are the twilight of the dawn and the twilight of\nthe eve: and even as the coming and going of these similar shadows are\nthe appearance and evanishing of the shadows whom we know for our\nfellowmen, so little differing one from the other, individual from\nindividual, people from people, race from race.\n\nAnd even as a shadow, to those who abode on Ithona, was that world they\nhad seen so little of, but of which they had yet known enough.\n\nIn that remote island, solitary even among the outer isles of which it\nwas one of the most far-set in ocean, there was little to break the\nmonotony of the hours. No steamer drew near, save at long intervals. The\ncoast-guard cutter arrived intermittently, but sometimes not for months,\ncoming like an alien seabird, and as a strange bird of the seas going\nupon its unknown way again. Few even of the herring-trawlers sailed\nnigh, except in the late summer, when the mackerel came eastward in vast\nshoals.\n\nMorning and noon, afternoon and evening, night and the passing of night,\ndawn and sunrise: these were the veils that seemed to curtain off this\nspot of earth. Storm followed calm; calm succeeded storm; the winds came\nand went; the tides rose and fell. In summer, the rains from the south;\nin autumn, the rains from the west; in winter, the rains from the north.\nChange followed change, but orderly as in processional array. The\npoppies reddened the scanty fields of rye; the swallows and martins\nhaunted the island-ways; the wild rose bloomed, as with white and pink\nsea-shells made soft and fragrant. Then a little while, and the ling\ngrew purple at the passing of the roses; the hawks swung in the wind\nwhen the swallows had vanished; the campions waved where the poppies\nhad fallen; the grey thistle ursurped the reaped grain. In summer, the\nWeaver of Sunshine rested there; there, during the equinox, the Weaver\nof the Winds abode; in winter, the Weaver of the Snow made a white\nshroud for the isle and wove a shimmering veil for the dusking of the\nsea. And as one spring was like another spring, and one autumn like\nanother autumn, so was one year like another year, in the coming and in\nthe going.\n\nSave for the encroaching shadow of death, there was nothing to mark the\ntime for the dwellers on Ithona. Mary was aware that not Alastair only,\nbut Lora, was becoming frailer week by week. Lora, as well as Mary, knew\nthat the child's face grew more wan and thin almost day by day. Old\nSeumas Macleod was weary at heart with the pity of all that he saw. Only\nAlastair was happy, for he dreamed; and his dream was of the loveliness\nof earth and sea and sky, of the pathway that came down from heaven at\nsunrise and led back at nightfall through the avenue of the stars to the\nvery gates of Pharais. More happy, too, grew the others as the autumn\nwaned, and the golden peace of St. Martin's aftermath lay upon sea and\nland; for their eyes saw more and more through the dreaming eyes of\nAlastair, more and more clearly they heard strains of the music that\nhaunted his rapt ears.\n\nDaily he went about clad with dream: a strange sweetness in his voice, a\nmystery upon his face. His eyes no longer brooded darkly; there was in\nthem a bright light as of a cloudless morning.\n\nIf, months ago, God had filled with dusk the house of the brain, it was\nnow not the dusk of coming night, but of the advancing day. Fantasies\nbeset him often, as of yore, but never with terror or dismay. The\nmoorland tarn held no watching kelpie: instead, he heard the laughter of\nthe fairies as they swung in the bells of the foxglove; the singing of\nan angel where the wind wandered among the high corries; whispers and\nsighs of fair spirits in the murmur of leaves, or falling water, or\nchime of the waves.\n\nSometimes Lora walked or lay beside him for hours, listening to his\nstrange speech about the things that he saw--things too lovely for\nmortal vision, but ultimately as real to her as to him. Hope came back\nto her; and then Peace; and, at the last, Joy.\n\nWhen not with Lora, he loved well to be with Mary or with Seumas.\n\nIn the eyes of the former he would sometimes look for a long time,\nseeing there the secret home of peace, and perhaps, deeper, the\nunveiled beauty of the serene and lovely soul.\n\nSeumas he had loved from childhood. The old islesman had never once been\non the mainland; though in his youth he had sailed along its endless\ncoasts. Tall and strong he was, despite his great age; and his eyes were\nthe eyes of a young man who hears his first-born laughing and crooning\nagainst its mother's breast. Ignorant as he was of the foreign tongue of\nthe mainland, ignorant of books, and unable to read even a verse in the\nGaelic Scriptures of which he knew so many chapters by heart, he was yet\nstrong in knowledge and wise in the way of it beyond most men. For he\nknew all that is to be known concerning the island and the surrounding\nsea, and what moved thereon and lived therein; and, in his humbleness\nand simplicity, he saw so deep into the human heart and into the mystery\nof the soul, that he was not ashamed to know he was man, nor to pray to\nGod to guide him through the shadows.\n\nIt was from Seumas that Alastair, in boyhood and youth, had learned\nmuch, not only of his store of legends and ancient runes and old Celtic\npoetry, but also of that living poetry which makes the heart of the Gael\nmore tender than that of other men, and his brain more wrought with\nvision. From him he had first heard how that for one to have died is to\nhave \"gone into the silence\"; that for an old man or woman to pass away\nin extreme age is to \"have the white sleep\"; that for a fisherman to\ndrown is for him to have \"the peace of the quiet wave.\"\n\nSeumas had filled his brain with lovely words--lovely in themselves and\ntheir meaning; but he had made his clansman a poet by one thing that he\ndid and said.\n\nFor once, after Alastair had returned to the West, from the University\nin St. Andrew's, he went to Ithona to stay for some weeks. At sunrise on\nthe morrow of his arrival, on his coming out upon the grass which sloped\nto the shore a few yards away, he saw Seumas standing, with his wide,\nblue bonnet in his hand, and the sun shining full upon his mass of white\nhair--not praying, as at first Alastair thought, but with a rapt look on\nhis face, and with glad, still-youthful eyes gazing lovingly upon the\nsea.\n\n\"What is it, Seumas?\" he had asked; and the old islesman, turning to him\nwith a grave smile, had answered:\n\n\"Morning after morning, fair weather or foul, after I have risen from my\nprayers and ere I have broken my fast, I come here and remove my hat\nand bow my head, with joy and thanksgiving, before the Beauty of the\nWorld.\"\n\nFrom that day, the world became a new world for Alastair.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn the quietude of dusk--and day by day the dusk came sooner and the\ndawn later--Mary would sometimes sing, or Seumas repeat some favourite\nOssianic _duan_, or chant a fugitive song of the isles. But, toward the\nclose of November, a silence fell more and more upon all. Each had grown\na little weary with the burden of life: all knew Who it was that was\ncoming stealthily across the waters, and for whom first.\n\nIt was on the dawn of December that the child died. It seemed to lapse\nfrom life as an ebbing wavelet from a pool.\n\nThe evening before, Alastair had carried the little one to the shore. He\nhad never understood that the child's eyes were sealed, and often\nthought that it slept when it was really awake. When he came to a\nfavourite pool of his, that at low tide was wont to flush with any red\nlight spilled across the wave he held his tiny burden up laughing and\ncrooning to it.\n\n\"Look, my pretty one,\" he would murmur, \"that red light is the blood of\nyour elder brother. Fair is He, the white Christ. He has put that there\nto show that He loves you.\" Or, again, he would kneel, and with one hand\nwarily move aside the bladder-wrack and other sea-weeds; and then,\npointing into the translucent water, would tell the blind sleeper to\nlook into the heart of the pool and he would see, far down beyond a vast\nvista of white columns, flight after flight of shining golden stairs,\nwhich led at last to a great gate flashing like the sea in the\nnoon-dazzle. And at the gate was a little child like unto himself,\nsinging a sweet song; and just within the gate was a beautiful spirit,\nwhose face was that of Lora, and who could not sing as the little child\ndid, because, though she was clad with joy as with a robe, in her eyes\nthere was still a last lingering mist of human tears.\n\n\"And in Pharais, my bonnie,\" he would add whisperingly in the child's\nunheeding ear, \"in Pharais there are no tears shed, though in the\nremotest part of it there is a grey pool, the weeping of all the world,\nfed everlastingly by the myriad eyes that every moment are somewhere wet\nwith sorrow, or agony, or vain regret, or vain desire. And those who go\nthere stoop, and touch their eyelids with that grey water; and it is as\nbalm to them, and they go healed of their too great joy: and their\nsongs thereafter are the sweetest that are sung in the ways of\nPharais.\"\n\nOften Lora or Mary would be with him when he was thus speaking; for each\nwas fearful lest some day he should discover that his little _uan_ was\nblind, and could never even open the sealed lids.\n\nBut on that last twilight of November Alastair seemed to have been\nimpressed by the passive stillness of the child, and to be troubled when\nhe looked at it. He had kissed the eyes again and again, but they had\nnot opened; he had whispered loving words in the tiny ears, but they had\nnot hearkened.\n\nAll that night he was restless, and rose often to look at the two\nsleepers in the bed opposite his own. Just before dawn, he looked for\nthe last time. He was satisfied now. The little one smiled ... but it\nwas because that in the soundless, breathless passage from one darkness\nto another, it had heard a sweet voice at last, and at last had, with\nsuddenly illumined eyes, beheld a new glory.\n\nSo white and still was it that, when the cold of the tiny hands against\nher bosom awoke Lora, she lay looking upon it for a while, rapt in a new\nand strange awe. Then, having aroused Mary, she went to Seumas, and\nbrought him into the room. Mary had already waked Alastair, and he sat\nholding the small white body on his knees, stroking it gently.\n\nWhen Lora told him that their baby was dead, and asked him if he knew\nwhat she said, he did not reply; but a tear rolled down his cheek, and\nhe put his hand to his heart as though to still the ache of his\ninarticulate pain.\n\nBut after Mary had read from the Book of Psalms, and prayed in a low\nvoice, all rose and passed out into the sunshine; and Alastair, already\noblivious of his loss, went down by the shore, and smiled with pleasure\nat the leap and fall, and chime and whisper, and sweet, low laughter of\nthe sunny waters.\n\nAbout a hundred yards inland from the cottage, a gigantic pointed stone\nrises from out of the heather. It is known among the isles as Fingal's\nBolt, though neither Fionn nor his son, Ossian, ever threw that huge,\nflat-sided, fang-like rock. A few rude lines and even letters are still\ndiscernible on the side next the sun; but there is probably none who\ncould decipher that old-world rune, carved in bygone ages by the hand of\na Druid.\n\nOf all places in the island, except the rocky headlands whose flanks\nwere laved by the sea, this Stone of the Past, as Seumas called it, was\nthat most frequented by Alastair. At its base he had listened, as a boy,\nto the tales of the old islander; beneath it, his fantasy now persuaded\nhim, was one of the hidden ways that led to that House of Paradise of\nwhich he so often dreamed.\n\nThere the four silent mourners met that afternoon to fulfil the wish of\none among them, who loved to think that his little _uan_ would come back\nsome moonshine night or in a still dawn, and, taking their hands, lead\nhis father and mother by that secret pathway through _Domhan T\u00f2ir_ to\n_Tir-na-h'Oigh_, whence, in good time, they would arise and go up into\nPharais.\n\nLora had already been on the spot with Seumas. While the latter had dug\nthe place of sleep, she, with white chalk picked from the shore, had\nprinted in large, heavy letters these words upon the seaward side of the\nstone:\n\n\"Take unto Thy compassion this little one, and us who follow.\"\n\nThere were no words spoken as Mary, kneeling, took the child from Lora's\narms, and laid it, wrapped in a white sheet filled with fragrant gale,\nin the wood-shored grave that had been reverently prepared.\n\nThe afternoon had grown chill. Seaward, a gray mass had risen as if out\nof the waste of waters.\n\nAll were still kneeling--while Seumas laid turf and heather above the\nsmall wooden lid covering the narrow house that would give the body\nsanctuary for a time--when the snow began to come down.\n\nThere was no wind, so the flakes fell light as feathers, grey in the\ngathering dusk as the down that falls from the wind-swept breasts of\nwild swans in their flight to or from the Polar seas.\n\nDenser and denser it came; soundless at first, but after a while with a\nfaint rustling and whirling, as though the flakes were wings of\ninvisible birds of silence.\n\nThe grey gloom thickened. Already the sea was obscured. Its voice was\naudible the more loudly ... a calling voice; but dull, listless,\nmelancholy with ancient, unforgotten pain and all its burthen of\nimmemorial lore.\n\nThe four mourners rose. The two women, with bowed heads, murmured words\nof prayer and farewell. Seumas, crossing himself, muttered: \"Deireadh\ngach comuinn, sgaoileadh; deireadh gach cogaidh, sith\"--\"the end of all\nmeetings, parting; the end of all striving, peace.\" Alastair looked\neagerly through the snow-dusk lest the child should come again at once\nand go by them unseen.\n\nBy the time they reached home, there was a thick twilight all about\nthem. A little later, looking out into the night, they saw the flakes\ndrift over and past them like a myriad of winged things hurrying before\na wind that pursued, devouring. The island lay in a white shroud. At the\nextreme margin, a black, pulsating line seemed to move sinuously from\nleft to right.\n\nSuddenly a deeper sound boomed from the sea, though no wind ruffled the\ndrifts which already lay thick in the hollows. Till midnight, and for an\nhour beyond, this voice of the sea was as the baying of a monstrous\nhound.\n\nNone in the homestead slept. The silence, broken only by that strange,\nmenacing baying of the waves as they roamed through the solitudes\nenvironing the isle, was so intense that sometimes the ears echoed as\nwith the noise of a rush of wings, or as with the sonorous suspensions\nbetween the striking of bell and bell in monotonously swung chimes.\n\nThen again, suddenly, and still without the coming of wind, the sea\nceased its hoarse, angry baying, and, after lapse within lapse till its\nchime was almost inaudible, gave forth in a solemn dirge the majestic\nmusic of its inmost heart.\n\nAt last, after long vigils, all slept, though none so deeply, so\nunawakeningly as Lora.\n\nThree hours before dawn the snow ceased to fall. An icy sparkle\nglittered league after league oceanward, as the star-rays pierced the\nheaving flanks and bowed heads of the sea-horses which had abruptly\nsprung up before the advancing ground-swell.\n\nThe cold was the cold of the Black Frost--bitter, sharp as a sword, nigh\nunendurable.\n\nShortly after dawn, Alastair awoke, shivering. He rose, threw some more\npeats on the fire; and then, having dressed and wrapped his plaid about\nhim, and softly opened and closed the door, stepped out into the snow.\n\nHis breath caught with the cold, and a greater weakness even than that\ncustomary of late made him reel, then lean against the wall for a few\nminutes.\n\nSoon his faintness passed. The exceeding beauty of sunrise over that\nvast stretch of waters, over the isle in its stainless white shroud,\nfilled him with an exalted joy. Thereafter, for a time, he walked to and\nfro; sometimes staring absently seaward, again glancing curiously at his\nshadow--scarce more insubstantial than he himself had grown within the\nlast month, and particularly within the last few days--as it lay upon or\nmoved bluely athwart the snow.\n\nAfter a brief space, a rapt look came into his face. He turned, and\ngazed expectantly at the door.\n\nNo one coming forth, he entered, and, with a loving smile, crossed to\nLora's bed.\n\n\"Sweetheart ... my white flower ... come. It is so beautiful. Pharais\nhas opened to us at last. I can see the steps gleaming gold within the\nyellow shine of the sun. Beyond, I saw a mist of waving wings. Come,\nLora.... Come!\"\n\nCold and white was she as the snow. Alastair bent, kissed her lips, but\nwas so wrought by his vision that he did not notice the chill of them,\nnor see the blue shadow in the pallor of the face.\n\n\"Ah, _m\u00f9irnean_, _mo m\u00f9irnean_, see, I will carry you,\" he murmured\nsuddenly.\n\nHe stooped, lifted the beautiful dead body he had loved so well, and,\nstaggering beneath the weight, half carried, half dragged it to the\nsnow-slope beyond the door. Gently he placed Lora down. Then, going for\nand returning with a deer-skin, laid her upon it, and sat down beside\nher.\n\nFor a brief while, he waited patiently for her awakening. Then his eyes\nwandered again, now fixed upon the majesty of the sea, reaching\nintolerably grand from endless horizons to horizons without end; now\nupon the immense dome of the sky, where, amid the deepest blue, high in\nthe north-west the moon turned a disc of pale gold out of an almost\nimperceptible flush, and confronted the flashing, blazing sunfire that,\nin the south-east, moved swiftly upward.\n\nSuddenly he leaned forward; his lips parted; his eyes agleam with the\ninner flame that consumed him.\n\n\"Lora ... Lora, my fawn,\" he whispered. \"Look! The gates are opening!\nDear, all is well at the last. God has given me back to you. My trouble\nis healed. Speak to me, dear; too great is my happiness!\"\n\nNo sound: no movement of the hands: no stir of the closed eyelids.\n\n\"Lora!\"\n\nIt was strange. But he would be patient.\n\nIdly he watched a small, grey snow-cloud passing low above the island.\n\nA warm breath reached the heart of it, and set the myriad wings astir.\nDown, straight down above the isle and for a few fathoms beyond it, they\nfluttered waveringly.\n\nThe fall was like a veil suspended over Ithona: a veil so thin, so\ntransparent, that the sky was visible through it as an azure dusk; and\nbeneath it, the sea as a blue-flowing lawn whereover its skirts trailed;\nwhile behind it, the rising sunfire was a shimmer of amber-yellow that\nmade every falling flake glisten like burnished gold. The wind was\nutterly still; the sky cloudless, but for that thin, evanishing veil of\ndropping gold.\n\nThe sea lay breathing in a deep calm all around the isle. But, from its\nheart that never slumbers, rose as of yore, and for ever, a rumour as of\nmuffled prophesyings, a Voice of Awe, a Voice of Dread.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MOUNTAIN LOVERS\n\n\nTO\n\n******\n\n  _Dum juga montis aper, fluvios dum piscis amabit,\n  Dumque thymo pascentur apes, dum rore cicadae;\n  Semper honos, nomenque tuum, laudesque manebunt._\n\n\n\n\nThe Mountain Lovers\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nThe wind sighed through the aisles of the hill-forest. Among the\nlower-set pines there was an accompanying sound as of multitudinous\nbaffled wings. This travelling voice was upon the mountain in a myriad\nutterance. Round the forehead of Ben Iolair it moved as an eagle moves,\nsweeping in vast circles: the rhythm of its flight reiterated variously\nagainst walls of granite, gigantic boulders, and rain-scooped,\ntempest-worn crags and pinnacles. Lower were corries, furrows that\nseemed to have been raked into the breast of the hill in some olden time\nwhen the solitudes were not barren. Therein the wind slid with a hollow,\nflute-like call. This deepened into an organ-note of melancholy, when\nglens, filled with birchen undergrowth and running water, were aloud\nwith the rumour of its passages. Upon the heights, upon the flanks, upon\nall the sunswept mass of Iolair, the rushing noise of its pinions was\nas the prolonged suspiration of the sea. Beyond the forest of pines it\nswooped adown the strath, and raced up the narrow neck of the Pass of\nthe Eagles, and leaped onward again athwart and over the slopes of\nTornideon that, gigantic in swarthy gloom, stood over against Ben\nIolair.\n\nIn the heart of the pinewoods it was meshed as in a net. The sighing of\nit through the green-gloom avenues, warm with the diffused ruddiness of\nthe pine-bark, was as the sound of distant water falling from infrequent\nledge to ledge in a mountain gorge. Intent by the fringe of the forest,\nor even upon the underslopes still flooded with afternoon sunlight, one\nmight have heard its rising and falling sough as it bore downward\nbeneath the weight of the branches, or slipped from bole to bole and\nround ancient girths.\n\nHere and there a hollow was still as deep water. Not a sigh breathed\nupon the mossy ground, thickly covered in parts with cones and the\nmyriad-shed needles of the pines. Not a murmur came from the spell-bound\ntrees. The vast boughs hung motionless in the silent air. Sometimes the\nupper branches stirred, but while the shadow-haunted plumes ruffled as\nwith a passing breath, it was with a slow, solemn, soundless rhythm.\n\nIn one of those sanctuaries of peace, where the forest was thinner and\neverywhere luminous with the flowing gold of the setting sun, a child\ndanced blithely to and fro, often clapping her hands, but without word\nor sound, and with her wild-fawn eyes ceaselessly alert yet\nunquestioning and unsmiling.\n\nIn that solitary place she was doubly alone. No eyes were there to espy\nher, save those of the cushats and a thrush whose heart beat wildly\nagainst her callow brood. She was like the spirit of woodland\nloneliness: a lovely thing of fantasy that might recreate its beauty the\nnext moment in a medley of sun-rays, or as a floating golden light about\nthe green boles, or as a windflower swaying among the tree-roots with\nits own exquisite vibration of life. So elemental was she, then and\nthere, that if she herself had passed into the rhythm of her rapt dance\nand so merged into the cadence of the wind among leaves and branches, or\ninto the remoter murmuring of the mountain burns and of the white\ncataracts even then leaping into the sun-dazzle and seeming never to\nfall though for ever falling--if this change had been wrought, as the\nswift change from shadow-gloom to sun-gloom, nothing of it would have\nseemed unnatural. She was as absolutely one with nature as though she\nwere a dancing sunbeam, or the brief embodiment of the joy of the wind.\n\nAs the child danced, a human mote in that vast area of sun-splashed\nwoodland, the light flooded in upon her scanty and ragged dress of brown\nhomespun, from which her arms and legs emerged as the white\nchestnut-buds from their sheaths of amber. Her skin was of the hue and\nsmoothness of crudded cream, where not sunburnt to the brown of the\nwallflower. Dark as were her heavily lashed eyes, her hair, a mass of\nshort curls creeping and twisting and leaping throughout a wild and\ntangled waviness, was of a wonderful white-like yellow, as of the sheen\nof wheat on a windy August noon or the strange amber-gold of the\nharvest-moon when rising through a sigh of mist. She was beautiful, but\nrather with the promise of beauty than beauty itself--as the bud of the\nmoss-rose is lovely but has a fairer loveliness in fee. Though her face\nwas pale, its honeysuckle-pallor was so wrought by the sun and wind that\nher cheeks had the glow of sunlit hill-water. In every line, in every\ncontour of her body, in every movement, every pose, a beautiful\nuntutored grace displayed itself. A glimpse of the secret of all this\nwinsomeness opened at times in the eyes. These were full of a changing\nlight. The \"breath\" was upon her: on her rhythmic limbs, on her flowing\nhair, on her parted lips.\n\nTo and fro, flickeringly as a leaf shadow, the small body tripped and\nleapt. Sometimes she raised her arms when with tossed-back head she\nsprang to one side or forward: sometimes she clapped her hands, and a\nsmile for a moment dreamed rather than lay upon her face. But none\nseeing her could have thought she danced out of mere glee. No birdeen of\nlaughter slipped from the little lips: the eyes had a steadfast\nintensity amid all their waywardness. Either the child was going through\nthis fantastic byplay for some ulterior reason, or she was wrought by an\necstasy that could be expressed only in this way. Perhaps no one who had\nmet a glance of those wildwood eyes could have doubted that she was rapt\nby an unconscious fantasy of rhythm.\n\nA stillness had grown about the heart even of the patient mavis in the\nrowan beside the winding shadow-haunted pool, a few yards away from the\nspot where the child soundlessly danced. A clear call came from its mate\never and again: neither feared any longer this dancer in the\nsunset-shine. The cushats crooned unheedingly. In a glade above, a roe\nstood, gazing wonder-stricken: but after a restless pawing of the ground\nshe lidded her unquiet eyes, and browsed contentedly under the fern.\n\nSuddenly the dancer stopped. She stood in that exquisite poise of\narrested motion which for a moment the wave has when it lifts its breast\nagainst the wind. Intently she listened: with eyes dilated and nostrils\nswiftly expanding and contracting, like any wild thing of the woodlands.\n\nA voice, strangely harsh in its high, thin falsetto, resounded from the\nupper glades.\n\n\"_Oona!_\"\n\nThe child smiled, relaxed from her intent attitude, and listlessly moved\na step or two forward.\n\n\"_Oona! Oona!! Oona!_\"\n\n\"It is Nial,\" she muttered. \"I don't want him. I am tired of helping him\nto look for his soul.\"\n\nThe words came from her lips in smileless earnestness. To her,\nevidently, so fantastical a quest had nothing in it of surprise or\nstrangeness.\n\nThe startled roe had already fled. The merest rustle of the bracken\nhinted the whither-away of its flight. Instinctively, Oona noticed the\nsound, and her eyes looked beyond a distant clump of pines in time to\nsee a gleam of something brown leap out of and into the tall fern, as a\nseabird among green running billows.\n\nAlmost simultaneously she caught a glimpse of an uncouth dwarfish figure\nmoving slowly through the pine-glades.\n\nSwift as a bird to its covert she slipped into the dusk of the\nneighbouring savannah of bracken.\n\n\"_Oona!_\"\n\nThe voice was nearer, but from its greater lift in the air the child\nknew that Nial had stopped, and was doubtless looking about him. She\nmade no response. If the searcher were but ten yards away he would not\nhave discovered her. No fox among the root crannies, no hare crouching\nlow in her form, could have more easily evaded detection.\n\n\"_Oona!_\"\n\nThe voice was now further away. Clearly Nial had turned westward, and\nwas moving through the glade beyond the pool. Once more she heard the\nharsh, thin voice; but now it was crooning a song wherewith she was\nfamiliar, the words of which simulated the plaining of the wild-dove:\n\n  \"_Oona, Oona, mo ghraidh:\n  Oona, Oona, mo ghraidh:\n  M\u00f9irnean, M\u00f9irnean, M\u00f9irnean,\n  Oona, Oona, mo ghraidh!_\"\n\nThen the silence closed in about her again. A relative silence, for she\nheard the hum of the brown bee drowsily fumbling to its nest under a\nbramble, the whir of the stag-moth, the innumerable indeterminate rustle\nand hum of the woodlands in summer. The cushats crooned ever and again,\nhushfully nestling amid the green dusk of the boughs. A fernowl swooped\nthrough the glades, whence already the sunset light had vanished, and\nafter every short flight it would poise on a pine-branch and emit its\nresonant whir. In the hollow where Oona lay there was still no breath of\nair; but overhead the wind stirred the plumes of every tree-crest, and\nits voice, vibrant, full of rising and falling flute-like calls, loudly\nsurgent, haunting-sweet, was audible on all sides and beyond upon the\nuplands of Iolair.\n\nThe gloaming, creeping from under the bracken and down from amid the\nbranches of the pines, had begun to fill the forest with veils of\nshadow. It was for this Oona had waited. Gently disparting the bracken,\nand, herself almost as insubstantial and soundless as a shadow, with one\nswift glance around her, she vanished into the darkness that involved\nthe columnar pine-glades.\n\nIn the dim, fragrant May-bloom there seemed nothing astir save white\nmoths, which flickered from bush to bush. The deer, if any were there,\nwere resting; the roosting black-cock were as silent as the doves. The\nremoter dusk was full of the voices of the wind, but those distant\naerial sounds were as the wings that fan the courts of Silence.\n\nShadow after shadow moved out of the twilight: soft velvety things,\nthough intangible, that lay drowsily upon the boughs of the pines, or\nslipped after each other through the intricacies of the fern.\n\nRound the pool were many of those lovely silent children of the dusk.\nDim scores were massed under the branches, or crept among the willows.\nSome hung from the sprays of the birches, peering into the ominous\nblackness of the water underneath. Others, straight and intent, or all\ntremulous and wavering, stood among the reeds, the most sensitive of\nwhich had still a vague breath of sound. Many of these merged into the\npool, but their ranks never thinned. By every reed stood a shadow,\nintent, inclined before a wind that blew not. Of all that passed into\nthe water not one reached the star that gleamed and moved, and seemed to\nlift and fall in the heart of the pool. Not one crossed the faintly\nluminous semi-circle that lay upon the surface. Each sank down, down,\ntill the star in the depths shone far above. But by the upper margins of\nthe pool, where the pines ran steeply toward it, one shadow sat that did\nnot waver, did not move, that grew darker and more dark, blackly\ndistinct, though all around was blurred or fugitive.\n\nThe night advanced. The shadows moved onward before it, or were\nenveloped in its folds. Though in the forest no travelling susurrus was\naudible, the wind had arisen again upon the heights. Restless, forlorn,\nit lifted its wild wings from steep to steep. Its vibrant rise, its\nbaffled fall, re-echoed faintly or dully. At times there was a thin,\nshrewd, infinitely remote whistling. This was the myriad air-spray of\nthe wind driven through the spires of the heather.\n\nWith the second hour of the night the moon rose over the shoulder of\nIolair. For a time a gold dust had glittered along the edges of the\ngranite precipices. Then the summit of the mountain had gleamed like a\nvast bronze altar lit by hidden lamps. Suddenly, almost in a moment, a\ngigantic arm swung upward an immense globe of fire.\n\nAs the moon rose she emitted a more yellow flame. Downward a flood of\norange glory poured upon the highest peaks--barren, scoriated,\nlifeless, but for the lichens that thrive upon snows and chill dews. The\nglobe--in which, as in the sun, could be seen a whirling of\nlight--rapidly diminished in size. Less portentous, it swung through\nspace in an added loveliness. Serene, equable, its yellow glow spread\nover mountain and forest, down every broad strath, each grave-dark glen,\ndown every straggling hillside corrie.\n\nThe coming of the moonbeams wrought a fantastic new life in the forest.\nThe lightward boughs took on a proud armour. The branches moved against\nthe night, mailed like serpents with moving scales of gold and silver.\n\nWhen the first comers reached the pool they fell upon it with delight.\nForward they leapt, and bathed their lovely golden bodies in the water,\nwhich held them to itself with joy. A score died to make a silver\nripple, a hundred perished to fill every handsbreath of water as with\nmelted ore. When a water-snake darted from the reeds and shot across the\nsurface, its flight dissipated innumerable vibrations and delicate\nfugitive cup-like hollows and waverings, aureate or radiant with white\nfires. A few fish rose from the weeds and crevices, where they had lain\nlike drifting leaves. When their fins shivered above the surface there\nwas a momentary dazzle, as though a little flame of moonfire had fallen\nand for a moment flared unquenched.\n\nThe dusk-shadows had long vanished. Those of the night, sombre,\nmotionless, waited. One only remained: the same sitting shape, darkly\ndistinct, that had stayed when the twilight had waned.\n\nThere had been no movement throughout the long withdrawal of the light,\nthe stealthy recapture of the dark. But when the pool, save for the\nmargins, was all one wave of interlapsing gold and silver, the\nshadow-shape at last raised a shaggy peaked head. For a time Nial the\ndwarf stared vacantly at the transformed water. Then a smile came into\nhis worn, fantastic face, so wild and rude, and in a sense so savage,\nand yet with the unharming, guileless, and even gentle look of most wild\ncreatures when not roused by appetite or emotion.\n\nThe play of the moonbeams delighted him. When the last of them slid\nfurtively through the shadows, and turned the reeds into spires of gold,\nhe gazed mournfully at the gloom of the forest tarn. Nothing now moved\ntherein except three wandering star-rays, that quivered and expanded and\ncontracted as though the central phantom-flames were alive, and were\nfeeling tremulously through this dim, unknown water-world.\n\nOnce Nial rose. His small, high-shouldered, misshapen figure seemed\nscarcely human; the rough clothes he wore--patches of blurred and broken\nshadow they appeared now--might have been part of him, as the hide of a\ndeer, or the fell of any wild thing. When he moved, it was with woodland\nalertness, with the swift grace of all sylvan creatures.\n\nAs his feet plashed among the shallows he stooped. For long he peered\nearnestly into the water. Then, with a sigh, he stepped back, and moved\nsilently again to the mossy stump where he had sat since nightfall.\n\nThe late nocturnal sounds that prelude the dawn did not awake him, if\nasleep he were. The occasional cries of ewes upon the hills were only as\nremote falling waves in the sea of silence and darkness. The bleating of\na restless stag ceased as abruptly as it had begun.\n\nJust before the first trouble of the dawn these sounds multiplied. Ever\nand again, though at long intervals, there was the splash of a fish,\nhawking along the under-surface of the tarn for the twilight-ephemerid\u00e6.\nThe hoarse gurgling call of the capercailzie fell through the\npine-glades. From invisible pastures came the first muffled, uncertain\nlowing of the shaggy bulls, standing beyond the still-crouching drowsy\nkye, whose breaths made a faint grey mist in the darkness.\n\nThe wind rose and fell. It had now a different sound, as there is a\ndifferent note in the ascending and decrescent song of the lark. It was,\nhowever, still confined to the heights and the upland moors.\n\nWith the first sunflood there is something of the same chemic change in\nthe wind as there is in the sea. An electric tremor goes through it. Its\nimpalpable nerves thrill: its invisible pulse beats.\n\nLong before Nial, in the deep twilight of the forest, saw that morning\nhad come, he was aware of it from the cry of the wind, as it leaped\nagainst the sun.\n\nHe stirred, listening. The call of that bodiless voice he knew and loved\nso well had suddenly grown clearer. It was as though the invisible\nLute-player who shepherds the clouds with his primeval music had\nbreathed a high, resonant note. To the keen ears of Nial this was\nenough. He knew that the wind had moved from the south to the\nnorth-west: a thing easy to tell at once in the neighbourhood of pines,\nbut to be known of few when heard against remote heights and in the\ndark.\n\nThe dwarf rose and began to pace restlessly to and fro. Once or twice\nhe stood still and shook himself; then, with a searching but unexpectant\nglance around him, resumed his aimless wandering.\n\nThe wind reached the forest before the first lances of the sunlight had\nthrust themselves through the umbrage at its higher end. Nial heard it\nlifting the still air of the pine-glooms with its vast wings, and\nbeating it to and fro, sending volleys of fragrant breath from swaying\ntree-top to tree-top. It wandered nearer and nearer: at first overhead,\nso that only the summits of the pines swayed southward, but soon it came\nleaping and blithely laughing through the long aisles of the forest. The\nindescribable rumour of the sunflood followed. As the old Celtic poets\ntell us, the noise of the sunfire on the waves at daybreak is audible\nfor those who have ears to hear. So may be heard the sudden rush and\nsweep of the sunbeams when they first stream upon a wood. The boughs,\nthe branches, the feathery or plume-like summits of the trees do homage\nat that moment, when the Gates of Wonder open for a few seconds on the\nunceasing miracle of Creation. The leaves quiver, or curl upward, even\nthough there be no breath of air. It is then that crows, rooks,\nwood-doves, and, on the heights, the hawks and eagles, lean their\nbreasts against the sunflood and soar far forward and downward on\nwide-poised motionless wings: a long, unswerving, scythe-sweep, strange\nin its silent and ordered beauty, to be seen similarly at no other time.\n\nThe sound was an exultation throughout the forest. Soon the invisible\npresence dwelt everywhere. Every branch held a note of music: every leaf\nwas a whisper. There was not a frond of bracken, a blade of grass, that\ndid not bend listeningly. The windflowers in the mossiest hollows were\ntremulous.\n\nWhen the sunbeams came dancing and leaping in the track of the wind, the\nnote of exultation, in deepening, became more indiscriminate. The\nbleating of the stags, the lowing of the distant kye, the plaintive\ncrying of the ewes and lambs, the calls and songs of the birds, the\nmyriad indeterminate voice of morning, blent in a universal rumour of\njoy.\n\nNial stood listening intently, now to this sound, now to that. He knew\nthe forest, and the life of the forest, as no other man could do. He,\ntoo, was a woodlander, as much as the deer, or the shy cushat, or the\nvery bracken.\n\nThe birds that flew by paid no heed to him. He was watching a young fox\nblinking its yellow eyes from under a hollow mass of roots, when a roe\ntrotted rapidly close by him, her hill-pool eyes alert, her long neck\nstrained, her nostrils distended and quivering. He turned, but she did\nnot swerve nor hasten. Her fawn followed. It stopped almost opposite to\nNial, looked at him curiously, lifted its delicate forehead alternately,\nand sniffed with swift sensitive twitchings. He looked quietly into the\ngreat violet eyes, filled with a wonderful living amber when turned\nagainst the sun. The fawn slowly advanced till the velvety warmth of its\nlips nibbled playfully at the arm, gently extended toward it. The dwarf\nstroked the smooth muzzle and the long twitching ears. Suddenly, with an\nelfish whisk, the fawn sprang to one side, spun with abrupt sidelong\nleaps around the funny two-legged creature: then, finding that its new\nplaymate was so perplexingly staid, leaped away in a light bounding\nflight in pursuit of its dam, who had halted among the bracken, and had\nbeen watching curiously, but unalarmedly.\n\nStrangely, it was with a look more of resentment than of pleasure that\nNial turned and walked slowly toward the upper glades.\n\nThere was no one there to overhear his muttered words. Perhaps the\nwood-doves that watched him pass, listened unheedingly to his angry\nexclamations--half sobs, half vague outcries against the bitterness of\nhis fate that he, Nial the Soulless, was shunned by all human beings, or\nby all save the child Oona, and treated as though he were a wild thing\nof the woods--and that even the creatures of the hillsides and the\nforest-glades knew him, while not of their own fellowship, to be no\nhuman.\n\nThese thoughts always tortured him. His unspeakably lonely and remote\nlife, indeed, was one long martyrdom. Rightly or wrongly, he, and\nothers, had ever believed he was a changeling, a soulless man, perhaps\nthe offspring of demon parentage. Had he been blessed with the mind-dark\nhe might have gone through his span of life as blithely as any wildwood\ncreature. Two things only, besides his human form, differentiated him\nfrom the birds and the beasts he loved so well, though from their world,\ntoo, an involuntary exile for ever: one, the faculty of speech: the\nother, the possession of a reasoning, if a restricted and perverted\nmind.\n\nHow innumerably often he had brooded over the fantastic, and to him\npart-maddening, part-terrifying, and wholly obsessive legend of his\nbirth!\n\nAll in the region of Iolair knew his story: how he had been found when\na little child, in the woods, and had been taken care of by Adam\nMorrison, the minister: how when yet a boy, a cripple, and a trial to\nhis foster-father and all who knew him, he had disappeared with vagrant\ngypsies, and had not been heard of for fifteen years, till one autumn he\nwas seen among the pines in the forest of Iolair. He had been in the\nneighbourhood for weeks, though none knew of it. During that ensuing\nwinter he was fed and sheltered by Torcall Cameron, or by Murdo the\nshepherd, or by Alan Gilchrist on Tornideon, the mountain on the north\nside of Strath Iolair. For the rest, he lived no man knew how, and slept\nno man knew where. He was an outcast and homeless: but if he lost much,\nmuch also he gained. He knew the living world as few could even\napproximately know it: sight, hearing, smell, each sense was intensified\nin him. He saw and heard and was aware of much that to others was\nnon-existent or dubiously obscure.\n\nBut the real mystery of his life, to himself as well as to his human\nneighbours, who half-disowned him, was in the reputed fact that he was\nthe child of the Cailliach.\n\nA year before Mr. Adam Morrison had found the puny wailing child close\nto the tarn in the heart of the forest, a man who lived high on\nSliabh-Geal, the mountain that leaned southward from the shoulder of\nIolair, had fallen under the spell of the Cailliach, the _beans\u00ecth_ or\ndemon-woman. No one knew much about him. He was a shepherd, but none had\nheard whence he came or of what folk. He asked none to cross his airidh.\nBut the rumour was everywhere held that Black Duncan--all the name he\nwas ever known by--was a changeling. The minister was wont to disavow\nthis, but added that Duncan certainly lived under a curse, though the\nnature or source of the malediction was beyond the ken of all save the\nunfortunate man himself, if indeed even he knew of it.\n\nOne winter the Cailliach was seen of several women. Her tall figure,\nclad in a yellow robe, as she drove her herd of deer to the waterside,\nwas unmistakable. She was seen again and again. The following summer, as\nTorcall Cameron was crossing the Gual, the ridge betwixt Iolair and\nSliabh-Geal, he heard a strange voice singing through the gloaming.\nLooking about him, he discerned a woman sitting among the bracken, and\nmilking a hind, the while she sang a song that brought a mist about his\neyes, and made his heart throb. By her exceeding stature, and the yellow\nplaid about her, as well as by the unknown words that were wedded to\nthat wild song, he knew her to be the Cailliach. He fled, lest she\nshould turn and ban him. A little later he saw the _beans\u00ecth_ again. It\nwas a long way off, but he recognised her: and even while he watched,\nshe turned herself into the guise of a grey deer, and went leaping\ntoward the high remote sheiling where Black Duncan lived. That autumn\nDuncan was more than once heard laughing and talking in shadowy places,\nand in the forest. On the first day of the equinox his body was found in\nthe tarn. The face had an awful look upon it. The same afternoon Mr.\nAdam Morrison, going to the spot to verify what he had heard, found the\nmiserable little waif he adopted afterward. No sooner had he taken it in\nhis arms than a large grey deer sprang from a covert of bracken and\nleaped into the forest gloom. Despite its size and haste, its passage\nthrough the undergrowth was absolutely soundless.\n\nThe thing was unmistakable. The Cailliach had put her spell upon Black\nDuncan. When her hour had come upon her, she had strangled her mortal\nlover and thrown his body into the tarn. Then she had borne her doubly\ncursed babe.\n\nAll who heard of these things averred that the child would be soulless.\nMr. Morrison said no: that he would give it Christian baptism, and rear\nit in godly ways: and that God would have pity upon the innocent. The\nold people of the strath shook their heads. The minister was wise in the\nScriptures and in the book-lore, but was it not well known that he knew\nlittle of and cared less for their treasured oral traditions and legends\nand obscure ancestral runes? Was it likely he could judge, when he\nbarely knew who or what the Cailliach was? Had he not ever preached from\nhis pulpit that there were no \"other people\" at all?\n\nThe good man was wrong. He admitted it, when, three years later, the\nchild Nial--so called by Mr. Morrison in memory of a young brother of\nhis own, and because he had refused to give the foundling the pagan\ndesignation of Nicor the Soulless--was lost one summer gloaming. When,\nafter long searching, the truant was discovered, the child was no longer\nthe same. The shepherd who had found him said that, earlier in the\nevening, he had noticed a tall woman leading a child through the forest,\nand stopping every now and again by some tree-hole, as though she\nlistened for some one or to some thing. Later, when he was on the quest\nfor the strayed little one, and as he approached the spot where his\nsearch was rewarded, his dog had stopped, snarling, and refused to\nadvance. While he wondered at this, a large grey deer sprang out of the\nbracken and disappeared into the forest. As soon as it vanished the dog\nrecovered from its sudden terror, and ran forward, and was soon barking\nover the body of the child.\n\nBefore this misadventure Nial had been what Mr. Morrison himself called\n\"a waefu' bairn.\" Weak and ailing from the first, he had grown more and\nmore fretful: and his endless crying and whining had been a sore trial\nto the good man and to old Jean Macrae.\n\nBut after the finding of him in the forest he was no longer the same. He\nbecame strangely silent. Even when hungry, or when hurt or frightened,\nhe made no sound. He would sit for hours and stare vaguely before him.\nIt was with difficulty that he could be got to speak at all, and if it\nhad not been for the minister's persistency he would have grown dumb.\n\nThe questioning, and yet remote, look in his eyes disconcerted all who\nlooked therein. Old Mary Macbean, the birth-woman, confirmed the general\nsuspicion. The child had no soul, she said: she knew the signs. The\nChristian baptism and the constant prayers and heed of the minister had\npreserved or perhaps won a soul to it: but the Cailliach had found her\noffspring in the woods, and had lured the soul from the body, and had\nprisoned it in some pine-tree in the depths of the forest. Two or three\nyears passed, and Nial grew more and more deformed, more and more\nunchildlike. Silent, morose, he was never content save when wandering\nhigh on the mountain-slopes, or among the pines, or by Iolair Water as\nit came swirling down its steep bouldered channels from the Linn o'\nMairg. In one thing alone he transcended all the other dwellers in the\nstrath, young or old. He knew every flower and plant and tree, every\nbird, every creature, and the haunts of all and the life of all, with a\nsurety of knowledge and a profound intimacy that at once astonished the\nhill-folk and confirmed them in their belief concerning him.\n\nThen there came a summer when he was hardly ever seen at Mr. Morrison's\nhouse. He lived like an outcast, and was seldom met save by a mountain\nshepherd, or by the two highest hill-dwellers, the widow Anabal\nGilchrist on Tornideon, and Torcall Cameron of M\u00e0m-Gorm on Wester\nIolair. Fitting company, it was said; for Anabal and Torcall were not\nonly voluntarily isolated from the folk of the strath, and held\nthemselves strangely aloof, but were at bitter feud the one with the\nother.\n\nThat autumn a band of gypsies came to the strath. Some were\nbrown-skinned and of foreign race; others were of northern blood and\nbirth: a few were Celtic waifs, who had the Gaelic as their familiar\nspeech. When the people of the dust, or the children of the wind, as the\nHighlanders call these vagrant folk--though commonly by the first\ndesignation--moved away again, traceless as is their wont, they took\nNial with them. The winter passed, the spring, summer came again, and\nwith the waning of autumn there was still no sign of the changeling.\nYear after year went by: and the story of Nial, or Nicor the Soulless,\nas he was often named, became vaguer and vaguer. It was nigh upon\nfifteen years later that he was seen once more in the strath. No one had\nheard of his return; no one knew of it except perhaps Torcall Cameron\nand his daughter Sorcha, or Anabal Gilchrist and her son Alan; when one\nday Murdo, M\u00e0m-Gorm's shepherd, came along the strath with the news\nthat, as he strode through the forest at dawn, he had descried Nial--a\nragged, fantastically deformed dwarf, aged in appearance as though he\nwere one of \"the other people\" who lived in the heart of the hills. He\nhad recognized him in a moment; but had not spoken with him because when\nhe saw the creature it was stealing furtively from pine-bole to\npine-bole, and sometimes tapping and listening intently, or muttering.\n\n\"And what would that be meaning?\" asked every one to whom he told his\ntale, though there was not one who did not know the answer aforehand.\n\n\"It means that he was looking for his soul--for the soul that the\nCailliach won out of him and hid for ever in a pine-tree, where neither\nhe nor any one else would be like to find it.\"\n\n\"Until the tree falls, by the hand of man, or by the lightning or the\nwind,\" some one would add: but at this Murdo would only shake his head,\nand say that the _beans\u00ecth_ had for sure chosen a tree that neither wind\nnor flame could easily reach, and that when, after hundreds of years, it\nwould be dying, it would die from within, and so kill the soul that\nwailed and wept or lay spellbound in misery within.\n\nThereafter Nial was occasionally seen. Weeks went by: summer passed, and\nautumn: and it was clear that he had come back to stay, though he never\nonce drew near the house of old Mr. Morrison, nor even sought out his\nfoster-father anywhere, nor held converse with any one save at M\u00e0m-Gorm.\n\nHe might have been dead or absent, for all the hill-folk knew, had it\nnot been for Sorcha Cameron, who told in the strath, on the rare\nSabbaths when she came down from Iolair, how her father gave occasional\nshelter and frequent food to Nial: and for the confirming of this by\nMurdo the shepherd, who said that the dwarf for the most part slept in\nthe woods, but as the nights grew colder had begun to take haven either\nin a cave, or in an old hut on the hillside, or at Torcall Cameron's\nsheiling.\n\n\"And I doubt if he would cross the airidh at all,\" he added, \"were it\nnot for that little wild-fire of a lass, the bit girlie Oona, that\nM\u00e0m-Gorm loves wi' all his heart and soul, an' better than his bonnie\nSorcha, for all he leaves her to flit about like a spunkie owre the\nf\u00e8ith. For Nial will speak to Oona when he'll not even look at any one\nelse: an' the lassie will be awa' wi' him, an' no man kens the way o't\nor the whitheraway o' thae twain.\"\n\nAnd so that winter went, and then another spring, until the coming of\nMay again: and Nial was once more one of the people of the strath,\nthough hardly ever seen in the valley itself, except by the Linn o'\nMairg or by the running water, and then only in the dusk of the morning,\nor in late gloamings.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nThe foreheads of the hills were bathed in light. Sheer above all rose\nthe aureoled peaks of Ben Iolair and Tornideon. The lyric rapture of the\nmorning made a sound of rejoicing. The bleating of the sheep was more\nrapid and less plaintive; and when the harsh screams of the great eagle,\nthat had its eyrie far above where the mountain-shoulders almost touch,\ncame echoing down the slopes, they were so mellowed at last as to fall\nthrough the leagues of sunsea in sharp cadences.\n\nMists veiled all the slopes, and hid the strath. The mountains seemed\nthus to be raimented in white and crowned with living gold. On the\nheights these mists moved with furtive undulations, with an upward wave\nwhich ever and again lifted a great mass of vapour columnarly toward the\nsummits.\n\nBeneath, they lay like suspended snow, or hung as palls: vast draperies\nof unrevealed day.\n\nEven though the sunflood broke into these cohorts, and here seemed to\nsuck with thirsty flaming tongues, here to plunge in golden billows\namong shallows of fading shadow, or here with a giant hand withdrew,\nrent, swept away, dissipated the ever dissolving, ever reforming\nbattalions of rising mist--yet, as the morning advanced, the highland\nwas still swathed.\n\nSometimes a boulder, at a vast height, would stand disclosed. The wet\nupon it, from granite boss and yellow lichen, shimmered as though the\nfairy-folk who weave the rainbows were there at work. A space below\nwould give way to the sudden leap of the hill-wind; and with a rush the\nsunlight would stream forward. Pine after pine would rear a green\nbanner, from which mist-veils would float, or rise and sway like flags\nof a marching army. Then the ranks would close in again. Flying columns\nwould converge from right and left; the pine-banners would vanish, as\nthough in the smoke of battle: a mighty swaying mass would sweep upward,\nabsorb the sunbeams and splinter their gleaming lances, till boulder\nafter boulder would be captured and the bastioned heights themselves be\nenvironed in the assault.\n\nFrom the narrow loch at the end of the ravine, in the Pass of the\nEagles, came the clamour of wildfowl. Now here, now there, as though a\nvoice swam disembodied in that white sea, the double note of the cuckoo\nresounded. In a thick sob, the echo of the Linn o' Mairg came heavily at\nintervals. The muffled noise of Mairg Water crawled through the caverns\nof the mist.\n\nThough the two mountain-buttresses at the head of the pass are so close\nthat the legend of a stag having taken the intervening space at a bound\nis not wholly incredible, it was impossible for one hid in the mist on\nMaol-Gorm of Iolair to see any one or anything on Maol-dubh of\nTornideon. But through the mist, here suffused with a pale golden light,\nwas audible on both spurs the bleating of travelling sheep and the\nbarking of a dog, with, now and again, the lowing of cows.\n\nSuddenly a voice rang out, strong, clear, and blithe:\n\n  \"_Mo r\u00f9n geal, d\u00ecleas,\n    D\u00ecleas, d\u00ecleas,\n  Mo r\u00f9n geal, d\u00ecleas\n    Nach till thunall!_\"\n\nUpon the spring of the last word came back from Iolair a voice as blithe\nand more sweet, the voice of a woman, with the lilt of a bird in it and\nall the joy of the sunshine:\n\n  \"_I go where the sheep go,\n    With the sheep are my feet:\n  I go where the kye go,\n    Their breath is so sweet:\n  O lover who loves me,\n    Art thou half so fleet?\n  Where the sheep climb, the kye go,\n    There shall we meet!_\"\n\nThere was something so penetratingly sweet and joyous in the song that\nit stirred every bird on the hillside. The larks rose through the mist\ntill they swam into the sunflood; the linties and shilfas and\nyellow-yites sent thrilling notes from gorse-bush to gorse-bush and from\nrowan to rowan. In the birk-shaws, the cries of the merles sounded like\nshrill flutes.\n\nTo and fro went the sweet voices. Now the man's on Tornideon would ring\nblithely, now the woman's on Iolair respond.\n\nAt last, as the cattle moved up the slopes, with the spreading sheep in\nadvance, the shepherding voices fell further apart. Instinct led the kye\nto the sunlight, for all living things have their joy through the eyes.\n\n\"_Sorcha, Sorcha, Sorcha!_\" came ringing through the mist:\n\"_Sorcha-mo-ciatach-nio-nag!_\"\n\n\"_Tha, Ailean-a-ghaolach!_\" came back, with a ripple of laughter, the\nlaughter of joy.[3]\n\n     [3] \"Sorcha, my bonnie lassie,\" \"Yes, Alan, my darling.\"\n\n\"Ah mo cailin geal, mo nighean donn, duit ciat mhor!\"\n\n\"Duit c\u00edat, no runach!\"[4]\n\n     [4] \"Ah, my fair one, my dark-haired lass, joy be on you!\"--\"And\n     joy on you, my loved-in-secret.\"\n\n     _Infra_: Domnuill-dubh instead of Donncha-dubh: _i.e._ \"should be\n     called Black Donald instead of Black Duncan.\" It is a play upon\n     words: for \"Black Donald\" is the Highland colloquialism for Satan.\n\n\"The sheep and the kye don't know love, Sorcha, or they would stay here\ntill the mists go, and then we would see each other.\"\n\n\"Let us cry _deasiul_, and turn thrice sunways!\"\n\n\"Ay; and meanwhile the beasts won't stand still! That evil beast of a\nbull, Donncha-dhu, who ought to be called Domnuill-dhu, is leading the\nway over the shoulder of Maol-Gorm. I must go, Sorcha-mo-ghraidh, or\nnever a sheep will I find again; and as for the kye, they'll go smelling\nthe four winds. _Sorcha! Sorcha!_ Can you hear?\"\n\n_Hear_ came back in a sweet falling echo, the more remote and aerial\nbecause of the mist.\n\n\"Come down to-night after the milking, and meet me at the Linn....\nSorcha! I'm going to see Mr. Morrison again!\"\n\n\"'Tis no use, Alan. But I'll meet you at the Linn in the late gloaming.\"\n\n\"_Sorcha!_\"\n\n\"_Alan!_\"\n\nThen, fainter and fainter, _Sorcha!_... _Alan!_ And at last no response\ncame when Alan Gilchrist cried, with a prolonged echoing call, the name\nof his _ghaolaiche_, his heart's joy.\n\nSoon thereafter the mists began to disperse.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAlan Gilchrist was at the pool, below the Linn o' Mairg, long before\nSorcha Cameron came down from M\u00e0m-Gorm, the hill-farm on Iolair, by the\ncircuitous but secluded way through the pine-glades.\n\nFor an hour or more he had lain there, dreaming. The first green breath\nof May was sweet upon the land: already a warmth as of midsummer was in\nthe air. Pleasant it was to lie and dream by the running water.\n\nWhen he had first reached the Mairg Water, after his fruitless journey\nto Inverglas, the village of Strath Iolair, he had thrown himself down\namong the fern, in the shadow of a boulder overlooking the Kelpie's\nPool. Angry thoughts were in his mind, because of the minister's refusal\nto marry Sorcha and himself. It was a bitter thing, he thought, and\nunjust.\n\nFor that noontide, after he had driven the sheep on to the upper\npastures upon Tornideon, and had got little Davie Niven, of\nClachan-nan-Creag, to herd the sheep for him till moonrise, he had gone\ndown by his home at Ardoch-Beag, itself high on the\nmountain-side--though he was little there during the summer-pasturing on\nthe hills--to the strath, and so by the road to Inverglas. As he went\nthrough the village, there were many who looked at him with glad eyes:\nfor wherever he went Alan found a smile of welcome for him, partly\nbecause of the beauty of his tall person and curly yellow hair, which\nmade the strath women call him _Alan-aluinn_, Alan-fair-to-see, but more\nperhaps of his own smile that was so sweet out of his blue eyes, and for\nthe grave yet winning way of him. His rival, Duncan Robertson, spoke of\nhim contemptuously as \"the man for women and children\"; but, as others\nbesides Duncan Robertson knew well, the women's-man and the\nchildren's-man could also be the best man's-man in the strath when\noccasion required.\n\nThis early afternoon, however, he had no wish to speak with any, and so\nhurried on, with a visit only to old Morag Niven, Davie the\nherd-laddie's grandmother. The small, douce, wizened old woman blessed\nhim for what he brought her, and insisted on telling his fortune again\nby the lines in his hands. Laughingly he assured her she had told it to\nhim so often that he was beginning not to believe in her predictions at\nall.\n\n\"That may be,\" she exclaimed, half-pettishly: \"but it's this I'm telling\nyou, Alan Mac Fergus, and what's more, it's not only the 'vision' of the\nlove that's coming to you, but I've had the 'sight' on the lover too!\"\n\nThe young man flushed, but answered carelessly:\n\n\"Good for you, M\u00f9im\u00e9: but sure 'tis a risky thing to be seeing too\nmuch.\"\n\nThe old woman stared keenly at him for a moment, and then smiled.\n\n\"Well, and will this, then, be like what you have seen in your dreams,\nif ever a great _oganach_ like you dreams at all:\n\n\"_First_: She is beautiful as this May day.\n\n\"_Second_: She is tall and graceful as a young pine, and moves like a\nhind upon the hills, an' no flower sways in the wind more dainty-sweet\nthan she.\n\n\"_Third_: She is fair of face, with all the soft skin of her like new\nmilk. But her hair is dark, like the woods at dusk, and fragrant as\nthey.\n\n\"_Fourth_: She lives at a mountain-farm, and all her heart is in a man's\nkeeping, and all her beauty is his to love, and she is the tallest, and\nstrongest, and sweetest lass in all the strath or in the big world\nbeyond, and as beautiful as Roscrana that was wife to Fingal of old and\nmother of Ossian the blind bard--ay, good as Morna, which is the name of\na woman that is beloved by all, and fair-to-see as Fiona, which is the\nname given of old to a bonnie maid, and lovely as Alona, than whom not\nwoman could be lovelier.\n\n\"_Fifth_: And the man she loves is a poor misguidit wastrel who lives on\na hill opposite to her, and I'm thinkin' his name will be Alan too, Alan\nthis or Alan that.\n\n\"_Sixth_: 'Tis Himself only, praise be to Him, who knows who this\nMorna-Fiona-Alona may be: but in a dream I had, I'm thinkin' her name is\nSorcha.\n\n\"_And Seventh_\" (_this in a relapse from Gaellic into the Lowland\ntongue_): \"I may be a silly auld wife, Alan my man, but I'm na sae\nblind as ta fail ta see through a split poke, for a' yer havers and\nblethers!\"\n\nWith a shamefaced laugh Alan told her she was an old witch, and was\nsheer doited at that! Then, suddenly stooping and kissing her grey hair,\nhe bade her good-bye, and went on his way.\n\nBut it was an ill-faring. Mr. Morrison, the tall, dark-faced minister,\ngray and lank as an old fox, though a godly man, would have nothing to\nsay to the granting of his request.\n\n\"No, no, Alan Gilchrist,\" he added in parting, and in a not unkindly\ntone, \"'tis no ill-will I am bearing you, my lad. But neither I nor any\ntrue minister of God will wed you and Sorcha Cameron, because of the\nfeud between Torcall her father and Anabal your mother, and of the ban\nlaid by him on her, and by her on you.\"\n\n\"So be it, Mr. Morrison; but as for me, I will be putting up with no\nbanning from man or woman--no, not I, nor Sorcha either!\"\n\n\"That is a wicked thing for you to say. But Sorcha is a good lass if\nyou're not a good lad, and ... and ... the long and short of it is, I\ncan't and won't wed you and her ... no, not though your mother and\nSorcha's father were to die, and that I avow here solemnly, to the\nstones be it said.\"\n\nAnd so it was that the young man went away wrathful and indignant. Yet,\nwith every mile of his homeward journey he cared less and less. After\nall, what did it matter to him or Sorcha? Living remote upon the\nsolitary hills, and rarely seeing the people of the strath, what did it\navail whether or no he and she were \"blessed\" by Mr. Morrison? Well, he\nhad done what he could.\n\nHe knew, of course, of the heavy weight of a parental ban; how, with\nsome, it was a command as sacred and inviolable as those of God. But he\ndid not know all that Mr. Morrison knew or surmised: wherein, indeed,\nwas the deeper reason of the refusal.\n\n\"The child Oona, the child Oona,\" muttered the minister as he returned\nto his house; \"why was she sent by Anabal, as soon as might be after\nbirth, to Torcall Cameron? And why was he stricken blind, he there alone\non M\u00e0m-Gorm, with Marsail, his wife, long dead, and only his daughter,\nSorcha, sweet lass, beside him: stricken of God, blind and desolate for\nall his days thereafter? Alas, too, what of the doom of Fergus, her\nhusband!\"\n\nBut, lying by the running water of Mairg, Alan, at last oblivious of\nwhat had angered him and left in his mind a vague distress, pondered\nother and dearer things than these.\n\nHis heart was full of Sorcha. Already, as indeed for more than a month\npast, there was upon him that trance of love of which the old Celtic\npoets speak. Even now he went daily in a dream. Malveen, the\nwidow-mother of Davie the herd-laddie, saw him often as he passed to and\nfro upon the hillside, as one in a vision, rapt, with shining eyes. At\ntimes, too, unknown of either, she caught a glimpse of Alan and Sorcha\nas they kept tryst in the gloamings. She mothered them with the longing\nwoman's joy in love that had never been hers; they were her dear ones,\nthough rare it was that she had word of either. The youth of youths, the\nmaid of maids: to her at last something more than real and familiar,\nremote as they were in the glamour that was about them as the Mountain\nLovers.\n\nIt was in the late gloaming, as she had promised, that Sorcha stole\nsoundlessly from the forest, and was in Alan's arms almost before he\nknew that the tryst was kept.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nVolumes of grey-black cloud swept up the flanks of Iolair. The breath of\nthe southwest wind fell moist upon the land. All the wonderful colour\nof the highland seemed absorbed, as though a sponge had been passed over\nit. The after-gloom was enhanced by the silence which prevailed, for the\nthunderous weight in the air hushed the birds. Even the corbies sat\nsullenly on stone dyke or solitary quicken.\n\nUp at the farm of M\u00e0m-Gorm the cloud-skirts went trailing by, sometimes\nenveloping the whole airidh in a clinging obscurity, and ever and again\nlifting high above it as though with a spasmodic leap.\n\nA few yards from the door of the low whitewashed house Torcall Cameron\nstood, his gaunt figure, with its mass of tangled iron-grey hair, thrown\ninto strong relief. Though he grasped a heavy oaken staff, his head was\nuncovered. From this, Nial inferred that \"M\u00e0m-Gorm\" was not going far:\nof which he was glad, for there was no one in the house, wild weather\nwas nigh, and it was not a time for a blind man to wander among the\nhills, with the sheep-paths damp and slippery and often obliterated in\nthe moist peat.\n\nFor, though M\u00e0m-Gorm thought he was alone, Nial had been his silent\ncompanion for an hour past. Sorcha, he knew, was up at the high sheiling\non Iolair, with the cows: Oona, he imagined, was either wandering after\nthe sheep with Murdo the shepherd, or was in the forest with Nial, or\nmight be flitting here and there on the slopes like the wild fawn she\nwas. As for Nial, Torcall Cameron rarely gave him a thought. The dwarf\nwas like a faithful collie: to be fed, and given a kindly clap now and\nthen, while his gratitude and devotion were taken for granted.\n\nThis rough, stern, blind, and stricken giant was a divine being to the\npoor child of the woods. In a vague way Nial thought of M\u00e0m-Gorm as God:\nlike M\u00e0m-Gorm, God could provide, could at rare times be tender and\npitiful, could be stern, morose, forbidding, terrible in wrath, of a\nswift avenging spirit, could strike, bruise, drive forth, kill.\n\nWhen Sorcha had left at sunrise she knew that her father had the gloom\nupon him. In vain she looked here and there for Oona. The child had\nvanished. The platter in which she had her porridge was found under a\nbench near the rowan at the side of the house--where, indeed, Sorcha had\nlooked for it, as she knew Oona's frequent way of carrying her food\nout-of-door, and eating it in a hollow below a rock, or under a tree, or\neven beneath the bench, like a little wild thing.\n\nShe had turned, after she had called Fionn and Donn, the dogs, and gone\nback to the house, and kissed her father. His blind eyes were upon her,\nthough it was not through them that he knew she was troubled. He felt\nthe sweet breath of her upon his brow. It was like the first day of\nspring when she kissed him, but he did not smile. Before she went away\nwith the cows she found Nial, and bade him keep watch and ward, though\nwithout letting himself be seen.\n\nBut all morning and noon Torcall Cameron had sat brooding by the peats.\nAt the turn of the day he rose, ate some of the bread and cold porridge\nwhich, with a jug of milk, Sorcha had set on the table beside him; then\nresumed his listless attitude by the fire, into the heart of which he\nstared with his blank, unwavering eyes.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNial had grown tired, as a collie will tire if the kye drowse, chewing\nthe cud.\n\nHe had wandered far from the airidh, and passed idly through the pines.\nNo more of him might have been seen that day had he not heard Oona\nsinging in the woods. It was in vain that he tried to come upon her.\nEither she had caught sight of him, and wilfully evaded his quest of\nher; or she was like a birdeen lured by the dancing sunrays. At the\nlast, he thought of a song she was wont to sing. Across the midst of the\nhigh glade where he was, lay the bole of a half-fallen pine. Along this\nhe clambered, till he reached the end boughs, and so out upon a feathery\nbranch which swayed up and down with his weight, as a fir-spray when a\ncushat alights on it:\n\n                \"Wild fawn, wild fawn,\n                Hast seen the Green Lady?\n                The merles are singing,\n                The ferns are springing,\n  The little leaves whisper from dusk to dawn--\n  _Green Lady! Green Lady!_\n  The little leaves whisper from dusk to dawn--\n  Wild fawn, wild fawn!\"\n\nIt was a harsh and wild music, that song of Oona on the lips of Nial.\nBrokenly, too, it came, between gasps of breath, for, as the branch\nswayed, so the dwarf's excitement grew, and he seized the pine-needles\nas though they were the mane of a horse, and he were riding from death\nfor life:\n\n          \"Wild fawn, wild fawn,\n          Hast seen the Green Lady?\n          The bird in the nest,\n          And the child at the breast,\n  They open wide eyes as she comes down the dawn--\n  The bonnie Green Lady,\n  Bird and child make a whisper of music at dawn--\n  Wild fawn, wild fawn!\"\n\nSuddenly he ceased his fierce ride of the branches. Surely that clear\ncall was from the throat of Oona? Yes, near she was, though invisible.\nHer song bubbled from her as sunlit water down a brae:\n\n          \"Wild fawn, wild fawn,\n          Dost thou flee the Green Lady?\n          Her wild flowers will race thee,\n          Her sunbeams will chase thee,\n  Her laughter is singing aloud in the dawn--\n  O the Green Lady\n  With yellow flowers strewing the ways of the dawn,\n  Wild fawn, wild fawn!\"\n\nEven the hawk-keen eye of Nial failed to discover Oona. Her voice came\nfrom a covert of bracken, amid which rose craggy mossed boulders.\nDoubtless, the girl sheltered behind one of these.\n\n\"_Oona!_\"\n\nHe lay still now, save for the quivering of his eagerness. The branch\nwas bent by his weight, but did not sway.\n\n\"_Oona!_\"\n\nThe rapid skiff-skiff of a hind leaping through the fern, through the\ngreen-glooms to his right, caught his attention; otherwise he must have\nseen the bending of the bracken in the hollow beyond him, and have\nheard the faint rustle as a little cat-like figure swung herself up into\na low-branched rowan.\n\n\"_Oona! Oona!_\"\n\nAgain he sang in his strange, half-screaming, falsetto voice, first one,\nthen another of the snatches of Gaelic song which he had learned from\nOona, but without response. One of his sudden fits of anger seized him,\nand he bit savagely at the supporting branch. Then, with a peal of\nmirthless laughter, he began to sway wildly to and fro again, so that it\nwas a wonder the bough did not break. He was swung this way and that, as\nan apple on an outspread branch. With short, incoherent cries he rode\nonward through the air, for the moment persuaded by his fantasy that he\nwas one of those wind-demons of whom he had heard Murdo the shepherd\nspeak--pale elves of the air who race across forest and moor on flying\nleaves and broken branches, or are swept screaming in the wake of the\nwind as, with outblown mane and fierce snorting and neighing, \"the gray\nstallion\" speeds with mile-long leaps.\n\nA frenzy of insensate wrath shook him, so that he nearly lost his grip.\nScreaming, he hurled toward Oona the curses that seemed to him most\ndreadful and mysterious, dark anathemas of old-time learned here and\nthere during his far-wanderings.\n\n\"_Droch cheann ort, Oona! Droch bh\u00e0s ort! Och, ochan, bas dunach ort! Gu\nma h-olc dhuit!--Gu ma h-olc dhuit!_\"[5]\n\n     [5] \"Bad end to you! Bad death to you! Ay, and may a death of woe\n     be on you! Evil to you, evil to you!\"\n\nA faint shuddering cry came from somewhere close at hand. In a moment\nhis madness went from him. The dumb animal soul felt the finger of God\ntouch it. All wrath ceased, and a great pity came, and longing, and\nsorrow. The tears sprang to his eyes, and he lay on the branch sobbing\nconvulsively, so that he was like to fall.\n\nHe raised his head at last, and looked eagerly about him. \"_Oona!_\"\n\nStill there was no response. His gaze lanced hither and thither like a\nswallow. If a bee crawled from a foxglove bell, he noted it: if a spider\nswung on a glistening thread, he saw her as, spinning, she sank. If a\nwoodlark stirred, he saw the shadow of its wing flit from frond to\nfrond. But of Oona, no trace.\n\n\"Oona, my fairy! Oona, my fawn! I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it! The\nwords were in my throat. I couldn't help it. Not a word was true. Oh, my\ngrief, my grief! Oona m\u00f9irnean, Oona mo m\u00f9irnean--Ochone, ochone,\nthr\u00e0isg mo chridhe--darling, darling, oh, 'tis my heart that is\nparched!\"\n\nBut the child was obdurate. She made no sign. Nial lay moaning on the\nbranch. The silence was unbroken, save by the sea-like whisper of the\nwind among the leaves.\n\nSuddenly a cushat crooned. Then the low croodling sound palpitated upon\nthe warm sunlit air that flooded in among the pine-boughs.\n\nThe dwarf listened. The gloom in his eyes lifted. He knew how Oona loved\nhis one utterance that was his own, which he had made in imitation of\nthe crooning of a dove. Raising his head, he half mumbled, half sang:\n\n  \"_Oona, Oona, mo ghr\u00e0idh,\n  Oona, Oona, mo ghr\u00e0idh,\n  M\u00f9irnean, m\u00f9irnean, m\u00f9irnean,\n  Oona, Oona, mo ghr\u00e0idh!_\"\n\nSurely she would respond: ah, yes, that shrill mocking laugh, elfin\nsweet in his ears! His gaze leaped along the track of the sound, and\nthen at last he espied her, crouching low in the fork of a rowan, with\nher bare legs hidden by the bole and only the sparkle of her eyes\nglinting from behind the screen of leaves.\n\n\"Ah,\" he cried joyously, \"I see you, Oona, my dove! Ah, my little white\ndove, your little black dove sees you!\"\n\nOona drew herself up, leaped to a lower branch, and sprang to the\nground.\n\n\"Cha'n ann de mo chuideachd th\u00f9, cha'n ann de mo chuideachd th\u00f9, ars an\ncolman,\" she cried mockingly: \"You are not of my flock, not of my flock,\nsaid the dove!\"[6]\n\n     [6] A pretty and common onomatop\u0153ic saying, which I remember first\n     hearing as a lullaby, when I was a child of three or four.\n\nAnd with that she spread out her yellow hair with her hands, and went\ndancing and leaping through the bracken. Onward she flickered like a\nsunbeam, till she came to a rocky declivity, where she stopped abruptly,\nand stared intently into the hollow beyond her.\n\nTurning, she looked to see if Nial were watching her, and when she saw\nthat he was still on the swaying pine-branch, she cried eagerly:\n\n\"Look, Nial! Look!\"\n\n\"What is it?\" he cried, nearly toppling from the bough in his eagerness.\n\"What is it, Oona? What is it?\"\n\n\"It must be your soul, Nial! It's black and wriggling about, in case you\ncatch it! _Bi ealamh! Bi ealamh!_ Be quick, be quick!\"\n\nThen, with a spring, she leaped out of sight. Nial stared after her for\na moment, caught his breath spasmodically, crawled swiftly back to the\ntree, half clambered, half fell to the ground, and then ran like a\nleaping goat toward the place where Oona had disappeared.\n\nWhen he reached the ridge of rock which overhung the hollow he stopped,\ntrembling like a reed in a wind-eddy. At last! At last! Was he to find\nhis soul at last? Black or white, fair to see or uncouth as himself,\nwhat did it matter, if only his long quest were now to be rewarded?\n\nShaking as in an ague, he crawled forward on his belly, till his shaggy\nhead projected over the ledge. At first he could not see, for the\npassion in his heart had filmed his eyes.\n\nThen at last he stared down into the greenness. He could see nothing.\nNot a wild bee fumbled among the moss, not an ant crawled along a spray\nof grass.\n\nWhat did it mean?\n\nWas it possible that Oona could see what he could not? Here, perhaps,\nwas his tragic sorrow: that his soul might often be nigh, but was\ninvisible to him.\n\nWith a hoarse exclamation, half scream, half call, he cried to Oona to\ncome to him. He had a name for her which he had adopted from Murdo the\nshepherd, and by this he called her now. \"Bonnie-wee-lass,\nbonnie-wee-lass, come to me! Oona, m\u00f9irnean, Oona-mo-ghr\u00e0idh, come to\nyour poor Nial! Oh, my soul, my soul, it will be lost! Oona, it will be\nlost! Quick, quick, bonnie-wee-lass!\"\n\nBut no answer came. There was no sign of the girl. She might be hiding\nnear, or be already far away, perhaps croodlin' back to the doves in the\nmiddle of the forest, or chasing dragonflies by the tarn, or out upon\nthe hillside flitting from rock to rock like a butterfly, or singing and\nspringing from gale-tuft to heather-tussock, as a green lintie in the\nsunlight. \"O lassie, lassie, where is my soul, where is my soul?\" he\ncried, despairingly.\n\nSuddenly his own curses came back to him, terrible on Oona's unwitting\nlips.\n\n\"_Gu ma h-olc dhuit, Nial! Gu ma h-olc dhuit!_ A bad end to you too,\nNial-without-a-soul, and I'll be telling my father, I will, that you\nlaid your curse on me: ay, and I will also be telling Sorcha too, and\nMurdo, and Alan, and the dogs; and I'll whisper it to the wind, so that\nit'll tell the Green Lady of the Hills; and if I meet your soul I'll\ntell it, so that it may be ashamed of you, and go and drown itself in a\npeat-hole.\"\n\nNial listened, quivering. His eyes strained as a crouching hound's.\n\nAt last he spoke.\n\n\"I was mad, Oona. Forgive me. I see your voice coming from behind that\nrock. Will you not return and show me my soul?\"\n\n\"Look in the hollow of the stone beneath you, silly Nial!\" came the\nchild's voice mockingly.\n\nNial stared; then, descrying nothing, leaped into the hollow. The next\nmoment he recoiled with a look of horror.\n\nAn adder lay in a little ferny crevice at the base of the rock. Its\nwrithing black body was trying to get out of sight, but could not. An\nadder was the one thing in nature that the outcast could not bear to\nlook at. It gave him a horror, that at times moved him to frenzy, at\ntimes made him flee as a man accursed.\n\nNow he stood as one fascinated. If the _n\u00e0thair_ had wriggled toward him\nhe would have stood motionless.\n\nWith a heavy swaying motion of his head he muttered:\n\n\"_Anam nathrach, Anam nathrach!_\"[7]\n\n     [7] \"Serpent-soul, serpent-soul!\" Pronounce \u00e0n' \u016dm n\u00e0a-rach.\n     _Nathrach_ is the genitive of _n\u00e0thair_ (pronounced _nha_'er, or\n     a'_er_ nasally).\n\nBut when the adder saw a crevice elsewhere, that promised better, and\nswiftly wriggled to it, Nial saw that it was only a crawling beast, this\nand nothing more.\n\nWith a dart like a hawk he seized it by the tail, swung it round his\nhead while he shouted, \"_Droch spadadh ort! Droch spadadh ort! Bad death\nto you! Bad death to you!_\" and flung it against the face of the rock,\nso that when it fell across a bracken it lay as though stunned or dead.\n\nA shout of elfish laughter came from Oona, who had sprung from her\ncovert, and watched Nial's discomfiture with malicious glee. He turned\nslowly. His corrugated brows were knitted grotesquely, as with dull\nbewildered eyes he stared in the direction of the laughter. With a\nfurtive motion he kept shifting his weight now to one foot, now to\nanother, occasionally dragging one backward as though pawing the ground.\nHis tormentor knew well these signs of perplexity, and her light\ntantalizing glee rippled afresh across the glade. She stood knee-deep in\nbracken, with her right hand clasping the black-and-silver bough of a\nbirk: a golden-green hue upon her from beneath from the sunlit fern;\nupon her from above a flood of yellow sunshine, so that she stood out\nlike a human flower, a new daffodil of the woods.\n\nThe wild, rude, misshapen creature who fronted her seemed less human now\nthan his wont, with that bovine stare, that uncouth guise, his\nover-large and heavy head slowly swaying, his restless stamping and\nscraping. Suddenly it dawned upon him that Oona had not been in earnest:\nthat she had played with, and now mocked him. His eyes grew red, as\nthose of wild swine do of a sudden, or as those of an angry badger. A\nspray of froth blew from his hanging lip. His long horny fingers opened\nand closed like sheathing and unsheathing claws.\n\nThe next moment there stirred in his brain the thought that perhaps,\nafter all, Oona was mocking him because he had lost, perhaps even\nbecause he, he himself, had destroyed his long-sought and moment-agone\nfound soul.\n\nWith a cry he threw himself on the ground, sobbing convulsively. He lay\nthere like a stricken beast, a quivering ungainly heap. It was no\nunknowing beast, though, that moaned, over and over, \"_My soul--my\nsoul--my soul!_\" Great tears, like a stag's, ran down his furrowed\ncheeks. Oona stood amazed. Here was no frenzy of blind rage such as she\nhad seen at times in her companion; but passionate grief: sobs, tears.\n\nThe child shivered. God surely has the tendrils of a child's heart\nclose-clinging to his own. Perhaps the wind murmured to her, _My grief!\nmy grief!_ Perhaps the leaves whispered, _Sorrow, O sorrow!_ Perhaps the\nblind earth breathed, _My gloom!, my gloom!_ Perhaps the laughing\nsunlight sighed, or the wild bees crooned, or the doves moaned, _Peace!\npeace! peace!_ Oona's eyes grew dim. A trembling was upon her, like that\nof a bird in the hollow of the hand. Like a bird, too, was her heart:\nsure, the flutter of it was an eddy of joy in heaven.\n\nShe came toward Nial with swift, noiseless step. He did not hear her\napproach; or if his wildwood ear caught a rustle, he did not look up.\nThe first he knew of her was the stealing of a small arm round his neck:\nthen the pressure of a warm body against his side: then a wisp of\nfragrant yellow hair tangled with his coarse, shaggy fell, a soft cheek\nlaid against his, a hand like a little white hovering bird caressed his\nface. Sweetest of all, the whisper that stole into his dark brain as\nmoonlight: \"_Nial, darling Nial!_\"\n\nHis sobs ceased. Only his breath came quick and hard. His whole body\npanted, quivered still.\n\n\"Forgive me, Nial! dear, good Nial! I did not mean to hurt you so. I\nwas angry because of your words. But I--I--didn't really mean that\n_that_ was your soul. Nial, Nial, I didn't see your soul at all!\"\n\nSlowly he lifted his wet inflamed face: his eyes agleam through the\ntangled locks that fell over his brows.\n\n\"Have you _ever_ seen it, Oona?\"\n\nHe could just hear the whispered _No_. A deep sigh passed her ears, and\nshe pressed closer to his sorrow.\n\n\"Oona, my fawn, do you think you'll ever see it? Do you think I'll find\nit some day?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, Nial! Yes--yes--yes!\"\n\n\"And you will help your poor ugly Nial to--to--find it?\"\n\n\"Sure, it is helping you I will be, with all my heart, Nial-a-ghr\u00e0idh.\"\n\nHe stooped his head over hers, lightly shoved her back, and kissed her\nsunshine-hair. She raised an arm and pulled his face to hers, and kissed\nhim gently.\n\nA faint smile, a glimmer of sunlight on a wet, dishevelled road, came\nover his face.\n\nOona sat back, relieved, but with questioning eyes.\n\n\"Are you _sure_ you have no soul, Nial? Not even a small dark one that\nwill grow some day, and be beautiful, just as _you_ will,\nwhen--when--you die?\"\n\n\"I am sure, birdeen. Ask M\u00e0m-Gorm, ask Sorcha, or Alan, or Murdo, or any\nof the people down yonder. They know. And _I_ know, when I look in the\ntarn, or in the pool below the Linn o' Mairg, or in smooth water\nanywhere: ay, and when the deer come to me, or the sheep do not stir out\nof my way, or the kye come close and breathe on me kindly. No bee will\nsting me, and the dragonflies, that even _you_ can't catch, rest\nsometimes, as the moths do, on my head or arm.\"\n\nOona kneeled, and bade the dwarf do likewise. Then she told him that his\nevil might be because of a _rosad_ upon him, the spell of the Cailliach:\nand that she knew a _sian_ might ease him. With closed eyes and clasped\nhands she repeated slowly:\n\n  \"_An ainm an Athar, a Mhic,\n  'S an Spioraid Naoimh!\n  Paidir a h'aon,\n  Paidir a dha,\n  Paidir a tri,\n  Paidir a ceithir,\n  Paidir a coig,\n  Paidir a sea,\n  Paidir a seachd;\n  'S neart nan seachd padirean a' sgaoileadh do\n    Gholair air na clachan glas ud thall!_\"\n\n  \"_In the name of the Father,\n  The Son,\n  And the Holy Ghost:\n  By one prayer,\n  By two prayers,\n  By three prayers,\n  By four prayers,\n  By five prayers,\n  By six prayers,\n  By seven prayers;\n  And may the strength of the seven prayers\n  Cast out the ill that is in you\n  Upon the grey stones over there!_\"[8]\n\n     [8] _Paidir_ is literally a _Pater_: _i. e._, a _Paternoster_, \"Our\n     Father.\"\n\nLong and earnestly she watched to see if the incantation would effect\nthe miracle. Nial trembled, with downcast eyes.\n\n\"Perhaps there is no evil in you, Nial,\" she whispered; \"so now I will\npray to Himself for you, and you repeat what I say, and shut your eyes\nand clasp your hands just as I do.\"\n\nThe soulless man and the child knelt side by side among the fern. The\nlight lay all about them as a benediction. The rising wind, with a wet\nsough in it, came along the pines like an intoning anthem. Around them\nthe bee hummed unwitting; in a tree beyond them a cushat crooned and\ncrooned.\n\nOona's voice came low and sweet as the hidden dove's:\n\n  \"_O Father,\n  That is the Father of the father of Sorcha and me,\n  I pray that you will give Nial a soul._\"\n\nSilence. Then a hoarse, sobbing voice:\n\n  \"I pray that you will give Nial a soul!\"\n\nThen Oona again: and, again, Nial:\n\n  \"_I pray that Nial may find his soul soon!_\"\n    \"I pray that Nial may find his soul soon!\"\n  \"_I pray that it will be a good soul!_\"\n    \"I pray that it will be a good soul!\"\n  \"_I pray that it may have yellow hair and blue eyes!_\"\n    \"I pray that it may have yellow hair and blue eyes!\"\n\n  \"_I pray that father and Sorcha and Alan and Murdo,\n  And that Donn and Fionn, the collies, and the kye,\n  And the sheep, and--and--everything--\n  Will love Nial!_\"\n    \"That everything will love Nial!\"\n\n  \"_And that Nial will go to Heaven too!_\"\n    \"And that Nial will go to Heaven too!\"\n\n  \"_And this is the prayer of Oona,\n  The daughter of Torcall Cameron\n  Who lives at M\u00e0m-Gorm on Iolair,\n  An ainm an Athar, a Mhic, 's an Spioraid Naoimh!_\"\n    \"An ainm an Athar, a Mhic, 's an Spioraid Naoimh!\"\n\nOona opened her eyes, looked earnestly at Nial, leant forward and kissed\nhim.\n\n\"Now, Nial, rise, and turn sunways, and cry _Deas\u00ecul_.\"\n\nThe dwarf did as she bade; then, with a happy laugh, she slipped her\nhand in his.\n\n\"Let us go back now. The rain is coming.\"\n\nAnd so, as the glooms of storm came rapidly over the mountain, the two\nmoved, silent and happy, through the sighing glades of the forest.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLowering skies, with the floating odour of coming rain, already dulled\nthe hill-land. A raven, flying athwart Iolair, looked larger than its\nwont. Its occasional croak fell heavily as though from ledge to ledge of\nweighty air. The wood-doves which flew back toward the forest winged\ntheir way at a lower level than usual, the clamour of their pinions\nbeating the atmosphere as with oars: on the moorland the lapwings rose\nand fell incessantly with wailing cries. The scattered kye lowed\nuneasily, or stood below solitary rowans or wild-guins, easing their\nfly-tormented flanks with their swishing tails. On the farther slopes,\nthe querulous lambs bleated: everywhere the incessant calling of the\newes made a mournful rumour. The wind moved with a heavy lift, here\nrising, here falling, anon whirling upon itself, so that all the fern\nand undergrowth in the corries bent one way, or, for a league, the\nspires of the heather whitened.\n\nHigh and low, the innumerous hum of insects vibrated on the air. Thus\nmay the hum of the wheeling world be heard of Keithoir, who dreams in\nthe hollow of a green hill unknown of man: or of the ancient goddess\nOrchil, who, blind and dumb, works in silence at the heart of Earth at\nher loom Change, with the thridding shuttles Life and Death: or of\nManannan, who sleeps under the green wave, hearing only the sigh of the\npast, the moan of the passing, the rune of what is to come.\n\nBefore Oona and Nial drew close to the hill farm, a shrill sustained\ncry, not unlike that of the bird called the oyster catcher, came along\nthe slopes. Oona knew at once it was Sorcha's summons for her to help\nwith the cows. With a whispered word to her comrade she sped away by a\nsheep-path that wound over against Maol-Gorm. Nial slowly advanced to\nthe green hillock of Cnoc-na-shee. He had just flung himself wearily on\nthe grassy slope, when he saw Torcall Cameron stoop and issue from his\nlow doorway.\n\nM\u00e0m-Gorm faced the way of the wind, sniffed the air with sensitive\nnostrils, and let his blind eyes feel the balm of the damp. Then he\nturned, and returned to his seat by the fire. Nial watched for an hour.\nThe wind had a steady sough in it, and the clouds were lower, darker,\nmore voluminously vast and swift when Cameron came forth again.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was this time that he had his staff in his hand, though no cap\ncovered his tangled iron-grey hair.\n\nNial hoped he was right in believing that M\u00e0m-Gorm had come out merely\nto breathe the caller air: for the dwarf feared the reproach of Sorcha\nif he let the blind man wander along the perilous moorland, with wind\nand rain moving like ravenous hounds adown the heights.\n\nWhen, however, he realised that Torcall Cameron was bent upon making his\nway to some distant spot, he had not the courage to check him, or even\nto make known his presence. There was a thundercloud on the man's face,\none that to Nial was far more sombre and terrifying than any overhead.\nWhen, with slow, hesitating steps, the blind man passed close to\nCnoc-na-shee, he stopped for a few moments. Doubtless he was listening\nto the wind going through the pines, with a noise as of the flowing tide\nagainst shingly beaches: or, perhaps, to the scattered lowing and\nbleating of his sheep and cows. But Nial feared that, in some strange\nway, he had perceived him. He trembled, for he knew that \"the father\"\nwas in one of his dark moods. Deep down in his heart he dreaded the gaze\nof those sightless eyes more than anything else in the world: in his\nheart of hearts he was convinced that they saw, more awfully and\nsearchingly because through a veil.\n\nIn his anxiety not to betray his presence, he ground his foot firmer\ninto a heathy hollow, for he had slightly slipped when Cameron stopped.\nA pebble was dislodged, and made a slight noise.\n\nThe blind man lifted his head, startled.\n\n\"Is any one there?\"\n\nNo answer. The wind sighed along the grass.\n\n\"Oona, are you there? Nial, is that you?\"\n\nSilence, but for a faint wind-rustle in the bracken.\n\n\"_Sst! Down, Luath, Fior!_\"\n\nBut no collie barked or whined in response.\n\n\"Well, peace to your soul, and go hence.\"\n\nBut at last Torcall was convinced he was alone, for he heard the note of\na yellow-hammer, as it fed its mate, close by. With a sigh he moved on.\nAs he passed within a few yards of Nial, the dwarf heard him muttering\ndisconnected phrases: \"Ochan-achone, tha m' anam br\u00f9ite am chom!\" ...\n\"ma tha sin an d\u00e0n!\" ... \"ma sh\u00ecneas Dia mo l\u00e0ithean!\"[9]\n\n     [9] \"Alas, my soul is oppressed within me!\" ... \"if it be\n     ordained!\" ... \"if God prolong my days!\"\n\nHe waited till Cameron was some way ahead. Then with light step,\nstealthy movement, and furtive sidelong glances, he followed.\n\nThe first thin rain slanted along the wind. The blind man paid no heed.\nIndeed, he now walked swiftly and firmly along a sheep-path, as though\nhe were familiar with the way, or had altogether forgotten his\ninfirmity.\n\nOut upon a bleak stretch of moor on one of the higher slopes of\nMaol-Donn stood a cairn. It was here, so rumour went, though none knew\nfor sure, that Torcall's wife, Marsail, lay buried. It was known that\nshe had perished in a snowstorm, and that he had insisted on her burial\nwhere she was found: but when the minister and the people came for her\nbody they were told that she was already in the mools, and that even now\nthe stones of her cairn were upon her.\n\nBeside it was a tall flat slab of rock. It may have been part of a\nPictish or Druidic temple, or its resemblance to a sacred stone may\nhave been accidental. It stood erect, one-third imbedded in the\nhillside.\n\nTo these Torcall Cameron now made his way. At the cairn he did not stop,\nneither did he drop a stone or even a pebble upon it. When he reached\nthe great rock, he leaned against it, and with folded arms stared\nsightlessly across the strath to Tornideon, whose vast bulk rose sombre\nin the deepening gloom.\n\nThe wail of the wind momently increased. The rocks sweated, even where\nthere was no rain falling.\n\nSuddenly, over the high crest to the west, the Druim-nan-Damh or Ridge\nof the Stags, there came a heavy rolling sound as though a mass of\nboulders had fallen down the far side of Iolair.\n\nThis first muttering of the thunder aroused the dreamer. He started,\nchecked some exclamation, and then, having stooped and groped till he\nfound what he wanted, threw a small stone on Marsail's cairn.\n\nNial drew closer. A flash of lightning had frightened him. Thunder and\nlightning were to him as direct agents of a vengeful and irate Power as\nthey were to the priests and prophets of old.\n\nThe first loud crash filled the air. Then ensued a splitting and\nrending as of a granite mountain, from whose depths vomited a prolonged\nhowling and roaring as of monstrous beasts. The outcast crawled\nalongside the tall slab against which the man leaned, and gripped a\ncorner with his hand.\n\nWhen, his white face glimmering in the mirk, he looked up at M\u00e0m-Gorm,\nhe shivered with a new dread.\n\nThe blind man stood erect, with arms upraised and hands outspread. His\nface was lit as though a fire burned in his brain. Nial imagined that\nthe dead eyes gleamed, as he had seen toadstools gleam in a dark cave: a\ndull phosphorescent light, horrible to look upon.\n\nAgain a wuthering roar, followed by a scythelike whirlwind, with the\nsound of rain-torrents flooding the high corries and washing the\nwindward precipices of Ben Iolair. Nial was about to speak, when he\ncrouched back at the volley of words shouted savagely over his head:\n\n\"Oh, my Lord God, strike! Oh, let Death be upon me! Sorrow Thou hast\ngiven me, and I have not rebelled: grief Thou hast made my daily\nportion, and I have not rebuked Thee: but now that Thou hast made my day\ninto a charnel-house and my bed into a grave, now that Thou hast\nbrought before my blind eyes what no eyes may see and live, now that\nThou hast set the Dead as a watch upon the living--I cry to Thee,\nEnough!\"\n\nNial shivered with awe and terror. He saw that a frenzy was upon the man\nwhom he both loved and feared.\n\nThere was silence for many seconds. A greenish streak of flame shot\nacross the mountain, intolerably vivid. A sound as of mirthless laughter\nwas drowned in an avalanche-roar overhead. Out of the tumult, later,\ncame wild fragments of human shouting:\n\n\"Let there be a duel between us then ... ay, Marsail, you may weep; ay,\nFergus, you may leap out of your shroud to be soul to soul with me ...\nwhat do I care for the hounds of the night?... Call off thy hounds, O\nHunter!... Be the day between us, and the night, O God; and the two\nnoons, and the darkness of the coming and the darkness of the going; and\nthe blood of the living, and the corruption of the dead; and the earth\nand the sea; and the stars beneath the world, and the stars above the\nworld; and the friend of man that is Time, and Thy friend that is\nEternity ... for I _will_ not, I _will_ not, I _will_ not ... no, though\nI perish for ever and for ever\" ... (_and at last, with a scream_) ...\n\"Go Thy ways, O God.... Leave me, if Thou wilt not slay! ... I _will_\nnot! I _will_ not! I _will_ not!\"\n\nWhen the next flash and thunderblast had hurtled and gone, Nial thought\nthat Death had indeed come. Then he heard a low whisper:\n\n\"What is it that I hear? Do the dead stir? Marsail ... Marsail ... or\n... or ... is it _you_, Fergus, son of Fergus, son of Ian?\"\n\nSick with fear, Nial sprang to his feet, seized one of the fallen hands\nin his own, and tried to lead M\u00e0m-Gorm away.\n\nThe blind man shook as a tuft of canna in a wind-eddy; white, too, as\nthe canna, was his face.\n\nHis lips moved convulsively. At last, hoarse, choking, sobbing sounds\ncame forth, and from these grew three or four words:\n\n\"Is--it--_you_, Marsail?\"\n\nNial shrank appalled, but could not withdraw his hands.\n\n\"Is--it--_you_, Fergus Gilchrist?\"\n\nStruggling to escape, he merely added to the paralysing awe which held\nhis captor.\n\n\"Who are you--what are you? Are you the thing of the grave, the black\nguide I have heard of?\"\n\nWith a sudden jerk the dwarf freed himself. The next moment he bounded\naside, then, without a glance behind him, fled.\n\nCameron sprang forward, but when he found that he had missed his grip he\ndrew up again, and stood listening intently. If it was a spirit, it made\na noise of running like a human: if it was a creature of the grave, it\nhurried back to no hollow near by: if it was Black Donald himself, Sir\nDiabhol had fled, affrighted!\n\nAh, the Cailliach! He had not thought of _her_! It might well be that\nthe demon-woman had tried to snare him. If so, what, who, had saved him?\n\nDazed and sick he stood for a moment, because of a crash of a\nthunderbolt against a near height. The granite splintered like glass. In\nhis mouth his palate shrank: his nerves strained, quivering.\n\nWho, what, hurled that thunderbolt? Was it God? Was He answering his\nwild prayer?\n\nIf it were of God, why had it not stricken him? Hark! A scream far off!\nHad the leaping Cailliach been slain by the lightning, as a flying man\nby the spear of his pursuer? Had God given him these things as signs?\nThese voices, that awful touch as of human hands?\n\nHe bowed his head. Tears scalded the burning lids of his blind eyes.\nSuddenly he sank to his knees, and with outstretched arms repeated an\nancient rune of his fathers, the Cry to Age, the Rann-an-h' Aoise:\n\n  O thou that on the hills and wastes of Night art Shepherd,\n  Whose folds are flameless moons and icy planets,\n  Whose darkling way is gloomed with ancient sorrows:\n  Whose breath lies white as snow upon the olden,\n  Whose sigh it is that furrows breasts grown milkless,\n  Whose weariness is in the loins of man\n  And is the barren stillness of the woman:\n  O thou whom all would 'scape and all must meet,\n  Thou that the Shadow art of Youth-Eternal,\n  The gloom that is the hush'd air of the Grave,\n  The sigh that is between last parted love,\n  The light for aye withdrawing from weary eyes,\n  The tide from stricken hearts for ever ebbing!\n  O thou, the Elder Brother whom none loveth,\n  Whom all men hail with reverence or mocking,\n  Who broodeth on the peaks of herbless summits,\n  Yet dreamest in the eyes of babes and children:\n  Thou, Shadow of the Heart, the Brain, the Life,\n  Who art that dusk _What is_ that is already _Has been_,\n  To thee this rune of the-fathers-to-the-sons,\n  And of the sons to the sons, and mothers to new mothers--\n  To thee who art _Aois_,\n  To thee who art _Age_!\n\n  Breathe thy frosty breath upon my hair, for I am weary;\n  Lay thy frozen hand upon my bones that they support not,\n  Put thy chill upon the blood that it sustain not,\n  Place the crown of thy fulfilling on my forehead,\n  Throw the silence of thy spirit on my spirit,\n  Lay the balm and benediction of thy mercy\n  On the brain-throb and the heart-pulse and the life-spring--\n  For thy child that bows his head is weary,\n  For thy child that bows his head is weary.\n  I the shadow am that seeks the Darkness.\n  Age, that hath the face of Night unstarr'd and moonless,\n  Age that doth extinguish star and planet,\n  Moon and sun and all the fiery worlds,\n  Give me now thy darkness and thy silence!\n\nIt was there, lying with his face in the wet heather, that Sorcha found\nher father. She had seen Nial flying as for his life, and, from behind\nthe boulder where she was sheltering a lamb, had sprung forward to stop\nhim. But all the elf-man saw was a woman's figure--perhaps the Cailliach\nwho had already stolen his soul and now wanted his body in this night of\nstorm! With a scream he turned aside and dashed onward in his wild,\nungainly flight.\n\nSorcha's great eyes filled with amazement, then with dread. What did it\nmean? Her bosom heaved, the swell of the sudden tide at her heart. More\nbeautiful than any Fairy-Woman that ever herded the deer or sang a\nfatal song, she stood with one hand at her breast, the colour ebbing\nfrom her face, her slim firm body poised as an intent stag.\n\nSlowly her gaze travelled back the way Nial had come. In the gloom of\nstorm she could descry nothing, no one. If the Cailliach were there, she\nwas now invisible.\n\nAgain an almost intolerably vivid flash of blue-green light, out of a\ndazzling flame that seemed to burst from the hills. The hollow roar and\ncrash that followed dazed her, but in that moment's illumination she had\nseen the cairn and the stannin' stane, and, beside them, the figure of\nher father, apparently stricken and fallen prone.\n\nWithout a thought of fear, either of the storm or the evil spirit that\nmight be roaming the hillside, she half ran, half clambered upward till\nshe came upon her father lying low. In a moment she was by his side, and\nhad lifted his head, drying his face with her dress, and kissing him,\nwith a crooning as of a mother over her child.\n\nHe was not dead. For that she was thankful. She could feel the throb of\nhis heart, and in his throat there was a sound as of sobbing breath.\n\n\"Father, father,\" she cried; then, whispering in his ear, \"Father of\nme, father of me, oh, dear to my heart, all is well! I am Sorcha! There\nis no evil thing here. Come home! Come home!\"\n\nShe felt the shiver that went over him. Then he sought with his hand,\nand clasped that which went to meet it.\n\n\"What is it, Sorcha? Where am I?\"\n\n\"Ah, father, dear father, you are well now: arise: I will lead you\nhome!\"\n\n\"Home?\"\n\n\"Yes; do you not hear the wind and the rain? _Ah--h--!_\"\n\nAgain a bursting roar overhead, and the whole of Iolair a beacon of\nflame whereon every boulder and crag stood out clear as in brilliant\nmoonlight.\n\n\"I remember! I remember!\" Cameron cried, as he staggered to his feet.\n\"Was it _you_, Sorcha, who took my hands a little ago, when--when--I was\nspeaking to--to--Marsail?...\"\n\nThe girl recoiled in horror. Marsail ... her long-dead mother!\n\n\"What is this thing that you say, O Torcall MacDiarmid?\" she whispered,\nawestruck.\n\n\"It is nothing. I was dreaming. Sorcha, I came here dreaming of past\ndays. Your mother lies below the cairn there. I was talking to her to\nease my pain. I thought she might hear. And while I spoke, I felt hands\nclasp mine, and try to pull me down--below the cairn, it may be! And\nthen I fell into a horror, and the darkness came over my mind. And,\nsuddenly, I knew that God spared me, though I had cursed Him, and I fell\non my knees and cried the rune of Age, that is a rune of old, forgotten\namong our people, and therewith I was heard, and my strength knew the\nBreath, and I fell as you found me.\"\n\n\"But, father, father, you are not in the dark way--you are not old, for\nall the grey of your hair--you are not going to die, and leave your\nSorcha and Oona?\"\n\n\"Would you have me live, _nic-chridhe_?\"\n\nSeldom did he speak to her thus, though often he called Oona his heart's\ndearie and other loving names. The tears came to her eyes.\n\n\"Yes, yes, father! I would have you live. I love you.\"\n\n\"My age is come upon me. I am weary.\"\n\n\"Not yet: not yet!\"\n\n\"Do you not know the wisdom of old--_s'mairg a dh'iarradh an aoise, Woe\nto him that desireth extreme old age!_\"\n\n\"Come with me, dear! Come! The rain is leaping at us. Come! You are\ncold and wet and shivering!\"\n\nAnd so, at last, silent and weary, Torcall Cameron toiled back against\nthe tempest, and neither he nor Sorcha saw, as they passed the byre, a\nsquat, misshapen figure crouching beside Odhar, the calving cow.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was a night for the peat-glow. Outside, the darkness was intense. The\nthunderstorm had rolled heavily away, though the far hills still held an\necho. But a great wind had arisen, and blew across the heights with a\nsound like the trumpets of a mighty host. From the forest came a vast\ntumultuous sigh, as of the moaning sea.\n\nIn the low room, where there was no light save that of the peat-fire,\nupon which flamed some dry pine-logs, Torcall Cameron sat brooding in\nthe ingle. Opposite to him was Sorcha on a milking-stool, now stirring\nthe porridge in the pot at one side of the fire, now with clasped hands\nstaring into the flames, dreaming of Alan, or of what she had that\ngloaming heard from her father and from Nial.\n\nAt dark she had gone to the byre, and, having found the dwarf, had\nsoothed and entreated him, so that his dark mood passed, and he\nfollowed her, in furtive silence, into the room, where, unknowing of his\nadvent, M\u00e0m-Gorm sat.\n\nOnly once had the blind man spoken since he had seated himself once\nagain before the peats. It was to ask Sorcha if she thought that the\nperson who took his hands by the cairn could have been Nial. An\nimploring glance from the outcast made her refrain from betrayal of his\npresence: of which she was glad when, having replied that she was\ncertain it was he, for she had seen him running down the hillside as\nthough terrified by the lightning, her father broke into a muttered\nsavage curse.\n\nAt last M\u00e0m-Gorm slept. The fireglow calmed the wrought face. The\ntangled iron-grey hair fell over his forehead. He looked strangely old;\ncould it be, thought Sorcha, that his prayer had been heard, and that\nalready the Shepherd had found this weary sheep? And yet, so strong was\nhe, so tall and strong; strong as an aged pine on a headland! Surely his\nill was of the stricken heart only?\n\nWhen his breathing came soft and even, she rose, lightly kissed his grey\nhair, with a tear for the pity of the old that is in the loving heart of\nthe young, and then went out to the byre to see if Odhar was warm, and\nunder no spell nor evil, though her calf was not yet due.\n\nAs she went out Oona slipped in. She was dry and flushed, for at the\ncoming of the storm she had crept into the hayloft, and had there been\nlulled to sleep by the rush of the rain and the endless rising and\nfalling sough of the wind. Nial made a sign of silence, so she came\nforward soundlessly. For a time she stared intently at the sleeper,\nthen, seeing that Nial, who had crawled to her side, would not look at\nher but sat blinking at the flame, she began to croon a song.\n\nThe sweet Gaelic words fell from her lips like soft rain in a wood. The\nroom was filled with a low chime of music. Old strange chants or\nfugitive songs, one after the other, came fragmentarily to her lips; and\nthe plaintive air of them was sometimes her own, sometimes what she had\nheard others sing, and once or twice old-world melodies, more ancient\nthan the oldest pine-trees, older even than the \"fallen stones\" in the\nplace on the south slope of Iolair called Teampull-nan-Anait, where a\nthousand years ago none passed who could tell who Anait was, or where\nher altar had been or who were her worshippers.\n\nOnce the door opened. Sorcha glanced through the flame-lit dusk: a\nsmile on her face, sweet as the dream in her beautiful eyes. The father\nasleep; Oona crooning before the peats; Nial, quiet hound of Oona, with\ndark eyes staring up at her from where he lay on the floor: she need not\nfear to leave, and go out to the roofed hay-room, where Alan's arms\nyearned for her, where his heart beat for her, where his lips were warm\nin the dark, where the dear whisper of his voice was the echo of the\nwhite song that clapped its hands rejoicing in the sunbower in the\nhollow of her heart.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nBut, from that day, the gloom lay more heavily on Torcall Cameron even\nthan of yore. Oona herself could hardly win speech from him. During the\nweek of fine weather that followed the thunderstorm she was rarely at\nM\u00e0m-Gorm. The forest held her with its spell, though often she was on\nthe heights with Murdo when he led the kye to the hill-pastures at\nsunrise, or with Sorcha at the milking of the cows at sundown.\n\nDuring the noons, she sought--alone or with Nial--that white merle of\nwhich Sorcha had told her once, which had haunted her waking and\nsleeping dreams ever since. Whoever heard its song would be in fairyland\nfor a thousand years, though the joy of that would be no more than a\nyear and a day of mortal time. Whoever saw it might follow its flight,\nand for the seer of the white merle there would open wonder after\nwonder. The green spirits of the trees would come forth, chanting low\ntheir murmurous rhyme: the souls of the flowers would steal\nhand-in-hand, from leaf-covert to leaf-covert, or dance in the golden\nlight of the sunbeams; the singing of the birds, the crooning of the\ncushats, the hum of the wild-bee and the wood-wasp, the voices of all\nliving things from the low bleat of the fawn to the singing stir of the\ngnats by the pool or in the hollows--all would become clear as human\nspeech, and would be sweet to hear.\n\nLong, long ago, that white merle had flown out of Eden. Its song has\nbeen in the world ever since, though few there are who hear it, knowing\nit for what it is, and none who has seen the flash of its white wings\nthrough the green-gloom of the living wood--the sun-splashed,\nrain-drenched, mist-girt, storm-beat wood of human life.\n\nBut Oona watched for the white shimmer, for the magic song. She looked\neverywhere save where the white merle nested--in the fair soul of her;\nlistened everywhere save where its secret song was--in the music of her\nyoung life in heart and brain. Ah, the sweet song of it!\n\nAs for Nial, he crouched for hours at a time, lest by noon or dusk he\nmight hear or see the magic bird. If only he could catch but a glimpse\nof the white merle, sure he would see his lost soul somewhere among the\ngreen spirits who, Oona said, would be seen coming out of the trees\nwhich were their bodies. Neither did _he_ know that there was one place\nwhere it rested often on a spray in its singing flight, a fugitive Hope;\nor that notes of its unreachable song pierced the gloom of his bitter\npain.\n\nSorcha alone, only Sorcha, started at times as though she heard it: and\nin her dreams, and in the dreams of Alan, it sang, a white wonder on a\ngolden bough, in the moonlight.\n\nBut for Torcall Cameron in his sorrow there was no white merle. Oona\nasked him once what its first notes were like.\n\n\"_Bron! bron! mo bron!_\" he answered; \"mo bron, mo bron, ochone, arone!\nDoil-ghios orm'sa, tha mo chridhe briste!\"[10]\n\n     [10] \"Grief, my grief! O grief, my grief, ochone, arone! Sorrow\n     upon me, my heart is broken!\"\n\nAlmost every afternoon he went out alone upon the heights, though never\nagain by the cairn where Marsail lay. Sometimes he would sit on a\nboulder, brooding dark; at times Sorcha or Oona would descry him\nkneeling in the heather, often with fierce gestures, as he prayed wild\nprayers--fragments of which the wind sometimes bore to the listener, who\nno more durst approach.\n\nEver since that day by the cairn Nial had kept out of his way. Not\nwithout reason; for once, as the dwarf lay sleeping in the noon-heat,\nunder the shadow of a rock, he was suddenly seized in an iron grip.\n\nIt was in vain for him to struggle. What he saw in the face of his\ncaptor gave him the courage of desperation.\n\n\"Let me go, M\u00e0m-Gorm!\" he muttered in a voice hoarse with passion. \"Let\nme go. I am Nial of the woods.\"\n\n\"Ay, Nial of the woods! Spawn of the Evil One! Think you I don't know\nyou to be the child of the Cailliach? You talk of your lost soul, poor\nfool! Your _lost_ soul, you that never had and never will have a soul!\"\n\n\"Let me go, M\u00e0m-Gorm!\"\n\n\"Let you go! and where will I be letting you go to, you that are no\nman, but only an elfish creature of the woods? Was it _you_ that came\nout of the grave that day--that day by the cairn?\"\n\n\"And what will you do, M\u00e0m-Gorm?\"\n\n\"What will I do? What will I do? By the blood on my soul, I will drive a\nstake through your body, so that no more shall you haunt the living!\"\n\n\"Let me go, Torcall Cameron, in the name of God!\"\n\nThe blind man relaxed his grip a little, which had become like a vice.\nThe words brought a shock to his heart. He had never heard Nial call him\nby his name before: and if he were of demon birth, how could he say \"an\nainm an Athar\"?\n\n\"Let me go, Torcall Cameron, or I will put a _rosad_ upon you, a spell\nthat no _sian_ of Oona or Sorcha will save you from.\"\n\n\"_You_, you thing of the woods, _you_ put a spell upon _me_: you who had\nmy bread, and had my fire, and who would have died but for me! Ay, and\nyou would put a spell upon me! And what would that _rosad_ be like, now,\nfrom you that have never consorted with men, and have learned nothing\nsave from the lassie Oona?\"\n\n\"When I was with the children of the wind,\" Nial began, to be\ninterrupted at once by his captor, who muttered, \"Ah, the gypsies I\nforgot\"--and grew grave, as with the shadow of a fear.\n\n\"When I was with the children of the wind, M\u00e0m-Gorm, I learned some\nthings that even you may not know. And in the woods I have learned that\nwhich no man knows. And if I put the evil upon you, you will die slow,\nyear by year, from the brain that is behind your eyes to the last bones\nof your feet!\"\n\nCameron shuddered.\n\n\"It may be so. God forgive me, any way. You have done me no harm. But\nlook you, Nial of the woods, keep out of my way when I wander\nabroad--and let me hear no more of your spells. There: you are free to\ngo. Yet even now that my hand is off you, I long to make sure that you\nare not the thing that came out of the cairn.\"\n\nWith a dark, vengeful face the elf-man moved out of reach; then he\nwhispered in a slow, meaning way:\n\n\"I am going, for I see Marsail coming down the hill from the cairn, and\nwith her is a man----\"\n\n\"A man! A man!\" shouted Cameron, trembling as in an ague. \"Who is the\nman? What is he like? Give me your hand, Nial, give me your hand, for\nthe love of God!\"\n\n\"He is tall and fair, and dripping wet, with his hair lank about his\nhead, with the water in it.\"\n\nAh, he had his revenge now! M\u00e0m-Gorm gave a low moan, and sank to his\nknees. There he cowered, muttering incoherently.\n\n\"Nial,\" he whispered hoarsely at last, \"Nial, Nial, do they come this\nway--Marsail and--and--the man who is dripping wet?\"\n\nThe dwarf raised his head and stared about him. He was tempted to make\nhis late tormentor suffer; but the brute heart of the soulless man was\nmelted because of the agony of one of the lords of life.\n\n\"I see no one now, M\u00e0m-Gorm.\"\n\n\"No one--_no one_?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Are you sure, Nial?\"\n\n\"I am sure.\"\n\n\"Give me your hand.\"\n\n\"You will do me no hurt?\"\n\n\"On my soul!\"\n\nNial slowly advanced, took the outstretched hand in his, and helped the\ntrembling man to rise.\n\n\"Nial, tell me this thing. Have you seen these--these--these _two_\nbefore this?\"\n\n\"I have never seen the woman.\"\n\n\"Then how do you know it was Marsail, who is dead years and years and\nyears agone?\"\n\n\"Is it forgetting you are that when I was a child I saw her body, on the\nday of the snow?\"\n\nThere was a pause, wherein the questioner brooded darkly. At last, in a\nlow strained voice, he asked:\n\n\"Have you ever seen the man?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Do you know who he was?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Can you guess who he was?\"\n\nSilence.\n\n\"Speak, Nial!\"\n\nSilence.\n\n\"Speak, Nial, whom I have fathered.\"\n\n\"He was dripping wet, as though--as though----\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"_As though he had fallen into the Linn o' Mairg._\"\n\nA savage spasm came into Cameron's face. The nails of his fingers drew\nblood in the prisoned hand, which was snatched away as Nial again moved\nout of reach.\n\n\"I will lay my curse upon you, you evil beast!\" Cameron shouted\nhoarsely--\"Dhonas's a dholas ort!--Bas dunach ort!--Ay, ay, Nial the\nSoulless, son of the demon-woman, God against thee and in thy face,\ndrowning on sea and burning on land, a stake of the whitethorn between\nthy heart and the pit of thy belly!\"[11]\n\n     [11] \"_Dhonas's a dholas ort_\"--\"_Bas dunach ort_\": _i.e._ \"Evil\n     and sorrow to you.... A death of woe be yours! God against thee,\"\n     etc.: this dreadful and dreaded anathema runs in the Gaelic--\"Dia\n     ad aghaidh 's ad aodann, bathadh air muir is losgadh air tir,\n     crogan sgithhich eadar do chridhe 's t' airnean\": from which it\n     will be seen, by those who know Gaelic, that I have not translated\n     literally either \"crogan\" or \"airnean.\"\n\nOf the few curses he knew, none seemed to Nial so terrible, so\nmysterious, so straight upon life out of Death, as that conveyed by the\ntwo words, \"Marbh'asg ort!\"\n\nHe waited till the fury of the man was spent. Then, frowning darkly,\nwith his red, bloodshot eyes agleam, he muttered, \"_Marbh'asg ort!_...\nYour death-wrappings be about you!\" So low was his voice that it fell\nunheeded.\n\nCameron turned his sightless eyes upon him. Nial shivered. The blindness\nof his king hurt him as a searing pain.\n\n\"What was the thing you said, Nial of the brutes?\"\n\nWith a great effort, the bitter word was slain ere it was spoken. The\nvoice that came from that wild, fantastic, woodland thing, with its\nshaggy peaked head, its faun-like ears, its rude, misshapen body, was\never harsh as a branch grating in the wind; but now it was gentle. Tears\nthat were unshed softened it. The grief of the pariah was its\nbenediction.\n\n\"M\u00e0m-Gorm, my father, the thing I said was a bitter thing out of Nial\nthe herd, but this thing that I say to you is by poor Nial of the\nbrutes, and that is _God preserve you ... ay, gu'n gleidheadh Dia thu,\nTorcall-mo-maighstir_!\"\n\nAnd with that the brute turned from the man who had cursed him, and with\nslow steps and bent head made his way across the hillside, till he\nentered the forest, whence he came not for three days, and where none,\nnot even Oona, saw him.\n\nIt may be that he had heard at last the song of the white merle.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nSo the weeks went till the coming of the season that, because of the\nheats and of the drought, is called the month of the hanging of the\ndog's mouth.[12]\n\n     [12] _Mios crochaidh nan con._ This month is the period from the\n     middle of July till the middle of August.\n\nGreat heat, with many thunders, had prevailed. For nine days at the\nbeginning of July the rain poured: or ceased, only to let rainbows come\nand go upon the gleaming hills. During this time Oona and the blind man\nat M\u00e0m-Gorm were much together. A change had come upon the child. She\nlooked at her foster-father often, with a wistful gaze. Something\npuzzled her. In the air, some vague trouble moved like a vanishing\nshadow. Of Nial she saw little. Now and again she heard his signal in\nthe forest, and answered it: sometimes, at dawn or dusk, coming upon him\non the hillside, sitting solitary on some isolated boulder, or crouching\nby a pool, and staring intently into its depths. But he would not come\nacross the airidh. No one knew how he lived. Once or twice Murdo the\nshepherd gave him to eat: and, every morning and night, Oona put a\nsmall crock of porridge and oatcakes, or other food, in a place where\nthe vagrant could have it if he willed--and thrice, at least, she found\nit empty. On the few moonlit nights she fancied she saw a pale, misty\ncolumn of thin smoke rise above the pines.\n\nStill more was she troubled about Sorcha. Her beautiful sister had grown\neven lovelier to look upon, but there was a new look in her eyes, a new\nhush in her voice. She shepherded on the mountain as one in a trance: as\none in a dream she moved about the house. At night, in her sleep, she\nsighed often, and moaned gently: and once, turning and finding Oona by\nher, she put her arms round the child, and, sleeping still, whispered,\n\"_Ah, heart of my heart, joy of my joy!_\"\n\nOona knew that Sorcha and Alan Gilchrist loved each other. She knew,\nalso, that this was why Alan could never come to M\u00e0m-Gorm, for her\nfoster-father had laid his ban upon their love. But what did this love\nmean? What, she pondered vaguely, did this tragic silence, this tragic\nyet happy silence hide? \"I know now,\" she said one day to Sorcha at the\ncoming home of the kye, \"I know now why it is that Alan, when he meets\nyou in the gloaming by the byre or in the hay-shed, or down in the\nstrath by the Mairg Water, calls you 'Dream.'\"\n\nSorcha was startled, and the beautiful face flushed at the knowledge\nthat she had been seen at these secret meetings with Alan. Oona's\nunconsciousness of any cause of embarrassment, however, reassured her.\n\n\"So you have seen us, Oona my flower? Well, see to it that you say\nnothing of this to father, or to any one. And, Oona, my bonnie, how do\nyou know he--Alan--calls me 'Dream': and what do you mean by saying you\nknow now what that means?\"\n\n\"I heard him call you so, that moonlight night last week, when you came\nhand in hand through the wood. He called you Sunshine, Joy, and then\nDream--and you said that 'Dream' was best, for it was the name he gave\nyou '_that_ day.' ... Sorcha!\"\n\n\"Yes, birdeen?\"\n\n\"What was '_that_ day'?\"\n\nThe girl turned her face aside, because of the flame in it; but the\nflush was in the white neck as well, and the child laughed.\n\n\"Ah, it was when he first kissed you!\"\n\n\"Yes, dear,\" Sorcha answered, flushing again; \"yes, it must have been\nthen.\"\n\n\"Sorcha, tell me, do you love him very much?\"\n\n\"Yes. More than I can tell you, my sunbeam. When you are a woman you\nwill understand.\"\n\n\"When I am a woman I am going to marry Nial.\"\n\n\"Nial!\"\n\n\"Yes. No one will love him, because he has no soul; but _I_ love him,\nand will marry him. Half of my soul will then be his.\"\n\n\"Is that so, then? Sure 'tis a south wind for Nial! And where will you\nlive, Oona-my-heart?\"\n\n\"The White Merle will show us the way.\"\n\n\"Ah, I see, it is a fairy tale. Well ... Oona, I will tell you a secret.\n_I_ have heard the song of the White Merle!\"\n\nThe child's eyes grew big with wonder and excitement.\n\n\"When? Where? Was it where the old yews are in the Upper Strath?\"\n\n\"It was now here and now there.\"\n\n\"But when, when?\"\n\n\"Whenever Alan called me 'Dream,' and the other names, I heard the song\nof the White Merle.\"\n\n\"Ah, it is you that I envy! Sorcha, do you think that if Nial called me\nbeautiful names I should hear it, too?\"\n\n\"I fear not, dearie ... _not yet_. Perhaps--perhaps if _you_ called\n_Nial_ those beautiful names _he_ would hear the song.\"\n\n\"Then I will.\"\n\n\"No, not yet, Bonnikin. You will only harm Nial. But now run away.\nFather will be seeking you.\"\n\n\"Ah, and who will be seeking _you_?\" cried Oona, as she danced away,\nlaughing. \"Ah, 'tis a good name, _Dream_; for you are always dreaming in\nyour eyes now, Sorcha!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nYet day by day thereafter the child laughed less blithely. There was a\nshadow about her foster-father. It held her spellbound. Never had she\nbeen so long away from the woods before, never before had she been so\nlong indoors. She was glad to be with the blind man, and to take his\nhand when he went out to stride sometimes for miles along the rough ways\nof the hills. She talked much to him about the White Merle, and the\n\"guid-folk,\" and the quiet people; sometimes of Nial, and of the strange\nthings he saw and heard, and how the birds and beasts would come to him,\nand how he harmed none, nor they him. Sometimes she asked about the\nCailliach, or about the wind-spirits; or strange questions about the\npeople of the Strath, glimpses of whom she had occasionally, and for\nwhom, particularly for the black-garbed minister, she did not conceal\nher contempt and dislike. Sometimes she sang; and that was what the\nblind man liked best. Once only she spoke of Alan: how she thought that\nChrist must be like him, so fair to see was he; how she loved his low\nvoice, and soft touch, and grave, sweet eyes.\n\nBut she saw at once that no good would come out of any mention of that\nname. Her foster-father grew moodily taciturn; and when, after a long\nsilence, he spoke, it was to ask her in a harsh voice if she had ever\nbroken his command, and climbed the opposite slopes of Tornideon.\n\n\"Never, father.\"\n\n\"And have you ever sought the woman Anabal, that is mother of Alan?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nHe seemed satisfied, and asked nothing further. But as for Oona, she\nbrooded over this more and more, and wondered more and more because of\nthe ban upon Alan, and because of the feud between Torcall Cameron in\nhis loneliness on Iolair and Anabal Gilchrist in her loneliness on\nTornideon.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe first day of August came with settled weather, and almost tropic\nheat.\n\nAll that day Torcall Cameron had been strangely restless. If Oona left\nhim for more than a few moments, he grew impatient, and then angry.\nAgain and again she begged him to come into the green shadowy woods, or\neven to climb to the Ridge of the Stags on Iolair; but he would not. At\nlast, weary with the heat and the long blank hours, weary too with\nOona's importunities, and not wholly unwilling to humour her for his own\nsake, he let her take his hand and lead him forth at her will.\n\nSorcha alone knew that, for some reason which she never fathomed, her\nfather's \"black day\" was this first day of August. Year after year, his\n\"dubhachas,\" his gloom, came upon him with that dawn, so that he would\nhave word with none. She knew, too, that when the dark day was gone, her\nfather was better for weeks thereafter, and sometimes smiled and laughed\nlike other men.\n\nThe night before had been an ill passing of July. Murdo, the shepherd,\nhad come in, his face white. As he had come down the mountain he had\nheard a wild and beautiful singing, and had descried a herd of deer\nbeing driven with the wind, keeping close together. He had not seen the\ndemon-woman, for he had turned his head away, and muttered a _sian_ to\nkeep the evil of her from coming about him like a snake. But he thought\nthe wind brought some of the words of her song to him, and they were of\ndeath and the grave. Then, muttering \"_Glacar iad's na innleachdan a\ndhealbh iad_\"--\"Let them be taken in the devices they have imagined\"--he\nhad fled. Later, Oona came with a strange story from Nial. He had been\ncrossing the highland behind M\u00e0m-Gorm, and had seen two men and two\nwomen walking silently with bowed heads. One man was tall and dripping\nwet, as though he had come out of water, and his lank hair hung adown\nhis face. The other man was M\u00e0m-Gorm himself. The faces of the others he\ncould not see, but one woman was tall and gaunt, with wild, straggling\ngrey hair--a woman like Anabal Gilchrist on Tornideon. He heard only one\nword spoken, and that was when M\u00e0m-Gorm stopped, looked at the house,\nand said, \"_C'aite am bheil an eilidriom?_\"[13]\n\n     [13] \"Where is the hearse?\" _Eilidriom_ (pronounced like\n     _\u0101-ee-dr\u0113m_, is used in Skye and the isles, rarely if ever on the\n     mainland. _Snaoimh_ (bier) is the common word, though when a hearse\n     is actually meant, it is alluded to as the _carbad-mh\u00e0rbh_, \"the\n     death-chariot.\"\n\n\"What is an _eilidriom_, Sorcha?\" Oona had added. To which her sister\nhad replied that she did not know, and that she was to say nothing of\nthis in the house.\n\n\"And what then, Oona?\"\n\nNial, the child resumed, had heard no more. But when he turned and\nlooked toward the strath he saw nine men moving away from M\u00e0m-Gorm,\ncarrying in their midst a long black box. When he glanced back, the four\nwayfarers he had seen had disappeared.\n\nYet, as Sorcha knew, her father had not stirred from the house that day.\nNothing of what Murdo or Nial had seen came to his ears--of that she was\nheedful. But suddenly, while they were eating the porridge, Oona asked\nher foster-father what an \"eilidriom\" was.\n\nCameron sprang to his feet, pale as death, and shaking, with the milk\nthat he had spilt from the mug in his hand running down his breast as\nthough his life-blood were pouring from him, white, too, with fear.\n\n\"_What is that you say, Oona?_\" he cried, hoarsely; \"what is that you\nsay? _Do you see a carbad-mh\u00e0rbh--at the door--coming here?_\"\n\n\"No--no----\" murmured the child, terrified.\n\n\"Then how do you know that word for it? Who told it to you? I have not\nheard it said for years. No man uses it in this country. I have not\nheard it since--since Marsail died--and then it was from--from the\npeople yonder on Tornideon, for Anabal Gilchrist was of the isles.\"\n\nBut here Sorcha had interposed, and said that Oona had picked it up in\nsome way--in one of the old runes told her by Murdo, no doubt.\n\nFor the rest of that night Torcall Cameron only once opened his lips,\nand that not at the covering of the peats, or when Sorcha sang one of\nthe sweet _orain spioradail_ he loved so well, after she had read a\nwhile in the Book of Peace. It was when she came to him after he had\nlain down in his bed, and kissed him, and let her flooding tears fall\nwarm upon his blind, upstaring eyes: then he pulled her head closer, and\nwhispered, \"Sorcha, Sorcha, my soul swims in mist!\"\n\nIt was a night of beauty, and still. All slept. But toward dawn a voice\narose in the corries. From height to height it went, and the long wail\nof it swept past the green airidh of M\u00e0m-Gorm and wandered sobbing\nthrough the forest. Then all was still again. The dawn that came soon\nafter was of pale gold and faintest wild-rose. Peace was in the heaven.\n\nBut with that sudden passing wail, so often heard on the mountains when\nthere is not a cloud in the sky, and when far and near not a branch\nsways, and the gnats dance in long columns perpendicularly without\ndrifting this way or that--with that voice out of the hills, Torcall\nawoke.\n\nWhen Sorcha arose she heard him moaning. Wearily she wondered what this\nfateful date meant, this dreaded first day of the eighth month. When she\nwent to him, he said no other word than this: \"I have heard the\nlamentable cry of death.\"\n\n\"The cry of death?\" she repeated, questioningly.\n\n\"Ay, truly, the lamentation of the demon-women mourning for the dead.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSo it was that all that day Torcall Cameron had been as a man in an\nill-dream, weary of the long hours, yet dreading the passing of them\ninto the shadow. So, too, it was that, at the last, he went forth with\nOona.\n\nAt first they wandered into the forest, but here Torcall was never at\nease, and so after a time they strolled hand in hand from glade to\nglade, till the sound of Mairg Water came soothing-cool through the\nheat.\n\nThe peace and utter quietude lay as balm upon the weary man. He grew\ndrowsy at last, as his trouble seemed to lift from him. More than once\nhe would have stopped, and thrown himself on the ground, content to stir\nno further, but Oona urged him to come on to where the river ran through\nshelving ledges with a singing sound, and nothing else was to be heard\nbut the whisper of the silver birches and the thin, green reeds.\n\nThe crooning of the cushats was in his ears. Sweet it was to have that\nsoft touch of sound after the lamentable cry of the hills, that morning\ncry now dulled, so that it was there only as a shadow in a darkened\nroom.\n\nHe was glad when the breath of the water came upon his face, and he\ncould sit down among the bracken and fragrant gale, and do no more than\nlisten idly to the passage of the water. The whispering water, the\nscarce audible susurrus of faintly stirred leaves overhead, the singing\nof the gnats, the low incessant croon of the cushats, these were all the\nsounds to hear. Not a breath of wind moved in the pinewood, so that it\ngave not even that vast, slow suspiration which may be heard in forests\nonce or twice between sunrise and sundown even on stillest days. All the\nbirds were still, though few sang even at daybreak in that season of\nthe young brood. Over the reaches of the water the swallows skimmed,\nhawking silently.\n\nAn hour passed. Thinking that he slept, and weary of sitting still so\nlong, Oona rose and slipped away. At first she went to a great yew that\ntowered near the fringe of the forest, to see if the wood-doves she had\nheard crooning there had fallen asleep, for now they no longer made\ntheir croodling moan. Then, having espied them, sitting close with\nfluffed plumage and drooping wings as they drowsed in the warm shadow,\nshe peered here and there for the nest of a shrew-mouse, for often she\nhad heard thereabouts the patter of the wild-mice in days of drought.\n\nHer quest led her on and on. A sudden splash made her look at the narrow\nriver. A grilse had leaped half out of the clear amber-brown water, and\nmissed the dragonfly which had been poising its arrow-flight close to a\nwreath of circling foam. The tumult of the linn, a score of yards beyond\nher, was pleasant in her ears. She forgot the shrew-mice, and thought\nonly of the great salmon that Nial declared slept or lay waiting night\nand day under a ledge at the bottom of the linn. Yes; she would steal\nacross the rocks, and creep in among the boulders, and lie along the\nlowest ledge that sloped to the seething hollow, whose black depths, and\nthe deafening noise of whose tumult, had ever an irresistible\nfascination for her.\n\nShe seemed like a water-sprite herself, as she stood on a high rock at a\nplace where the ledges sloped sheer into a crevice, at the bottom of\nwhich a snake of brown water writhed through holes and crannies till it\nleaped out into a back eddy of the river whence it came. She had plucked\na branch of rowan-berries, some still green or ruddy brown, but others\nalready kissed into flame by the sun. This she waved slowly to and fro\nbefore her, partly to keep the midges away, partly because the rhythm of\nthe running water was flowing through her brain, and so along all the\nnerves of her body. The sunflood beat full upon her. Her short, ragged,\nscanty dress glowed like a chestnut-husk in the sunlight; in the hot\nyellow sunshine the tanned skin of her legs and feet gleamed ivory\nwhite. With parted lips and shining eyes she stood intent, transfigured.\n\nSuddenly she started. A look of curiosity, of astonishment, came into\nher eyes.\n\nWhat, she wondered, was that unfamiliar object lying in a ferny hollow\nof the rocks which formed the bridge of Mairg Water, whence the stream\nfell in a rushing cataract into the Linn? A human figure, clearly; a\nwoman, too. Who could she be? Was she alive or dead? Was it Sorcha? No.\nCould it be one of the fairy-women of whom she had heard so often: the\nCailliach, of whom she had been told so many tales; or that green-clad,\nyellow-scarfed, mysterious Bandruidh, the sorceress who won the souls\nout of grown men, and whose glance was fateful as a kelpie's? A\nkelpie's! Ah, was this indeed not the kelpie of the Linn o' Mairg, lying\nthere in wait for her! or might it be in truth the kelpie, yet only\nasleep there in the great heat? If so, now was the time to espy it, and\nperhaps steal or find a hair of its head--which, wound about the third\nfinger of her left hand, would make her a princess among the secret\npeople, and enable her to know what no one in the whole strath, or the\ngreater strath of the world beyond, would know, to see what no one would\nsee.\n\nThese were the thoughts which passed through her mind, while her blue\neyes gazed unwaveringly at the woman, dead or asleep.\n\nAt last, slowly, and with careful heed, she drew nearer and nearer. When\nstill many yards away she recognised the sleeper, whose deep, regular\nbreathing reassured her. It was Anabal Gilchrist, the mother of Alan,\nthe woman banned to her and Sorcha by their father as though she were\naccursed. True to her word, Oona had never been at Ardoch-beag, the\nwidow Anabal's farm, but several times she had caught a glimpse of the\nsolitary woman, and now knew her at the first glance. Once, more than\ntwo years back, she had been luring trout one evening in the Mairg Water\nnear Ardoch ford; and had been startled by the sudden appearance of a\nwoman, who had seized her in her arms and kissed her over and over,\nsobbing convulsively the while. The woman had drawn her plaid over her\nhead, and what with this, and the dusk, and her fear, Oona had not time\nto discover who it was. Later, she was convinced that it was no other\nthan the mother of Alan.\n\nWhen she saw her now before her she stood hesitatingly. She felt drawn\nto this sad-faced woman who had once snatched her in the dusk and\ncovered her face with kisses; but she was still more attracted by the\nmystery which enveloped her.\n\nIt was only a quarrel, Sorcha had told her; and often she had heard her\nsister say that if only her father and Anabal would meet, all might be\nexplained. In a flash an idea came into the child's mind. The thought\nsent the blood leaping from her heart. Her eyes shone.\n\nTwo motives impelled Oona. Neither was of itself, but one was\ninterwrought with the other. The love of mischief, with her innate\naudacity and fearlessness, urged her to place her foster-father in the\nlast place in the world where he would fain be; but, also, something in\nher heart pleaded for the quiet bringing together, in that hushed and\nbeautiful sun-going, of these two bitter haters.\n\nYes, she would do it, though she knew that her foster-father's wrath\nmight fall heavily upon her. If--if only Sorcha--no, she did not care,\nshe would do it. After all, no harm would come of it. She would watch,\nand if the woman rose and went away, she would come back and take her\nfoster-father's hand and lead him home again.\n\nThough the woman slept, overcome with weariness, why was it that a\ntrouble of deep sorrow still lay upon her face, as the trouble of\nwaters, even after the sea-wind has died into the blue calm of the air?\nThe tears were still wet upon the hand that lay across her breast; why\nhad they fallen? The child stood a while brooding. What did it mean?\nSlowly she glanced about her. No one was visible. It was clear that by\nthe way the woman lay she had not fallen.\n\nAt that moment Oona noticed that Torcall had slipped a little, because\nof the slope whereon he had lain. Drowsily he was feeling about him for\nan easier rest.\n\nLike a hare, as swift and as soundlessly, she made her way to him.\n\n\"Rise, father,\" she whispered; \"come further up the stream; it is\npleasanter there.\"\n\nFor nights Torcall Cameron had had little or no sleep.\n\nWeary with these long, long hours; weary with his fasting and his\nrestless idleness; weary with the windless heat; and, above all, weary\nof his own thoughts and of himself, he resigned himself gladly into\nOona's hands.\n\nEven as he walked he swayed. Sleep was so heavy upon him that the roar\nof the waters of the Linn came to him no loudlier than as the muffled\nsong and humming rhythm of the stream itself.\n\nGently, with her heart beating the while, the child led the blind man to\nthe place where the woman Anabal, after long weeping, had fallen into\ndeep slumber. He lay down like a child. The noise of the rushing waters\nlulled him, the ancientest, sweetest cradle-song in all the wide green\nworld. If he heard at all the breathing of the sleeping woman, no other\nthought could have come to him than that it was Oona.\n\nShe stared down at them with awestruck eyes. What was this unthinkable\nterror that shook her like a leaf? For a moment she conquered her fear,\na fear so vague, and of the soul only, that she did not know she was\nafraid, though the nerves in her body leaped to the breath of it.\n\nThe tears came into her eyes. Yellow was the light that fell upon the\ntangled iron-grey hair of the weary sleeper at her feet; yellow as\nyellow flowers was the gleam upon the brown-grey tresses of the weary\nsleeper by his side.\n\nThe hand of the woman moved. Out of the sunglow the arm crept like a\nsnake, then it lay still in the shadow betwixt the two who slumbered\nunheeding.\n\nOona knew not why she did it, nor even what she did; but with a touch,\nlight almost as the warm sunbeam itself, she guided the hand of Anabal\ntoward that of Torcall. As two ships draw together on a calm sea though\nfar apart, so the hands of these two, who had not spoken one with the\nother for weary years, slipped at last side by side. The man stirred a\nmoment, smiled, and gently clasped the hand in his.\n\nThen, when all was well, Oona shivered with actual dread. What if they\nshould die so? What if they were already dead? Once more she fought back\nthis terrifying emotion. How quiet they seemed! Sweet is the grey sleep\nof the old.\n\n\"_Tha iad r\u00e8idha nis_,\" she sighed rather than whispered; \"they are at\npeace now.\"\n\nBut now no longer could she stay. Like a fawn, after she had crept back\nupon the grassy ledges, she leaped from boulder to boulder. Soon she was\nat the verge of the forest. Inexplicable fear drove her like a whip.\nMinute after minute passed, and still she fled as though pursued. Nearly\na mile had she gone before she stopped, only to fling herself into the\nbracken in a sheltered place, a kind of cave formed by the gigantic\nroots of a fallen pine-tree, long years ago wrenched away like a reed\nand stricken to the ground. There, sobbing at she knew not what, she\ncried herself to sleep at last. When the dark came, her slumber was\nunbroken. A solitary moonbeam that made its way through the dense covert\nto where she slept lay upon her feet, upon her slow-moving breast, upon\nthe white flower of her face, upon the outspread tangle of her hair,\nwhich it clothed with fugitive pale gold. No vision of ill disturbed\nher. Once only she stirred, as, in dreamland, she thought she heard the\nsong of the White Merle.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nWhen the gloaming fell upon the Linn o' Mairg, Anabal stirred. The churr\nof a fern-owl echoed in her ear, and dimly she awoke to the knowledge\nthat it was late. But where was she? She had dreamed a pleasant dream.\nHand in hand--even now, she thought--hand in hand even now were she and\nFergus--Fergus so long dead, and never come again to put his lips\nagainst the pain in her heart.\n\nAfter all, was it a dream? Or, rather, was not all that weary past a\ndream? She would not open her eyes. She would press the hand that\nclasped hers, then she would know.\n\nAh, the joy and the pain of it! It was Fergus indeed! She had moved her\nhand and pressed his, and the pressure had been returned--faintly and\nslowly, as though in sleep, yet still returned! But where was she? That\nnoise of waters all about her, that ceaseless surge and splash, the\nsmell of the rushing water, the cool spray upon her face: was this not\nindeed the Linn o' Mairg, where, late that afternoon, she had fallen\nasleep?\n\nNow at last it was clear. Yes, she was at the Linn o' Mairg. But the\ntime of her mourning was over, and her evil was no more anywhere in the\nblue sky or in the green earth, for Fergus had come to her.\n\nIn this hour of death, she must tell him all. She would not open her\neyes yet awhile. She of the living might not be able to look on _that_\nof the dead. And first, moreover, she must speak.\n\n\"_Fergus!_\"\n\nNo sound came from the sleeper by her side. She imagined that his hand\nquivered, but she did not know for sure.\n\n\"_Fergus!_\"\n\nAh! now he was awake from his death-sleep, for she heard his breath come\nquick and hard. The hand she held in hers shuddered as with palsy.\n\n\"Ah, cold hand of my heart!\" she murmured, raising it, chafing it the\nwhile, and putting it to her lips at last.\n\n\"Ah, cold hand out of the grave! Often have I felt it at my heart!\nFergus, dear to me, Fergus, Fergus! Ah, one word to me, one word to\nme!\"\n\nStill no whisper from the man beside her. She could hear the shuddering\nbreath of him.\n\n\"Fergus, I must speak! If the dead know aught, lang syne you must have\nknown I knew nothing of the evil deed done upon you. But oh, my man, my\nman, I had loved Torcall before I loved _you_! Fergus, listen! Do not\ndraw away from me! Do not rise! Fergus, Fergus, I _must_ tell you all!\"\n\n\"_Speak!_\"\n\nAwe came upon her as a sudden darkness at noon. The dead had spoken. The\nlife in her body tore at the gateway of the heart. The voice was human,\nhoarse and low as it was. Almost she had courage. Once more that low,\nhoarse mandate came. The sound shuddered through the dark upon her ear.\n\n\"_Speak!_\"\n\n\"Be not too hard upon me, Fergus! I loved him, though not as he loved\nme. I never forgave him because that in his anger he married Marsail.\nBut when I was to marry you, whom I loved as I had never loved him----\"\n\nHere the sobbing woman stopped a moment, because of the fierce grip upon\nher hand, then, panting, resumed.\n\n\"... Then, as God knows my soul, I put him out of my heart. But the wild\nbeast in him arose and rent him. He went to and fro mad because of his\nlust of me. Then the day came when, in my weakness and loneliness, he\nhad his will of me. For days after that I did not see him. Then the\nspell of the sin fell upon me, and it was sweet--sweet for a brief while\nwas that evil and accursed dream! Then it was that you came back from\nthe fishing among the isles, to this place where your father lived, and\nwhere I was because of the mother that bore me, and is long dead, God be\npraised! And when you married me, Fergus, the child that is Oona was\nalready within me, God shaping that burden there underneath my heart,\ntill every pulse beat heavy with it! And now you know the thing that has\neaten at my life all these weary years.\"\n\nNo sound, save the constrained sobbing breath of him who listened.\n\n\"_Look!_\" he whispered at last.\n\nSlowly Anabal opened her eyes. In the misty dusk she could see the white\nsheen of the flying water, but not the face of her beloved. The dark\nfigure was there, clothed as in life. Taller he seemed, and broader; but\nsure, Fergus--sure, Fergus. Who but he, with those eyes of love and\nlonging burning upon her out of the night!\n\n\"_Anabal!_\"\n\nO God, the agony of it! The voice was even as the voice of Torcall, the\nman who had sown her womb with the seed of sin, and had reaped blindness\nand sorrow all the years of his life. Bitter the mockery of this thing.\n\n\"Fergus! Fergus! Heart o' me, husband!\"\n\n\"_Anabal!_\"\n\nWith a scream she sprang to her feet. She swayed as one drunken. The man\nsaw it, though he was blind.\n\n\"Back! Back! Back!\" she cried, groping blankly with outstretched arms.\n\"Back, if you be a phantom out o' hell! Back, if you be the Fiend\nhimself! Back, Fergus, back, if dead ye be, and are here but to mock me.\nBack! Back! Back! Torcall Cameron! Back, man, back! I am grey, grey,\nwithered, grey and old.... _Ah, my God!_\"\n\nHe had leaped upon her, as a wolf leaps. She was in his grasp, and the\nstrength in her was as melting snow.\n\n\"Anabal! God hears me: I dare not lie to you, I who am blind----\"\n\n\"Torcall Cameron, as God is my witness, I saw your face in his dead\neyes.\"\n\nThe man groaned; then, as though weary, spoke once again:\n\n\"I have sworn. I have not lied. Fergus slipped and fell, I not touching\nhim nor near him at the time. I tried to catch him as he fell, but the\nMairg Water was in spate, and it was useless. He came out at the\nKelpie's Pool. He was not quite dead, and I looked into his eyes ere the\nveils came on.\"\n\nStill no word, only that dread silence.\n\n\"Anabal! Anabal! Let all this misery be at an end. Sorrow has aged us\nboth. But I have loved you ever. I love you now. Woman, woman, you were\nmine, all of you, all of you, mine to the leaping body, to the beating\nheart, to the shaking soul--mine--mine--before ever he touched you! Mine\nyou were before ever I put my sin upon you; mine you have been ever\nsince, and ever sh----\"\n\n\"Torcall!\"\n\n\"I hear.\"\n\n\"Who brought you hither, this night of all nights?\"\n\n\"Oona.\"\n\nNo sooner had he spoken the name than a cry escaped his lips, mate of\nthat which burst from hers.\n\n\"Go, go! Man, devil, murderer, madman, go, go!\" and, screaming thus,\nwith a fierce struggle, Anabal Gilchrist strove to escape from the grip\nthat held her.\n\n\"Anabal! Anabal! At least do not send me to my death! I am blind. Lead\nme home. Put me hence, and through the wood! I am blind, and the night\nlives with terrors for me!\"\n\nFor a moment the woman was about to yield. A long tress of her\ngrey-brown hair fell upon his hand, and he grasped it as a drowning man\nat a rope. Then she saw, or believed that she saw, a look in his face\nthat maddened her.\n\n\"_Never_, so help me God!\"\n\nWithout a word, he was upon her. He had her in his arms, and was\nlaughing low, horribly, mirthlessly.\n\n\"I will never let you go, Anabal!... I have waited long.... You are\nmine, and no one else's ... mine you were, mine you are, mine you'll be\ntill the Last Day and for evermore!\"\n\nShe felt one arm slacken, and his hand seek hers. Before she realised\nwhat he did, he had snatched the wedding-ring from her finger and thrown\nit into the Linn.\n\nOnce more he laughed.\n\n\"Anabal! Anabal!... Anabal, my joy! I love you.... I love you.... I\nlove you. All the youth of my life is upon me again. I am blind, but I\nsee you as on the day when you quickened with new life! Dear, O my dear,\nheart of me, joy of me! Anabal, listen! I am Torcall! All is forgotten:\nall the weary years are gone! Sweetheart, this is my heart against your\nheart! _Ah--h--h!_\"\n\nHe had seized her, and the flames of his kisses scorched her face.\nBetween his panting, sobbing cries, and her choking breath, he buried\nhis face in her hair, heedless of the grey blight upon that yellow corn;\nand bruised that quivering body, whose flesh was still so warm, so firm,\nyoung long after the breath of age on the hair, in the eyes.\n\nThen she gathered the strength that was in her. With a fierce blow she\nmade him reel, so that he nigh slipped and fell.\n\n\"Murderer!\"\n\nA blank silence came upon them. Around, the rush of the water:\nswift-sighing it seethed beyond, with hollow roar and surge in the linn\nbelow where they stood. Over the forest lay a faint yellow bloom: the\nmoon shining upon it from behind Ben Iolair. A fern-owl churred its\nlove-cry through the warm, fragrant night. A thin, impalpable mist\nobscured the few stars that shone, but the splintered lance-rays of\nthem glistered this faint exhalation of the earth.\n\nWhen the man spoke, his voice was as though frozen.\n\n\"It is a lie.\"\n\n\"No lie is it, Torcall Cameron; for I see the naked truth in your soul.\"\n\n\"It is a lie.\"\n\n\"Where is my man, where is my man Fergus, whom you slew?\"\n\n\"I slew him not.\"\n\n\"Liar! Liar! Even here, on this very spot, on this very night years\nagone, he came upon his death at your hand!\"\n\n\"Listen! I heard _you_: now, hearken to _me_.... On that night, but\nbefore it was dark, we met, here. It is true. True also that there was\nfear and hate between us. But as God hears me, as God sees me, as God\nhath stricken me blind and gloomed the bitter life of me, I did not put\nhis death upon him!\"\n\n\"Anabal!\"\n\nHer breath came hot against his face.\n\n\"Anabal!\"\n\nNo word, no sign. He knew by the passage of her breath that she looked\nnow this way and now that: behind him, beside, beyond.\n\nShe saw that they were standing now on the extreme of the slippery\nledge that overhung the seething depths. No longer did she make any\nattempt to resist him. Death called out of the pool. She made no effort\nto save either him or herself.\n\n\"Anabal!\"\n\nMechanically she moved her arms as though to free herself. She felt his\nhold slacken.\n\n\"Anabal! Do you yield?\"\n\n\"I yield.\"\n\nMechanically, again, she leaned forward and kissed him on the breast.\nThe next moment his foot slipped. He reeled, staggered wildly. Anabal\nsnatched her arm away.\n\nAgain he slipped and fell forward. He was now on the very edge of the\nledge. His hand fell upon one of her feet. She stooped to push aside his\narm. He raised it, caught at something, gave a wild cry, and shot into\nthe dark, with heavy plunge and splash.\n\nIn the moonshine--for the yellow bloom had now expanded into a flood of\nrippling gold--she saw the black mass of his body whirled to and fro.\nOnce the white face was turned to her--a blank disc. Twice, thrice, she\nsaw the black arms move above the seething caldron in a strange,\nfantastic dance.\n\nThen, in a moment, as from a bolt, the body was shot into the deep pool\nbeyond the outer fang-like rocks of the Linn.\n\nAnabal Gilchrist turned, the foam on the water not more wan than her\nwhite face.\n\nWith slow steps she regained the heathy ground. She did not look back\nonce, then, nor as she clomb the long slope to her home.\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n\nIt was an hour before midnight when Oona awoke. So often had she slept\nin the woods, through the hot summer nights, that there was nothing\nstrange or terrifying in the blackness of darkness about her. She could\nsmell the pungent odour of the bracken, and, somewhere near, wild mint.\nThe keen fragrance of the pines and firs everywhere prevailed.\n\nAh, she was in the forest: how warm and sweet it was! Where was Nial?\nScarce more than this drifted through her mind; then the heaviness of\nsleep came upon her again.\n\nThe night waned. Dawn broke upon the eastern hills. Slowly the light\ntravelled downward beyond the crests of the mountains. It reached the\nforest, and spread an unshimmering sheen over it, like the silver calm\non a green sea. Then, out of the sky a marvellous flower grew. It was a\ndusky, rosy grey at first, as it lifted through the blue-black heaven,\nalready steel-blue in the east. Green folds of pink uncurled and fell\nlanguidly on each side: drooping petals. There was a stir and quiver;\nthen a shaft of gold, another, and another. Suddenly it was as though\nthe heart of the flower burst. In the yellow mist and radiance,\nwherefrom tall, waving foliage of golden fire moved as though fanned by\na wind from within, a cloud of glowing flakes arose. These may have been\nthe wild bees that make the honey of Magh Mell, or the birds of Angus\n\u00d3g, beloved youth-god of the yellow hair. Then the golden heart of the\nmiracle swelled, with a mighty suspiration. Petals of rose and\ngold-green and pale pink as of shells unclosed from it. The vast blue\nflower was aureoled now with an ascendant glory.\n\nOne by one the stars melted into heaven. Low in the south-west a planet\nseemed to divide, then to close again, in a nebulous gleaming haze. Then\nthis night-bloom slowly paled, dwindled, and sank into a deep gulf. An\nindescribable fragrance, an almost inaudible rustling sound--faint, as\nthe roar of the rushing world is faint beyond all ears to hear--filled\nthe air. The pulse of the world quickened. The green earth sighed, and\nwas awake.\n\nThrough her sleep Oona heard the croodling of doves. Then a bleating\nfawn in a fern-covert close by made her stir. Suddenly she half-rose,\nstared about her, and felt the breath of the cool wind that, too, had\nbeen awakened by the sun, and was now sighing softly through the\npine-glades.\n\nThen in a moment there came upon her the remembrance of what had\nhappened.\n\nWith a cry she sprang to her feet. What of her foster-father? Had he\nawaked in the gloaming and found the woman Anabal beside him? Had he\nmade peace, or was his anger even now brooding terribly? Who had seen\nhim home? What would he say--what would Sorcha say? Perhaps, even, he\nhad fallen into the Linn, or, it might be, he had tried to make his way\nhome alone through the forest, and now lay somewhere in its depths,\nblind and baffled.\n\nThus was the child wrought. But what could she do? she wondered. Should\nshe make her way swiftly through the forest and up Wester Iolair to\nM\u00e0m-Gorm, and there see if her foster-father was in his bed and asleep?\nWhat would he say and do? Once she had seen him in a passionate rage,\nand her heart shook at the remembrance. Perhaps he would kill her. Does\nit hurt much to be killed? she wondered. Then she thought of Nial. If\nshe could find him, he could discover for her that which she feared to\nseek herself. Where would he be? For nights past he had not been seen at\nM\u00e0m-Gorm. He might be high upon the mountain, perhaps at Murdo's remote\nsheiling on Ben Iolair, by Sg\u00f2rr Glan. He might be at the cave,\nUav-an-teine: the great hollow cavern, dry even in winter weather, which\nlay but a short way above the Linn o' Mairg.\n\nYes, that was likeliest. Nial loved the place. There he might sleep\nwhere no dew nor rain could touch him, and with the sound of Mairg Water\nto be his lullaby through the dark. She would seek him there. But first\nshe would go to the Linn, so that she might know that her foster-father\nno longer lay by the stream-side.\n\nThe heart of the birdeen lightened as she walked swiftly through the\ndewy fern. She began to call back to the cushats and other birds as they\nuttered their matin cries. Then she laughed, and broke into snatches of\nsong.\n\nThe light was streaming down the Strath as she emerged into the open\nglade above the Linn. Here, among the trees on the slope and in the many\ncavernous rocks and bosky hollows, deep shadows still lingered. It would\nbe nigh upon an hour before the morning twilight waned hence.\n\nA glance showed her that there was no one at the Linn. She ran down\nclose to it, and peered eagerly here and there, on either side. There\nwas no one visible. With a sigh of relief she was about to step forward\nto take a sunrise peep into the Pool below the Linn, for the great\nsalmon she had never yet been able to descry, when she stopped, because\nof the croaking of a raven.\n\nIt was not lucky to go athwart the croaking of a fee-ach' at sunrise.\nThe great black bird swung on an outspread bough of a hazel, close to\nthe Kelpie's Pool, and croaked with harsh, monotonous reiteration. Oona\nstooped, lifted a stone, and threw it at the raven, who watched her\nclosely.\n\n\"Fitheach! fitheach! The way of the sun to you! Be off, be off!\"\n\n_Croak! croak!_\n\n\"Black f\u0113\u0113-ach, black f\u0113\u0113-ach, go where the dead are, and do not cross\nmy way, or I will put a _rosad_ upon thee!\"\n\n_Croak! croak! croak!_\n\nHalf angry, half glad, the child threw another stone; then turned,\nleaped from stone to stone till she gained the grass again, and then\nwent singing low toward the cave called the Uav-an-teine.\n\nThe arch of it was still in shadow, and the bracken on the brow of the\narch: though the rowan that leaned forward into the air bathed its upper\nbranches in sunlight. On the smooth thyme-set sward beyond, the yellow\nshine lay; so warm, that the butterflies hovered in and out of the\ngolden area.\n\nWith cautious steps Oona advanced. If Nial were there she wished to\nsurprise him while he slept.\n\nShe crawled to one side of the sunswept cave, within which was still a\nwarm dusk. Surely that was the sound of breathing? Yes; she could hear\nthe steady rise and fall, faint though it was. With a smile she moved\nforward.\n\nSuddenly she stood as one changed into stone. What was this: what did it\nmean? No sign of Nial was there. But, among dried bracken and dead\nleaves, blown or drifted there in autumnal days, and forming a place of\nrest fit for the weariest deer that ever leaped before the baying\nhounds, lay two figures, clasped in one another's arms.\n\nFor a moment the idea flashed across Oona's mind that the sleepers were\nTorcall and Anabal. Then she knew who they were, for who had such a mass\nof lovely dark-brown hair as Sorcha? what man of the Strath had the\ncurly yellow hair of Alan? So that was where the lovers met! Once or\ntwice, within these last few cloudless days and nights, she knew that\nSorcha, when at length the restless lapwings had ceased their querulous\ncrying in the moonlight, had slipped quietly from the house. She knew,\ntoo, that once at least Sorcha did not return till sunrise, for she had\nbeen awake, and had risen, and had seen her sister moving slow through\nthe dew, with so wonderful a look in her eyes, so beautiful, so strange,\nthat she had not dared to speak, and had fled back to her bed, with a\nsob in her throat, she knew not why.\n\nShe smiled, and pondered how best to startle them. How she wished Nial\nwere here also, so that he might laugh when Alan and Sorcha suddenly\nawoke, and found themselves observed!\n\nBut, as she looked, the change that had already been at work in her of\nlate, swayed her mood otherwise.\n\nShe rose to her feet, and leaned against the green mossy boulder at the\nside of the cave. For a while she stood thus, her eyes intent upon the\nlovers. How beautiful Sorcha's face was, faint-flushed like that! What a\nnew, strange light upon her face! And Alan: how tall and strong he was,\nhow bonnie the rippling gold hair of his head! His fair face, whiter now\nthan she had ever seen it, seemed cut out of stone, so sharp were the\noutlines. Thus, she thought, must Angus \u00d3g seem: Angus, the fairest\nyouth of the world, whom none sees now, for he is of the Ancient People,\nwho, though still among us, are invisible to mortal eyes. Often had\nSorcha told her of him: sure, now, this was he?\n\nInstinctively, she looked to see if white birds hovered anywhere. For\nthe olden tale said that the kisses of Angus \u00d3g became white birds, and\nthat these flew abroad continually, to nest in lovers' hearts till the\nmoment came when, on meeting lips of love, their invisible wings should\nbecome kisses again.\n\nNo, there were no birds: none, at least, for her eyes to see.\n\nThe hot sunlight moved upon her bare feet. Soon it would reach her\nwaist, she knew, if she stood brooding there: and when it did that, the\nglow would be upon the face of Alan, and he would awake.\n\nA sudden fantasy took her. Almost she had laughed aloud. When she moved\ninto the space opposite the cave it was as though she waded in sunshine.\nEverywhere in the light the dew shone, filled with unburning fire.\n\nShe crossed the sunspace, to where a mass of honeysuckle drooped over a\nwild brier. With deft fingers she made a crown of this, starred with\nsome pink wild-roses, plucked from a low bush beyond the brier; then of\nthe dusky yellow honeysuckle wove a garland.\n\nDecorated thus, and with sparkling eyes, she turned and faced the cave\nagain. Soundlessly she began to dance.\n\nAt first it was the mere joy of her laughing glee. Soon, she hoped Alan\nor Sorcha would wake. Ah, then, how she would laugh, to see them stare\nconfusedly at her, dancing there in the sunlight!\n\nBut as she wavered to and fro in the sunsea, a dreamy pleasure moved her\nto half-forgetfulness of where she was. A mavis on the rowan over the\ncave began to sing, the strange late song that sometimes wells forth in\nsilent August; at first, long, sweet, vibrant notes, then a swift\ngurgling music, and then, as his heart warmed against the sun, more and\nmore wildly sweet, till the hot air swung with the intoxication of his\nrapture.\n\nMore and more, too, was Oona rapt as she wavered to and fro. The swift\nrhythm of her joyous dance wrought her as with a spell. A dream lay in\nher eyes, now set far away--far away, where Angus \u00d3g was, and where the\nsun rose and the moon waxed and waned to the singing of the white merle.\n\nThe sunlight seemed to drift her onward, as though she were a dancing\nwave on the forehead of the tide. Soon she was past the cave, and still,\nas the sunbeams flickered, she leaped and swayed, rapt in an ecstasy\nbeyond thought or heed.\n\nSuddenly, the thrush ceased. There was a whirr of wings: then a sharp,\nquickly repeated strident cry.\n\nAnother second, and Oona was a laughing child again, crouched low in the\nbracken. Alan or Sorcha was awake, and had stirred!\n\nAh, no, she thought, she would not let them see her now. True, they\nmight hear her, where she lay panting like a young bird escaped from a\nhawk! As soundlessly as she could, for her quick breathing and the\nrustle of the bracken, she half-crawled, half-ran, back the way she had\ncome. Soon she was safe, for the pines enclosed her, and then the\nbeeches and birks near the water-slope. From behind a vast beech-bole\nshe watched to see if she were pursued, or seen. But no one came. All\nwas as before: only, the thrush did not venture back to the rowan, which\nnow threw its flickering fingerlike shadows on the smooth turf below, in\nfront of the cave.\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\n\nAlready the breath of the day was windlessly hot.\n\nFlushed with her dancing in the sunlight, and with the languor of August\nin her blood, Oona listened eagerly to the cool sound of the running of\nMairg Water.\n\nThe next moment she was free of her scanty raiment, and was by the\nstreamside. As she stood among a cluster of yellow irises, the sunlight\nlay upon the gold of her hair and the glowing ivory-white of her body,\nand then seemed to spill in yellow fire among the tall blooms about her\nfeet. A faint green glimmer from the emerald iris-sheaths dusked the\nsmall white thighs.\n\nA leap like a fawn, and she was in the water. A hundred miniature\nrainbows gleamed in the dazzle of spray as she splashed to and fro,\nafter she had come to the surface some yards downstream. What joy it was\nto feel the cool brown water laving her body: to dive and swim like an\notter: to float slowly with the current under overhanging foliage, and\nsee the young sedge-warblers in the reeds or among the water-willows, or\nto look up at the curving boughs of a birch or rowan, deep green against\nthe deep blue! Then the wonder and beauty to rest with outspread arms,\nand breast against the flow: to stare down into the mirroring depth, and\nsee the flickering feathers of the quicken and the red rowan-berries\nmarvellously real and near, with lovely shadow-birds flitting to and fro\namong the shadow-branches, and, strangest of all, another white Oona\ndrifting like a phantom through that greenshine underworld!\n\nWhen she swung round suddenly, and held herself back against the\ndownflow, as an otter half-alarmed will do, it was not because she was\ndrifting too near the \"race\" just above the cataract. A strange sound\ncame from the Linn, or beyond it. The noise of the water was in her\nears, and she could not hear distinctly: but surely that noise was the\ncry of one in sorrow, and, at any rate, human.\n\nWith a swift movement she slid to the bank, caught at a tuft of\nflowering sedge, and then stood, dripping and all agleam in the\nsunlight, while with inclined head she listened intently.\n\nNow she could hear more distinctly: certainly some one was by or near\nthe Linn. The noise of the churned waters rose and fell in a long,\nwavering, unequal sigh; and in one of the downward hushes her keen ears\ncaught tones and even words she fancied she recognised.\n\nShe hesitated for a moment as to whether to run back for the handful of\nclothes she had left upstream, but then bethought her that it was only\nNial and no stranger who might throw stones at her as a kelpie--as some\nboys from the Strath, who at Beltane had been burning small fires and\ncooking wild-birds' eggs, had done many weeks agone at Nial.[14]\n\n     [14] In many parts of the Highlands it is still the wont of\n     children at Beltane (May Day) to light fires in woods or on rocky\n     spurs, and there cook eggs, or play other pranks, sometimes very\n     fantastic ones. These meaningless observances are a survival of the\n     days of Druidic worship. Beltane means the _sacred fire_. _Baal_,\n     _beal_, or _bel_ is not the actual Gaelic word for the Sun, or the\n     Sun-god: though the Druids may have had _Baal_ from the Ph\u0153nician\n     mariners who came to Ireland. The ancient Celtic word is _bea'uil_,\n     \"the life of everything,\" \"the source of everything.\" _Beal_ (pron.\n     _bel_) and _teine_, \"fire,\" give \"Beltane\"--the Festival of the\n     Sun.\n\nHow often, in her wanderings with Nial, she had bathed, to his wonder\nand awe at her white beauty, her daring, her skill! As for him, though\nhe loved the running water almost with a passion, nothing would induce\nhim to enter it, except when alone and in the dim light. As a boy he had\nbeen as much at home in it as any creature of the river. But once, after\nhe had come to know Oona, and to find in her the one person in the world\nwhose soul did not loom too infinitely remote above his drear loneliness\nof spirit, he had leaped one dead-calm noon into the water; and there\nand then, for the first time, realised, in the phantom which swam with\nhim or beneath him, the misshapen ugliness of his body, the savagery of\nhis distorted head and features. From that day he had never entered the\nstream, save at late dusk or on moonless nights.\n\nSo with swift steps, which left small pads of damp upon the rock-ledges,\nOona ran toward the great boulder which overhung the cataract.\n\nAs she passed the place where, a few hours ago, she had left her\nfoster-father and the woman Anabal, she glanced here and there for any\ntrace of either she might not have seen before. The next moment she\ncaught sight of Nial.\n\nShe watched him curiously. What did it mean? she wondered. He was\ncrouching, with his back to her, on the extreme of the ledge overlooking\nthe Kelpie's Pool--that deep caldron which received all that was at last\ndisgorged from the maelstrom of the Linn. His head was bent forward, and\nsometimes he leaned on his hands, and sometimes swayed backward or\nsideways.\n\nWhat startled her more were the strange, wild, barbaric words that Nial\nwas chanting, with thin, hoarse, monotonous wail. What was this rune he\nchanted? Why did he crouch there, chanting and swaying, swaying and\nchanting?\n\nSometimes he ceased for a few moments that crooning, mourning,\nappealing, inexplicable chant, and appeared to be speaking, and to\ngesticulate as he spoke.\n\nFantastic thoughts flashed through the child's brain. Perhaps it was the\nkelpie who was trying to lure Nial to her arms; or mayhap Nial had seen\nher, and was putting a _rosad_ upon her. She knew that the people of the\nStrath, and even Murdo the shepherd--in truth, Alan, too, and perhaps\nSorcha, though she would not say it--believed that the elf-man was in\nleague with all the mysterious or dreadful creatures of the shadow, from\nthe harmless \"guidfolk\" of the hill-hollow to the yellow-clad\ndemon-woman who drove her herd of deer and sang her death-song, and to\nthe dark and terrible kelpie who lurked in the deep pool in that wild\nplace beyond the Linn o' Mairg. Or, again, Nial might be uttering some\nincantation: or be at his old quest, the seeking of his lost soul.\n\nSurely it must be that, she thought, as soundlessly she approached him.\n\nWithin the last minute or two a change had come over him. Every now and\nthen he raised his head, often clasping and unclasping his hands,\nswaying to and fro the while, and speaking or chanting rapidly, with\nwild, scarce coherent words. He was as one in an ecstasy. Oona, for the\nfirst time, feared him. She stood, only a few yards behind him now, and\nlistened.\n\n  \"_Ochan, ochone, arone! and so fair too, and so fair!\n  O white you are as the canna that floats in the breeze,\n  Or as the wool of the young lamb that Murdo found dead in the heather,\n  Or as the breast of Sorcha, or as Oona, little Oona!\n  O, O, arone, arone, Death of me, Woe!\n  Oh, white too and fair, and I black as the wet peats,\n  Black and ugly, so that even the deer know,\n  And Fior and Donn and all the dogs\n  Think me no more than a sheep, than the kye, ochan, ochone!_\n  _But oh, it's dead you are and drowned, Anam, my Soul!\n  And it's there you lie ... grey and still ... with ... and you laugh\n       at me, maybe ...\n  And it may be you are the shadow only that will go if I leap at you!\n  ... and hair like mine thick with dew ...\n  Or ... the kelpie ...\n  And true it was, with the f\u0113\u0113-ach, and the feannag, and the corbie,\n  The corbie, the hoodie-craw, and the raven!_\"\n\nAt these words Oona glanced swiftly to right and left. Nowhere had she\nheard again the croaking of the raven, and now she could descry neither\nof Nial's three birds of omen. But just as her gaze was wandering back\nto the dwarf, she caught sight of the _fitheach_ further downstream,\nperched upon a dead branch near some rocks, and even as she looked she\nheard its harsh, savage _croak! croak!_\n\n\"_Ay, ay, r\u00f2c, F\u0113\u0113-ach, r\u00f2c! Dean rocail, dean rocail!_\" began Nial\nagain, with a wild gesture....\n\n\"_Nial! Nial!_\"\n\nHe ceased all movement, all sound, as though smitten into silence. Her\nfear partially overcome, now that she had gathered from his words that\nhe thought he had found his soul at last, but that it was dead--yet\nwith a dread in her heart because of the _thing_ that lay there in the\npool, whether alive, dead, or asleep, or treacherously assuming\nlife--she called again, and more loudly:\n\n\"Nial! Nial!\"\n\nSlowly he looked round. A bewildered terror in his eyes waned. It was\nonly Oona.\n\n\"Nial, Nial-mo-ghr\u00e0idh, what is it?\"\n\n\"Hush, mo-m\u00f9irnean,\" he muttered, beckoning to her to creep close to\nhim. The slight breeze that had sprung up for its brief life crept along\nthe stream, and whispered along the grass and in the hot-smelling fern.\nThe murmurous sound of it made the child glance apprehensively behind\nher. She dreaded the elfin footsteps that folk said could be heard at\ntimes near Nial.\n\n\"What is it, dear Nial?\"\n\n\"_Ssh!_ Hush! Come here: look! ... look!\" he whispered.\n\nGently she stole beside him, leaned over the ledge, and stared down into\nthe pool. A mere breath of the breeze ruffled the surface, and all she\ncould see was a dark mass with a dusky white splatch, looming shadowily\nthrough the amber water, and strangely distorted by the silver shimmer\ncaused by the wind-eddy, which came and went round the circuit of the\npool like a baffled bird.\n\n\"What is it? Who is it? What is it, Nial?\"\n\n\"Hush, do not speak so loud! It is my soul.\"\n\n\"Your soul, Nial?\"\n\n\"Ay, true. Sure it is my soul. All night I was in the woods, and I heard\na _tap-tapping_ going ever before me, and at dawn it led me down by the\nMairg, and then the spirit flew away before me, and the _annir-choille_\nwas just like a woodpecker! And when it flew up by the Linn, I....\"\n\n\"Whisper louder, Nial! I can't hear.\"\n\n\"When it flew up by the Linn, I saw it change into a curlew, and it\nwheeled over the Linn and called _cian-cian-cianalas_, and then I was\nafraid, though the annir-choille that was like a woodpecker had made\nhope to me of finding my soul.\"\n\n\"Who is the annir-choille, Nial?\"\n\nHe gloomed at her silently. Then in a constrained voice, and with\naverted eyes:\n\n\"How should I know? I know nothing. I am Nial.\"\n\n\"But what have you been told?\"\n\n\"They call her the wood-maid--the tree-maid.\"\n\n\"_Ah-h!_ ... and Nial....\"\n\n\"But when I came near, the curlew flew away. Then it was that I looked\ninto the pool. And then, and then it was, Oona-mo-r\u00f9n, that I saw my\nsoul lying here--big as a man's soul should be, and with a face as white\nas yours; ay, a fair, good body like Alan's, an' with clothes on,\ntoo--dark, beautiful clothes; an' the hands of him that moved about were\nwhite; an' ... oh, Oona-birdeen, look _you_ now, and see if it is not as\nI say!\"\n\nThe awed child stared into the brown depths, where the surface was still\nruffled silvery here and there, with a glinting, glancing shimmer that\nmade all things below shiftily uncertain.\n\n\"Do you see it, Oona?\" cried an eager whisper at her ear.\n\n\"Ay, sure.\"\n\n\"Oona, Oona, is it dead? Oona, birdeen, Oona-mo-gr\u00e0idh, it may--it _may\nbe living_! O Oona, the white soul o' me--white as you, my fawn!\"\n\nThe blue eyes glanced up from the pool, and at the speaker. She looked\nat him, then downward again.\n\n\"Nial!\"\n\n\"Yes ... yes, Oona ...\"\n\n\"The wood-maid has been playing with you.\"\n\n\"No, no, no--that is not a true word on your lips!\"\n\n\"Sure, a true thing it is. Look, Nial; see how big it is. The white face\nof it is yonder by the salmon-hole, and one foot is moving against the\nrock below us!\"\n\n\"And what of that! Sure, it is a beautiful soul, dead or alive; and big\nas a man's should be, and fair and white and strong!\"\n\n\"Nial ... Nial ... it may be alive, for I see its hands moving ... but\n... but\"--and here tears came into the child's eyes, and her voice shook\nwith sorrow for her hapless friend--\"but ... oh, Nial ... so big a soul\nwill never be able to creep into _your_ body ... for you are small,\ndear, small, and--and ... an' then _it_ is so big and strong!\"\n\nAlas, the pity of it! Never once had Nial thought of this; never had he\ndreamed that so large a soul could not get into his dwarfish, misshapen\nframe.\n\nHe stared in wild amaze, first at Oona, then at the drowned thing in the\nwater--his soul, or a phantom, or a body, or mayhap the kelpie, he knew\nnot which, now--then at Oona again. A fierce pain was in his eyes. He\nbit his lip, in the way he did whenever M\u00e0m-Gorm struck him--a thing\nthat had not been for months past. A little rivulet of blood trickled\ninto his thin matted beard, tangled and twisted this way and that like a\ngoat's.\n\n\"Nial! Nial!\" moaned Oona pitifully.\n\n\"Ay, it is true ... that is a true thing that you will be saying, Oona.\nSure, it would need to be a soul as small as your own that would do for\npoor Nial.\"\n\n\"No, no, Nial!\" cried the child comfortingly, \"bigger than mine,\n_really, really_--yes, and ... and ... fatter!\"\n\nA sob shook his heavy frame. Oh, the long seeking, and the near goal,\nand the bitter futile finding! Still, Oona's sympathy was sweet. Dear\nbirdeen that she was, to say he would have a bigger soul than hers,\nbigger and fatter too! But, no, he thought--no, better to have one the\nsame as Oona's, for all he was so much older and bigger and stronger\nthan she was.\n\n\"Ah, Oona-m\u00f9irnean, if I could only find my soul at all--anywhere,\nanywhere!\"\n\n\"But you _will_ find it, Nial! You _will_ find it! Sorcha told me that\nyou are _sure_ to find it. Never mind what they say down there in the\nStrath. What do _they_ know about souls? And ... and ... Nial!\"\n\n\"Yes, my birdeen.\"\n\n\"If ... if ... you _can't_ find your soul anywhere--and all this summer\nwe'll go seeking, seeking, for it, till we have listened at every tree\nin the forest and on the mountain-side--if you _can't_ find it anywhere,\n_I am going to marry you_!\"\n\nNial looked at the child bewildered. He knew little of what marriage\nwas, save that in the Strath two married people lived in one house, and\nthat the woman was called by the name of her man, and that they were\nsadder, and led duller lives--so at least it seemed to him. Sure, it\nwould be for pleasure that he and Oona should have a cot of their own,\nthough he, and she too for that, preferred the pinewood; and a thing for\nlaughter that she, the bit birdeen Oona, should be called Bean Nial!\n\n\"Why would you be marrying poor Nial, Oona my doo?\"\n\n\"Because you would then have half my soul. Yes, _yes_, Nial! don't shake\nyour head like that; I _know_ you would. Sorcha told me it was in the\nBook.\"\n\nFor the moment the outcast forgot what lay in the pool. Of three things\nhe stood ever in awe. First, Torcall Cameron, the man of men. Second,\nthe Book, which was a mystery, and held all the _sians_ and _rosads_,\nall the spells and incantations in the world, and, as he had heard, was\nfull of \"living words,\" though never had he, being soulless, seen any\ncoming or going to it, like bees, where it lay on the shelf above\nTorcall's bed. Third, the inscrutable powers which worked somewhere,\nsomehow, behind Torcall, before which even he, M\u00e0m-Gorm, was, almost\nincredible though it seemed, as mist before the wind.\n\nWhen, therefore, he heard Oona speak of the Book, his awe held him for a\nmoment spellbound. Never had he so much as dreamed that his name was\neven mentioned there at all. The wonder, the mystery of it, almost took\nhis breath away. What an ill thing, then, that word of the preaching-man\nhe had met once in the Strath, who had told him, in answer to his\nasking, that he, Nial, could have no name in the Book of Life, because\nhe was unbaptised, and a godless heathen, and a soulless elf-man at\nthat! And now--now--Sorcha had seen his name in the Book--ay, and not in\nany poor, small Strath Bible, but in the great _Bioball_ that was\nTorcall Cameron's own, up at M\u00e0m-Gorm, on the hillside of Iolair!\n\nBut of that mystery he was to hear no more then and there. A cry had\ncome from Oona, a cry of such terror, with moan upon moan, that his\nheart within him was as a flame in a windy place.\n\nWhat had happened to the child? Was there a spell upon her? he wondered;\nwas _that_ down there in truth no other than the treacherous,\nquiet-seeming, murderous kelpie!\n\nHe saw that she was shivering all over; that her body was as pallid as\nher white face.\n\nNot a word came from her. She kneeled forward, staring stonily into the\npool.\n\n\"Oona! Oona!\" he whispered chokingly, terrified beyond further power of\nspeech. Without averting her gaze, she slowly raised an arm and pointed\nat what had hitherto been but a blurred figure at the bottom of the\nwater. The arm, the pointing hand, remained thus, as though paralysed.\n\nNial bent over the ledge. The slight breeze had now passed. Not a breath\nshook the feather-leaf of a rowan. The sunflood poured out of the east\nupon the shimmering land. Though but an hour after sunrise, the heat\npalpitated. For the first time that morning there was no wind-eddy upon\nthe pool. The brown water was as lucid as a mirror.\n\nThe thing--corpse, or soul, or kelpie--had begun to move. It was slowly\nrising to the surface.\n\nHe shuddered. This, then, was the cause of Oona's fear. Yet, even as\nthis thought passed through his brain, he knew that there was some\nother reason for the frozen agony of the child.\n\nThe body ascended gradually, face downward, the arms trailing stiffly\nbeneath it. One foot was still caught by the weeds, which had caught it\nas in a net. With a slow gyration the corpse swung round, face upward.\nThe weed-thrall gave way. The drowned rose with outstretched arms.\n\nOona shrieked, then sank back, cowering, and covered her eyes with her\nhands. Nial! Nial neither thought nor felt; he was stunned by a blank,\nbewildering amaze.\n\nFor what he saw, and what Oona had seen, was the drowned body and the\ndead face of ... Torcall Cameron!\n\nIn the awful, throbbing silence, broken only by the turmoil of the Linn\nand by the incessant moaning of the child, the dwarf stared as at some\nhorrible impossibility.\n\nIt _could_ not be! M\u00e0m-Gorm, of all men in the world! M\u00e0m-Gorm, the\ngreat, strong, stern man of the hills! no, no, no--sure, it could not\nbe! Moreover, as he knew, M\u00e0m-Gorm never left the hillside; in all the\ntime he had known him, he had never come nigh the Linn o' Mairg, nor\neven near Mairg Water, and how could he be there? And would not Oona for\nsure have seen him that very morning in his own bed belike? Besides ...\n_M\u00e0m-Gorm_ ... it was as though the preaching-man were to cry out,\n\"_There is no God!_\"\n\nAt his ear he heard a moaning whisper: \"_It is my doing; it is my\ndoing._\"\n\n\"Oona, Oona-lassie, is it mad that you will be!\"\n\n\"O Nial, Nial, Nial! it is of me, this thing! Ay, sure--ay, sure! O\narone! arone! it was I who left him sleeping nigh the Linn last night,\nthinking to make peace between him and the woman Anabal that is Alan's\nmother! And oh, oh, she has gone away in the gloaming not seeing him,\nand he will be for going home when he wakes, and will be calling _Oona,\nOona, Oona_, and I not be hearing him, for I was away in the wood, with\nthe fear upon me! And then he will be moving through the dark,\nand--and--O Nial, _Nial!_ He is drowned, drowned, and the water is on\nhim because of _me_! Nial! Nial!\"\n\nThe child swayed to and fro in her passionate grief. A new fear came\nupon Nial: that she might throw herself into the pool, to be drowned\neven as her foster-father was.\n\nBut at that moment both were hushed into staring silence.\n\nSlowly the corpse began to sink again. Down, down it went, leaning\nforward more and more, till it seemed as though it were standing upright\non some unseen ledge of rock. Then, gradually, it revolved further, till\nonce more it hung suspended in the depths, face downward, and with stiff\narms adroop beneath.\n\nWithout further gyration, motionlessly it seemed, the body sank, till it\nbecame blurred, obscure, shapeless. Then there was no more of it than a\nblack shadow far down in the brown depths.\n\nOona rose to her full height. She gave a long sigh, one short, choking\nsob. Her eyes stared unwaveringly at nothing; the nails of her fingers\ncut the small clenched hands. The raven on the dead branch beyond the\npool, that had been croaking monotonously ever since she had first heard\nit, became suddenly still.\n\nNial rose too. He knew, without word from her, without thought even,\nwhat she meant to do.\n\n\"Oona!\"\n\nShe did not glance round, but he saw her throat quiver.\n\n\"My birdeen, my birdeen, ah, my bonnie wee fawn! Come back, come back!\nSure, it is not him at all! It is the kelpie, Oona, it is the kelpie!\"\nWhen the words came from her, hushed and strange, he knew that she knew\nthe truth.\n\n\"I will be going ... now.\"\n\n\"Oona! come ...\"--then in a flash his arms were about her as she leaped,\nand with an effort that nearly hurled both into the pool he swung her\nback to the ledge.\n\nThere she lay on the grass-covered rock, white and still. Nial bent over\nher, moaning, trembling, moaning.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAn hour later, Murdo the shepherd, coming down from the mountain, and\ngoing by the Linn o' Mairg, so as to reach Inverglas by the west side of\nthe Strath, heard a wild barking of his dogs. Through the heat-haze he\nstared indifferently, then curiously, at two stooping figures.\n\nHe approached the pool slowly. The dogs were silent. One had stopped,\nand was sniffing and staring, the other whined at his feet.\n\nYes, he was right, he muttered; it was Nial ...and Oona! But what did it\nmean?\n\nBoth sat silently by the Kelpie's Pool. The wild, fantastic, shrunken\nfigure of Nial was black against the light. He seemed as though rapt,\nspellbound. The child was naked, her shoulder reddening under the flame\nof the sun. He could see her strained, streaming eyes.\n\nHis heart beat quick with a vague fear as he moved toward them. He\nstopped, when Oona's low, irregular sobbing was audible.\n\nBeside him the collies crouched, whining.\n\nNial looked round, rose, and touched Oona. She, too, rose; her sobbing\nbreath ceasing.\n\n\"M\u00e0m-Gorm is dead,\" said Nial simply; \"he is dead--_there_.\"\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\n\nIn a brief space, Murdo learned what Nial could tell him. For all his\nshepherd-eyes, he could discern nothing in the pool but a vague blur of\ndarkness far down.\n\nWhat was he to do? He could not think, with these two staring at him\nthere. He whispered to Nial that he would be back shortly, that he was\ngoing upstream to where Oona's clothes were; adding that when he brought\nthem back Nial was to lead the little lass away, take her home, find and\ntell Sorcha.\n\nWhen, some minutes later, Murdo returned with the small bundle, he saw\nthat the child was weary with heat and fatigue, as well as with what\nshe had endured. There would be no trouble with her.\n\nAnd indeed, when once she was in her scanty garb again, Oona went\nwithout a word. Nial whispered that he would be back as soon as he\ncould; and would bring the grey horse with him.\n\nThe last Murdo saw of them was a momentary glimpse as they disappeared\namong the bracken, under the pines. The elf-man was carrying the\nsleeping Oona in his strong crooked arms.\n\nThe shepherd, who had betrayed no emotion as yet, stood staring into the\npool. A mist came into his eyes, and one or two tears rolled down his\nfurrowed face. A grim satisfaction moved into his mind, along with his\ndull pain; for now he remembered how his father, who had been shepherd\non M\u00e0m-Gorm of Iolair before him, had had \"the sight\" of this very\nhappening. The old man had been laughed at in the Strath; though, by the\nwaterside, he had thrice seen M\u00e0m-Gorm's wraith rise out of the Kelpie's\nPool. _Now_ the foolish folk down there would not be laughing.\n\nAfter a time he bethought himself that Nial might not be back for long.\nIt was nigh upon noon, and he wished to get the body away as soon as\nmight be. It was now he remembered that Nial could not tell Sorcha, for\nhe had met her and Alan going after the kye to the hill-pastures. This\nwas well, meanwhile.\n\nAt the Ford of Ardoch there was an old boat not used for years past,\nsave by himself, by Sorcha, or by Alan. In it were fishing-poles, a\nrope, and other things of his and Alan's. They would serve now, he\nmuttered. So once more the gaunt, plaided shepherd strode upstream,\nmumbling, as he went, through his red tangled beard, and with his wild\nhill-eyes shining with the thoughts of life and death that were slowly\nfilling his brain; thoughts, memories, superstitious fears, and vague,\nstrange phantasma rising from the dull ache of sorrow.\n\nTo his ears the most familiar of sounds, the bleating of ewes and lambs,\ncame down from the mountain as a lamentable cry. That night there would\nbe dread in his heart, because of the lonely hillside, and the wide\ndarkness, and the wraith that would be moving through that darkness.\n\nSoon he found what he wanted, and speedily returned. At first he thought\nhe would need help, but after a time he decided to do what he could\nhimself. To one of the long poles he fastened his shepherd staff, with\nits strong curved cromak.\n\nThe sweat poured from his face with heat and weariness long before he\nsucceeded, at last, in getting a grip of the corpse. But, undaunted by\nfailure after failure, and these even after he had first caught hold, he\nraised it slowly to the shelving ledge which ran out a few feet below\nthe surface. The rest was easy. He slipped the rope over the feet, arms,\nand waist; then slid the body along the slippery ledge, and so with a\nrush to the face of the pool, and thence to a wide cranny in the rock\nbeside him.\n\nSure, there was no mistake. M\u00e0m-Gorm himself, in truth; for all he was\nso quiet and pale, with the dark brown out of his face now, and all the\nstern, brooding life of the man no more than an already nigh-forgotten\nidle song.\n\nSo this was the end of Torcall Cameron of M\u00e0m-Gorm. There had been none\nprouder and more aloof than he in all Strath Iolair. Ay, he was a proud\nman. And now there was an end of it all. Sure, it was a bitter ending.\nGod save us the dark hour of it. Ay, the dull knock and the muffled\nvoice that come soon or late, in the mirk of day or night, at the\nsoul-gate of each of us--Torcall mhic Diarmid had heard them.... Thus,\nover and over, variously, yet ever on the same lines, Murdo revolved in\nhis mind the passing of M\u00e0m-Gorm.\n\nAt last, to his satisfaction, he heard the peculiar cry which Nial was\nwont to give as a signal. Then followed the trampling of a horse:\nfinally both appeared, coming along a stony path in the forest that in\nwinter was a clattering watercourse.\n\nIt did not take long for the two to lift the body on to the small,\nshaggy white horse, and there to secure it; with the white face staring\nblankly up at the blue sky, the open eyes fronting with unwinking gaze\nthe pitiless glare of the sun. While they worked, Nial told how he had\ncarried Oona home, and laid her on Sorcha's bed, sound asleep and warm.\nHe had feared to leave her there all alone, lest she waked, or lest evil\ncame to her \"out of the shadow\"; but he did what he could, and that was\nto take down the great Book from the shelf by the bed where Torcall\nCameron would sleep never again, and lay it at the lassie's feet. Then\nhe had gone out to the kailyard, and let Donn the collie leave her two\npups awhile, and had given her a shawl of Sorcha's to smell, and then\nhad sent her up the mountain to seek for M\u00e0m-Gorm's daughter, wherever\nshe might be with the sheep and kye.\n\nAs soon as all was ready, the crossing of the Mairg Water was done at\nthe Ford, and then the ascent begun to Ardoch-beag. Murdo stalked in\nfront, the rope-bridle looped over his arm; Raoilt, the white mare,\nstaggered and stumbled after him up the craggy path. Then came Nial, his\nshape not more fantastic than the shadow which waxed and waned mockingly\nbefore him, as he toiled upward, with bent head and tear-wet, quivering\nface. Finally, lagging some yards behind, limped Murdo's two collies.\n\nThe August heat-wave silenced every bird on the hillside. Not even the\ngrouse cluttered. Far away, in a marshy place, there was a drumming of\nsnipe.\n\nThe air was heavy with the smell of honey-ooze from the pale ling and\nthe purple bell-heather. Now and again there was the sharp twang in it\nof the bog-myrtle, sweltering in the sunglow.\n\nThe thin dust rose from the path, or even from the face of the granite\nrocks. The shadows of the wayfarers lay pale-blue against the hill road,\nwhen the path widened into it. The dogs crawled, panting, their long\ntongues lolling like quivering, bloody snakes. Nial wearily wagged his\nshaggy peaked head to and fro: at times, too, he let his great swollen\ntongue fall half out of his mouth, as though to cool the thirst of it\nagainst the parched air. Poor Raoilt sweated at every pore of her body,\nwhile dark streaks of wet ran down her flanks. Murdo showed less\nfatigue; but his weather-brown face had become deep red, and about his\nmoist brow a haze of midges hovered. Quiet and cool, one only: cool and\nquiet, the rider on the white horse, for all that his face was as baked\nclay in the yellow glare, that his staring eyes were upon the whirling\ndisc of flame in the zenith.\n\nWith a sigh of relief Murdo saw at last the cottage of the Gilchrists,\nsole house on the easter side of Tornideon.\n\nNot a word had he said hitherto to Nial as to the taking of the corpse\nto Ardoch-beag. If the dwarf had thought of a destination at all, apart\nfrom M\u00e0m-Gorm, it was doubtless of the minister's house, which lay three\nmiles beyond Ardoch-beag, at the far end of Inverglas.\n\nBut suddenly he waked to the knowledge that Murdo was off the road, and\non the path leading to the byres of the widow Anabal.\n\nWhat was the meaning of it? he asked; but Murdo would not hear. As they\nstopped at the ring-stone, between the byre and the cottage, he went up\nto the shepherd.\n\n\"Why will you be doing this thing, Murdo MacMurdo?\" he demanded.\n\nAt first the man gloomed upon him, then he smiled grimly.\n\n\"Wait.\"\n\nHaving said this, Murdo strode to the doorway of the cot. He knocked;\nthere was no answer. He knocked again; again no answer. Then he opened\nthe door. He did not expect to see Alan, but he was sure the woman\nAnabal would be in. There was no trace of her. The bed had not been\nslept in. The peats were black in the fireplace. Yet, strange to say, an\nopen Bible lay on the low deal table, and on the near page was a pair of\nhorn spectacles.\n\nIt was very strange. Well, he would search everywhere, both but and ben,\nout-houses and byre and stable.\n\nThere was not even a dog about the place.\n\nHe returned to Nial, downcast.\n\n\"There is a spell upon this place, Nial-of-the-woods. I wish we had not\ncome.\"\n\n\"Why did you come?\"\n\n\"This, man, this--_this_--is why!\" he muttered savagely, and as he spoke\nhe drew from his pocket a gold ring.\n\n\"That is one reason, Nial-of-the-woods! Look you, I found that ring in a\ncrevice in the rocks on the further left side of the Linn o' Mairg. Look\nyou again, I know the ring. Do you see these letters? Ah, well, you\ncan't read, poor elfin-creature that you are; but I'll tell them to you.\nThey are _F. G._ and _A. G._ And now will you be knowing what _F. G._\nand _A. G._ are for? They are for Fergus Gilchrist and Anabal\nGilchrist--_and this ring here, that I found by the Linn o' Mairg, is\nthe wedding-ring of Anabal Gilchrist_!\"\n\nThe outcast stared, vaguely impressed, but without understanding what\nMurdo was driving at. The man saw he was puzzled, so with a rough\ngesture he pulled him over to the near flank of the mare. \"And here, you\npoor fool--_to Himself be the praise, for this and that!_--is the other\nreason. Look at _that_!\"\n\nWhat he pointed to was a long tress of grey hair, grey-streaked brown\nhair, firmly clutched in the right hand of the dead man.\n\nA glimmering of Murdo's meaning came into Nial's mind. He glanced at the\nshepherd, appalled.\n\n\"Ay,\" whispered the latter, divining his thought: \"sure, that there is\nnothing else but a tress of the hair of the woman Anabal. And you be\ntelling me, Nial, if you can, what Anabal Gilchrist was doing last\nnight or to-day afore dawn, that she should leave her golden\nwedding-ring lying by the Linn-side, and that a tress of her hair--and\nthere is none like it, no, none o' that witchy grey-brown, in all the\nStrath--should be held even now in the death-grip o' Torcall Cameron o'\nM\u00e0m-Gorm?\"\n\n\"And that is why you have come here, with ... with ... _him_?\"\n\n\"That is why.\"\n\nThe two looked at each other. A fierce anger and lust of revenge burned\nin the heart of the shepherd. To Nial everything was simply a horrible,\nincomprehensible mystery. But Murdo knew something, perhaps more than\nanyone else, of what had lain between Torcall Cameron and Anabal\nGilchrist; whatever the outcast knew, or vaguely surmised, was too deep\ndown in his mind now to swim up into remembrance.\n\nIt was Nial who broke the silence.\n\n\"What of Alan?\"\n\n\"The curse is upon him too--to the Stones be it said!\"\n\n\"He will be far up on the north side of Tornideon ... or with Sorcha on\nIolair.\"\n\n\"The woman must have fled. Or ... ah, for sure, that thought was never\ncoming to me. Nial, my man, you never thought o' that, did you? You\nnever thought that perhaps there were _two_ bodies down there in the\npool! Ay, for sure, for sure: M\u00e0m-Gorm was not the man to die alone!\"\n\n\"Perhaps ... Murdo, perhaps it was ... perhaps it was ... _he_ who....\"\n\nThe words failed. The gaunt shepherd looked down at the speaker,\nfrowning darkly.\n\n\"May be, may be,\" he muttered at last. \"If I thought _that_, I would be\nletting him lie in his own house. Nial, see that no word o' this gets\nupon your lips if you meet anyone. No one must think _that_. No one in\nthe Strath must think an evil thing o' M\u00e0m-Gorm.\"\n\nOnce more Murdo left, and made a diligent search everywhere. When he\ncame back, he was muttering constantly, with a wild look in his eyes.\n\n\"Did you hear _that_?\" he asked in a hoarse whisper.\n\n\"That? What? I heard nothing.\"\n\n\"Did ye not hear some one in the shadow ayont the byre crying, _Cian!\nCian! Cianalas! Dubhachas!_\"[15]\n\n     [15] Pron. _K\u0115-\u0103n! K\u0115-\u0103n! Keen-\u0103l-\u016ds! Doov-\u0103ch-\u016ds!_ To Celtic ears,\n     not unlike the wailing cry of the plover. The words, moreover, mean\n     _For long, ever! Melancholy! Gloom!_ The word _feadag_ (pron.\n     _F\u0101\u0101d'ak_), in the ensuing sentences, has two meanings--a plover,\n     and a flute. The _binn fheadag_ is \"the shrill voice of the\n     plover.\" Murdo turns the word both ways: _feadag_, the bird, and\n     _feadag_, a flute; the flute made of wind and shadow that sometimes\n     is heard on the hills when a (_tamhasq_) _t\u0101v\u0103sk_ moves through the\n     gloom of night.\n\n\"No, no,\" murmured Nial, trembling; \"I saw the shadow of a bird on the\ngrassy place yonder, and a cry like the _binn fheadag_.\"\n\n\"Ay, the feadag, the feadag, but no flying bird, for 'twas a wraith\nplaying the dark song of the dead on the shadowy feadag that no man has\never seen, though there be those who hear it ... God save us!\"\n\nNial shuddered. It might be so, he thought. He believed he had seen a\nplover only, had heard no more than the wailing cry of a plover; but\ndoubtless Murdo _knew_.\n\nThe shepherd stood staring at him gloomily. At last he spoke:\n\n\"This is a dark thing, Nial, my man. There is no light upon it to me\nwhatever. But it will be looking to me as though I should go down to the\nPool again, and be seeing if _she_ is there too. And if not, then I must\nseek out Alan upon the hill. Do you think this thing too?\"\n\nNial shook his head despondently; he could think neither one way nor\nanother. M\u00e0m-Gorm lay there dead--white, stiff, staring up to the sun.\nHe knew _that_.\n\n\"Ah, poor fool that you are,\" Murdo went on, pityingly, and as though\ntalking to himself; \"sure, I need not be asking you. How can a soulless\nthing o' the woods think? wi' a head like an addled egg, and a poor bit\nbody withouten a spirit in it, as all decent folk have. Well, well, 'tis\nHimself has the good reason, praise be His! And now, Nial, I will be\ndoing this thing. I told you the Book lay open on the table in there.\nWell, I will be for going by whatever the word is that is on my sight\nwhen I first look. If it tell me to go into Inverglas, and speak of this\nevil day, then it is going there I will be; if it tell me to go and seek\nin the Pool, well, I will be going there; and whatever I see, it will be\nthe way for me. If I am to speak, it is speaking I will be; if I am to\nbe silent, it is silent I will be.\"\n\nAnd with that the shepherd turned, moved slowly away, and entered the\ncottage for the third time.\n\nWhere would he look? he wondered, when he stood by the table and stared\ndown upon the open Gaelic Bible. Sure, he would accept the sign in the\nsentence across which Anabal's spectacles lay.\n\nHe stooped, and with pointing finger read slowly and with difficulty,\nword by word:\n\n  \"_Cuir, a Thighearna, faire air mo bheul; gl\u00e9idh dorus mo bhilean!_\"\n  \"_Set, O Lord, a watch before my mouth; keep the door of my lips!_\"\n\n\"That will be enough,\" he muttered with bated breath, and went out. As\nhe approached the horse, Nial saw that he had found the \"wisdom.\"\nVaguely he wondered if Murdo had noticed any \"living words\"--mysterious\nphrase that ever perplexed, and sometimes terrified him.\n\n\"Nial, I have found the word. It is not for me to go into the Strath\nwith news of the dead. The Book said, \"_Keep a watch before the mouth,\nkeep the door of the lips._\" You understand...? Ay, sure: poor, faithful\ncreature that loved M\u00e0m-Gorm; ay, an' that M\u00e0m-Gorm, too, loved as much\nas Donn or Fior or any o' the dogs, wise beasties.... Well, I will be\ngoing now, down to the Pool: then, one way or the other, I will be\nlooking for Alan Gilchrist. An' it is for you to wait here, Nial, lest\nhe, or any other, come. We'll put the mare and ... and ... M\u00e0m-Gorm ...\ninto the byre just now. And you wait, you will be minding!\"\n\nIn silence Raoilt, with her rigid burden, was led into the hot gloom of\nthe byre. Then the door was partially closed, for there was no fastening\nto it, and Murdo made ready to go.\n\n\"Leave me one o' the dogs,\" said Nial sullenly.\n\n\"And for why?\"\n\n\"I will not be staying here alone, in this treeless, foreign place,\nMurdo MacMurdo: no, that I won't, unless you will be leaving me one of\nthe dogs.\"\n\nThe shepherd grunted surlily, for the collies were his best friends, and\ngood company. But if so to be, then so to be. He would take Braon and\nleave Luath. It was safer, at such a time, to be alone with a dog than a\nbitch; for bitches were known often to be in league with demons and evil\nspirits. As for Nial, not being human himself, there would be less risk.\nNow that he noticed it, there was a red glare in Luath's eyes, and the\nbitch moved about in a strange way. For sure he would take Braon.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe time went wearily for the watcher at Ardoch-beag. The sweltering\nheat made him long doubly for the green forest that was his home. He did\nnot dare enter that lonely house. Who or what might be sitting there,\nor standing looking at him from the inner room? Neither could he venture\ninto the byre, though, but for her awful burden, he would rather have\nthe company of the mare Raoilt than of the bitch Luath.\n\nFor a long while he sat in the shadow of a dyke that was the south side\nof the winter sheepfold. But he grew more and more uneasy as time\npassed. What if Murdo did not come back till after nightfall?\n\nHe rose and stared about him. Where was Luath? He could not see the\ncollie anywhere. He had noticed her trotting idly up the steep bend of\nthe road beyond the cottage.\n\n\"Ah, there she is,\" he muttered, as he saw a shadow flit bluely across\nthe blinding way. But what was the matter with the beast? She came along\nat a swift, slinking run, her tail skiffing the ground between her feet.\nAs she passed, she gave him a furtive glance. The upper lip, taut, just\nshowed a glimmer of white fangs.\n\n\"Luath! Luath! Luath!\"\n\nBut the collie would pay no heed; or, rather, she paid this heed, that\nshe broke into a race, and flew down the road to the Ford till she was\nno more than a black blur beyond a whirling eddy of dust.\n\nThis was the last straw. Nial gave one look more all around him. Then\nhe listened at the byre, to hear if Raoilt were munching at her hay.\nWhat if M\u00e0m-Gorm should get tired of being dead, and should dismount,\nand, rigid and white, step out into the sunlight! The thought made him\nshiver, for all the blazing heat.\n\nSilently as his shadow, he was out upon the road. Suddenly the whim took\nhim to go the other way rather than by the path he and the others had\ncome. Below Cnoc-Ruadh the road dipped for a bit; and there was a\nsheep-path from it that would lead him down to the ford of\nAth-na-chaorach, whence he would soon be in Iolair forest again.\n\nBut no Ford of the Sheep did Nial see that day.\n\nFor after he had reached the summit of the road at that part, to the\nwestward of Ardoch-beag, he saw a sight that brought the heart\nsuffocatingly to his mouth. It was this, then, that had made Luath slink\nswiftly away, with curled lip and bristling fell?\n\nThere, as though carven in stone, sat the woman Anabal, rigid and\nmotionless as the thing that was in the byre. She was on the extreme\nverge of Cnoc-Ruadh, where a double ledge runs out from the great\nboulder which overhangs the Strath, and whence for nigh upon a score of\nmiles the eye can follow the course of Mairg Water.\n\nAt the far end a heat-haze obscured mountain-flank and bracken-slope,\nand birk-shaw--all save the extreme summits of the hills, purple-grey\nshadows against the gleaming sky. Nearer, in the north strath, the smoke\nof many cots, sheilings, and bothan rose in their perpendicular or\nspiral columns of pale blue mist.\n\nFrom where Nial stood he could see her face. It was as wan and awful as\nthat of the dead man in the byre, but he saw that the eyes lived. The\nwoman sat dumb, blind, oblivious of the flaming heat, her gaze fixed,\nunwavering. Fire burned in them, a fire that would never be quenched\ntill the day of the grave.\n\nHe could not tell whether she was alive or dead, whether a woman or a\nwraith. But he noted the long, tangled locks of hair which hung over her\nshoulder, brown hair streaked with grey, like the tress that the dead\nman still clutched in his right hand.\n\nIt was a thing to flee from. One desire only possessed him now, to reach\nthe safe green quietudes of the pine-forest once more. There all was\nfamiliar; there he could evade man or wraith.\n\nAnd so he, too, left that solitude where, once again, Torcall and Anabal\nwere nigh one to another, and not knowing it.\n\nHow could he know--none but God knew--that in the woman's ears was the\nroar of the Linn forever? that the laughter of a kelpie wrought her ever\nto an excruciating terror? Dumb, motionless, staring unwaveringly: so\nwas she at the flame-red setting, as she had been since the first blaze\nhad lightened along the peaks of the east.\n\n\n\n\nX\n\n\nIt was within an hour of nightfall when, from the verge of the forest\nbelow M\u00e0m-Gorm, Nial caught sight of the kye coming down from the\nhill-pastures. He could not see Sorcha, but he knew she must be there;\nprobably with Alan, who for days past had been wont to depute his own\nshepherding on Tornideon to a herd-laddie who lived with an old drover\njust beyond the Pass of the Eagles.\n\nNial had already been up at the farm. Oona lay where he had left her,\nand was still in the same profound and, but for her low breathing,\ndeathlike slumber. Thence he had wandered back to the forest, thinking\nthat he would descend toward the Linn o' Mairg, and see if Murdo were\nstill there in his quest for Anabal. He had scarce entered the\npine-glades when, happening to glance backward, he saw the cows coming\nhome.\n\nSure enough, in a few minutes Sorcha appeared: and, as he had surmised,\nAlan with her. They walked together, his arm about her waist, while\nslowly they followed the leisurely kye. As they came nearer, Nial heard\nSorcha singing one of her many milking songs. Often he had heard her\nsing that which now came rippling down the heather, and he could have\ngiven her word for word for it.\n\n  O sweet St. Bride of the\n      Yellow, yellow hair:\n  Paul said, and Peter said,\n  And all the saints alive or dead\n  Vowed she had the sweetest head,\n  Bonnie, sweet St. Bride of the\n      Yellow, yellow hair.\n\n  White may my milking be,\n      White as thee:\n  Thy face is white, thy neck is white,\n  Thy hands are white, thy feet are white,\n  For thy sweet soul is shining bright--\n      O dear to me,\n      O dear to see,\n      St. Bridget white!\n\n  Yellow may my butter be,\n      Soft and round:\n  Thy breasts are sweet,\n  Soft, round, and sweet\n  So may my butter be:\n  So may my butter be, O\n      Bridget sweet!\n\n  Safe thy way is, safe, O\n      Safe, St. Bride:\n  May my kye come home at even,\n  None be fallin', none be leavin',\n  Dusky even, breath-sweet even\n  Here, as there, where, O\n      St. Bride, thou\n\n  Keepest tryst with God in heav'n,\n      Seest the angels bow\n  And souls be shriven--\n  Here, as there, 'tis breath-sweet even,\n      Far and wide--\n  Singeth thy little maid\n  Safe in thy shade,\n      Bridget, Bride!\"\n\nNial hesitated. He would have gone to her at once, but he did not wish\nto speak before Alan. Moreover, what was he to say to Angus \u00d3g, as\nAnabal's son was called by the strath folk on account of his beauty and\nbecause he was a dreamer and a poet, though but a shepherd of the hills?\nHow could he tell of Murdo's quest by the pool, and also of the spirit\nor wraith he had seen sitting on Cnoc-Ruadh that is beyond Ardoch-beag\non Tornideon?\n\nThe flanks of the cows gleamed in the light as with filled udders they\nswung slowly homeward, their breaths showing in whorls of mist whenever\nthey were in shadow, where the dews were already falling after the\nextreme of heat. Behind them, now on a sloping buttress of rock and\nheather, now on the smooth thymy hollows which lay like green pools\namong the purple ling, Alan and Sorcha moved, both bathed in the\nsunglow, his left hand clasping her right and swinging slow. Ah, fair to\nsee, thought Nial: fair to see!\n\nBut, even while he pondered, he saw Alan take Sorcha in his arms, kiss\nher, and then, with lingering hand-clasp, turn to go up the mountain\nagain, or, as might be, to cross to Tornideon. Not far did he go,\nthough: for, as Nial watched, he saw Sorcha's lover lean against a great\nboulder, where he stood like a fair god, because of the sunflood falling\nupon him in gold waves out of the west. Beautiful the rolling of that\nsea of light across the sloping surface of the forest: with the\nyellow-shining billows flowing and rippling among the summits of the\npines, and ever and again spilling into branchy crevices or dark green\nunderglooms.\n\nDoubtless Alan was waiting to see her reach M\u00e0m-Gorm, and perhaps for a\nsignal thereafter: if so, thought Nial, he had best see Sorcha at once,\nthough he knew not the way of the thing to be said, or if he could speak\nat all while Oona slept.\n\nSlowly he moved toward her. She had descried him, for she did not follow\nthe cows, but stood, waiting. The gloaming was already about her. She\nwas like a spirit, he thought, with the windy hair about her face--for\nwith the going of the sun a sudden eddy had arisen, and the air of its\nfurtive, wavering pinions was upon Sorcha.\n\n\"Nial!\" she cried blithely, when he was a brief way off, \"is the\npeat-smoke a bird, that it has flown away from the house--for not a\nbreath of smoke do I see? Is father in? and Oona? Have you seen her?\nI've called thrice, but St. Bridget herself wouldn't be having an answer\nfrom Oona if she's hiding somewhere. _Oona!_ ... _Oona!_ ... _Oona!_\"\n\n\"Don't be calling upon the child, Sorcha. She is tired, and is\nsleeping.\"\n\n\"And father?\"\n\nThen in his heart of hearts Nial knew that he had not the courage to\nsay what he had to say. Sure, too, there was something he did not\nunderstand. After all, the woman he had seen on Cnoc-Ruadh could be no\nother than Anabal Gilchrist. And if _she_ could be drowned and yet come\nalive again, perhaps Torcall Cameron could--ay, was perhaps already up\nand, blind as he was, feeling blankly round the walls of the strange\nplace he was in, to be out soon, and, later, in the dark, come striding\ninto M\u00e0m-Gorm.\n\n\"And father, Nial, and father? Is he in, or is he out upon the hill,\nwith the gloom upon him this night again?\"\n\n\"It will be a strange thing that I am telling you,\n_Sorcha-nighean-Thorcall_, but one that will be glad and warm in your\nheart.\"\n\n\"Speak.\"\n\n\"There is ... there is peace now between M\u00e0m-Gorm and the woman Anabal,\nthat is mother of Alan.\"\n\n\"Peace!--oh, Nial! To Himself the praise of it! Oh, glad I am at the\ngood thing that you say! Sure, glad am I!\"\n\n\"It is true. Ay, and he has gone over to Tornideon, and will sleep this\nnight at Ardoch-beag.\"\n\nSorcha stared bewildered. Even her joy at the news, which meant so much\nfor her and Alan, was forgotten in sheer amaze. Her father go to\nTornideon! her father asleep at Ardoch-beag!\n\nWords of his came to her remembrance: she, too, muttered, \"My soul swims\nin mist.\"\n\n\"Nial, is this--a true thing?...\"\n\n\"Ay.\"\n\n\"Is it--is it--a true thing that he is up at Ardoch-beag, and will sleep\nthere ... and ... and ... is at peace?\"\n\n\"Ay, sure, he is up at Ardoch-beag, and will sleep there, and sure, too,\nsure, he is at peace.\"\n\nA wonderful light came into the girl's beautiful eyes. Her twilight\nbeauty was now as a starry dusk.\n\n\"Nial,\" she whispered, \"dear Nial, you and Murdo see to the milking of\nthe kye for me this night ... do, dear good Nial, do! And you can ask\nOona, too, to help you ... for ... for, Nial, all is well now ... and I\ncan go to Alan ... oh, glad am I, and like as though a bird sang in my\nheart!\"\n\nAnd then, before he realised what he had brought upon himself, before he\ncould say a word of yea or nay, Sorcha had turned, and with swift steps\nwas hurrying through the gloaming to where Alan still stood on the\nhillside, watching and dreaming, dreaming and hoping.\n\nNial stood gazing after her. Strange, this mystery of beauty! All his\ntrouble waned out of the glare of day into a cool twilight. The passing\nof her there on the hill was like music in his ears. Ah, to be Alan, to\nhave so tall and strong a body, so fair a face, to have Sorcha's love,\nto have a soul! The fairer soul the fairer body--that seemed to him a\ntruth; for what had he to go by but the three he knew best and loved\nbest: Oona and Sorcha and Alan, the fairest man, the most beautiful\nwoman, the loveliest child he had ever seen or dreamed of there in\nStrath Iolair, or during those mysterious wanderings of his when he was\nfar from the mountain-land with the gipsy-people? No beauty like theirs,\nno others like them in any way; sure, it was because the souls of them\nwere white, and all three kindred of the forgotten \"people of the sun,\"\nwhom Sorcha sometimes sang or spoke of as the Tuatha-de-D\u00e1nan, and\nM\u00e0m-Gorm had told him once were old, forgotten gods--fair, deathless\nfolk!\n\nIn truth it was with joy that Sorcha hastened toward Alan. He saw the\nlight in her eyes before she was near enough to speak. Often, beholding\nher, he was aware of something within him that was as a sun-dazzle to\nthe eye that looks upon a shining sea or a cloudless noon. Sometimes his\nheart beat low, and an awe made a hushed, fragrant, green-gloom dusk in\nhis brain; sometimes he grew faint, strangely wrought, as a worshipper\nwhen the spirit for a brief moment unveils its sanctuary and irradiates,\ntransforms the whole trembling body, but most the face and the eyes of\nwonder. At other times all the poet in him arose. Then he laughed low\nwith joy because of her beauty; and saw in her the loveliness of the\nmountain-land. Then it was that she was his \"Dream,\" his \"Twilight,\" his\n\"Shining star,\" his \"Soft breath of dusk.\" Dear she was to him as the\nfawn to the hind, sweet as the bell-heather to the wild bee, lovely and\nsweet and dear beyond all words to say, all thought to image. Then there\nwere their blithe hours of youth--hours when he was _Alan-aluinn_ and\nshe _Sorcha-maiseach_; seasons of laughing happiness and light ripple of\nthe waters of peace. Children of the sun they were in truth, in a deeper\nsense than they, as all the kindred of the Gael, were children of the\nmist.\n\nBut of late both--and he particularly--had been wrought more and more by\nthe passion of love. Ever since the refusal of the minister at Inverglas\nto marry them, because of the feud between Torcall Cameron and Anabal\nGilchrist, and of the ban laid by each against the offspring of the\nother, they had troubled themselves no more about what, after all, to\nthem, in their remote life in these mountain solitudes, meant little. In\nthe dewy, moth-haunted, fragrant nights of May, when it was never quite\ndark upon the hills, and even in the forest the pine-boles loomed\nshadowy, they had become dearer than ever to each other. Day by day\nthereafter their joy had grown, like a flower moving ever to the sun;\nand as it grew, the roots deepened, and the tendrils met and intertwined\nround the two hearts, till at last they were drawn together and became\none, as two moving rays of light will converge into one beam, or the\nsong of two singers blend and become as the song of one. As the weeks\npassed, the wonder of the dream became at times a brooding passion, at\ntimes almost an ecstasy. Ossian and the poets of old speak of a strange\nfrenzy that came upon the brave; and, sure, there is a _mircath_[16] in\nlove now and again in the world, in the green, remote places at least.\nAodh the islander, and Ian-b\u00e0n of the hills, and other dreamer-poets\nknow of it--the _mirdhei_, the passion that is deeper than passion, the\ndream that is beyond the dreamer, the ecstasy that is the rapture of the\nsoul, with the body nigh forgot.\n\n     [16] The \"mircath,\" or war-frenzy, is _mire-chath_, the \"passion of\n     battle,\" as the \"mirdeeay\" is _mire-dheidh_, the \"passion of\n     longing.\" The word Darthula--_infra_--is a later Gaelic variant of\n     _Dearduil_ (almost identically pronounced), the Scoto-Gaelic\n     equivalent of the Erse _Deirdr\u00ea_, the most beautiful woman of old.\n\nThis _mirdhei_ was now more and more upon Alan; upon Sorcha, too, the\ndream-spell lay.\n\nSo it was in a glad silence that he watched her coming. For the moment\nshe was not Sorcha, but a _B\u00e1ndia-nan-sl\u00e8ibhtean_, a goddess of the\nhills, fair as the _Banrigh-nan-Aillsean_, the fairy queen. Often,\nsinging or telling her some of the songs of Ois\u00ecn mhic Fhionn, he had\ncalled her _his_ Darthula, after that fairest of women in the days of\nold, because she too had deep eyes of beauty and wonder. Therefore the\nword came out of his heart, like the single mating-note of a mavis,\nwhen, as she drew nigh to him and whispered low, \"_Alan! Alan!_\" he\nmurmured only \"_Darthula ... Darthula-mochree!_\"\n\nIn a few words she told him the marvellous news: Torcall and Anabal at\npeace; her father now at Ardoch-beag!\n\nAt first he too could scarce believe it. Then, little by little, the\nsmaller wonder waned, and the wonder of his love--the wonder of Sorcha\ngrew.\n\nHand in hand they wandered slowly up the mountain as in a dream. A\nstrange new joy had come to them. The world fell further away, far\nbeneath them. Even the Strath became a shadowy place--a foreign strand\nwhere their voyaging boats need never coast.\n\nWhen the moon rose, first through a tremulous flood of amber-yellow\nlight, thence to emerge as a pale-gold flower, low in the\n_Lios-nan-speur_, the \"garden of the starry heavens,\" the mountain\nlovers were already far up Ben Iolair, and nigh the great Sg\u00f2rr-Glan,\nthe precipice that on the eastern flank falls sheer from the\nDruim-nan-Damh, the Ridge of the Stags, for close upon two thousand\nfeet. Here in a sheltered place known as the _Bad-a-sgailich ann\nchoire-na-gaoithe_, \"the shading clump of trees in the windy corrie,\"\nwas the sheiling of Murdo the shepherd, which for weeks past had been\nused by Alan rather than his own hill-sheiling high on Tornideon, where\nthe east wind blew with a fierce breath, and the hill-slope was barren,\nand there was no Sorcha.\n\nThey could hear the wind among the heights, but the moon-wave was\neverywhere with quiet light, and there was peace.\n\nFor a while they stood at the door of the cot. The moonshine touched\nthem with a beam of pale gold--a finger out of heaven. Silent and still\nit was: no sound but the furtive crying of the wind among the invisible\ncorries and peaks, with a flute-like call among the serrated pinnacles\nof the Ridge of the Stags. At intervals, as a vagrant breath, came the\nsigh of the hill-torrents as they fell toward the Sr\u00f9antsrh\u00e0, the wild\nstream that foams from the lochan of Mairg beyond the Pass of the\nEagles, and surges hoarse and dark, even in the summer droughts, at the\nbase of the great precipice of Sg\u00f2rr-Glan.\n\nHand in hand they stood, silence between them. Their eyes dreamed into\nthe moonlit dusk. In the mind of Alan Sorcha moved as a vision; in the\nmind of Sorcha there were two shadowy figures of dream--Alan, and the\nchild over whose faint breath of life in her womb her heart yearned as a\nbrooding dove.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen Oona awoke she saw that it was dark. In the peat-glow she could\ndescry the figure of Nial crouching in the shadow of the ingle, his gaze\nfixed upon her.\n\n\"What is it, Nial? what have you been doing?\"\n\nThe dwarf saw that as yet she had not remembered. He feared for the\nchild, though he knew not, what none knew, how the strange fatalism of\nthe race was already strong within her, strong and compelling as hunger,\nthirst, or sleep.\n\n\"Oona, my fawn, you must have food. I am hungry too. You have not eaten\nsince last night.\"\n\nA startled look came into her eyes. He saw it, and hurriedly resumed:\n\n\"So, a little ago, I lit the peats, which had smouldered into ash; and\nnow, bonnie wee doo, I will be making the porridge for you, and see ...\nthe water is boiling that is in the kettle, and I'm thinking it is\nsinging _Oona, Oona, mochree, Oona, Oona, mochree, come and be having\nthe food with poor Nial_! And, Oona, look you, there is the warm milk,\nand the bread; for I milked the brown cow Aillsha-b\u00e0n, when Sorcha went\nup the hill with Alan. An' I couldn't be milking the white one, Gealcas,\nfor she wouldn't give without Sorcha's singing, an' I could not be\nminding that song; no, not I; but I knew the song for Aillsha-b\u00e0n:\n\n  \"Aillsha-b\u00e0n, Aillsha-b\u00e0n,\n  Give way to the milking!\n  The holy St. Bridget\n  Is milking, milking\n  This self-same even\n  The white kye in heaven--\n  Ay, sure, my eyes scan\n  The green place she is in,\n  Aillsha-b\u00e0n, Aillsha-b\u00e0n:\n  And her hand is so soft\n  And her crooning is sweet\n  As my milking is soft\n  Upon thee, Aillsha-b\u00e0n--\n  As my crooning is sweet\n  Upon thee, Aillsha-b\u00e0n,\n    Aillsha-b\u00e0n--\n  So soft is my hand and\n  My crooning so sweet,\n    Aillsha-b\u00e0n!\"\n\nPoor Nial's singing was not restful, for his voice was at all times\nshrill and hoarse, and now it had an added quaver in it. But Oona\nlistened, drowsily content.\n\nShe had remembered all. Yes: Sorcha was right that day when she said\nDeath roamed through every hour, and that the moment before each new\nhour Death stood at the door and broke the link that held the going and\nthe coming in one bond.\n\nIf her foster-father was dead, he was dead. The fact was absolute to\nher. Once she had seen a stag die. She had been up near the summit of\nIolair, and was about to quench her thirst from a small black tarn, hid\namong the rocks, when she caught sight of a wounded deer. The hunter\nhad maimed, not slain it: and though it had escaped, it was only to sink\nwith weariness by the tarn, and lie there watching its blood trickle\nsteadily into the crimsoned water, till there should be no more flow. As\nlong as life remained in the stricken beast, Oona could not believe in\nthe possibility of death. In its extremity it made no further effort\nwhen she drew close: only a gurgling sob showed its broken heart, and\ngreat tears fell from its violet eyes. Either instinct let the stag know\nthat she would do it no harm, or it was too weak to resent a touch: but\nin the end the dying deer let Oona take its nozzle in her lap, while she\nsmoothed the velvety skin and wiped away the blood and sweat. Even when,\nkissing it and calling it tender impossible names, she saw the veil come\nover the eyes, she could not admit that death could come\n_then_--_there_. But when there was not a quiver, and the rigid limbs\nwere cold, her tears dried, and she looked at it meditatively. It was\ndead: what had she in common with it? A little ago, her heart throbbed\nwith loving pity: now she glanced at the great beast curiously. Its\nstrong odour was disagreeable: its bloodied mouth and breast disgusted\nher. There was no good in being sorry. It was dead.\n\nIn a different, but kindred way, her foster-father was the stricken\ndeer. She had seen him almost to his death: she had seen the drowned\nbody: almost she had died of her wild and passionate grief. Then she had\nslept through the noon-heats, and the afternoon, and the evening: and\nnow she awoke to the no longer overwhelming but irrefutable fact, that\nher foster-father was dead.\n\nShe had meant well. Why did the woman Anabal not see to the blind man?\nBut it did not matter. He was dead now: dead. God willed it so. It was\nto be. Not all the striving in the world could have prevented this. In\nwild winter nights, before the peats, she had heard Torcall himself\nchant the rune of Aodh the poet, with that haunting ending which Sorcha\nsang often to herself; that Alan had on his lips at times as always in\nhis heart; and that even Murdo muttered when it was tempestuous weather,\nand Death was abroad, and the gloom of the rocks was heavy upon him. Ah,\nthe words evaded her: but Nial would know, Nial who was the tuneless\nharp that caught all wandering strains, from sheiling-song to the way of\nthe wind among leaves.\n\n\"Nial: what is the thing that Sorcha sings often ... and that ... that\n_he_ sang sometimes, about the quiet at the end?\"\n\nNial stared, puzzled for a moment: then he repeated in a low voice:\n\n  \"_Deireadh gach comuinn, sgaoileadh:\n  Deireadh gach cogaidh, s\u00ecth!_\"\n\nOver and over Oona murmured the words: \"_The end of all meeting,\nparting: the end of all striving, peace_.\"\n\nShe was tired. She would think no more about her foster-father. He had\nseen God by now. He would know why she ran away from the Linn: and how\nthe fear was upon her in the wood: and, afterward, how the sorrow of him\npulled at her heart. And now....\n\nHow she wished Sorcha were home, to sing to her! Warm was the peat-glow,\nand she was tired. She closed her eyes again, murmuring drowsily the\nrefrain of an old song.\n\nSilence was in the dusky room again. Nial sat crouching by the fire:\npatient, as was his wont. There was not a sound within, save the low\nbreathing of the child and the dull spurtle of the flame among the red\nfibres on the undersides of the peats. Outside there was a melancholy\nwail in the sough of the hill-wind.\n\nThe first hour of the dark passed. What was the night to bring forth? he\nwondered. Where was Murdo? what had he found?\n\nAnother hour passed. A weary sleep was on him. He dozed, woke, stared\nat the shadowy figure of Oona, dozed again. At last he too slumbered,\nthe _duain-samhach_ that is too calm for dreams, too deep for sorrow.\n\nIt was in the middle of the third hour that he stirred because of the\nhowling of a dog.\n\nNial could do what was impossible even for Murdo the shepherd: he could\ntell in the dark, and by the sound only, which of the dogs barked. He\nknew now that the howling came neither from Donn nor Luath. It was not\nthe coming of Murdo, then, for these were his two dogs, and that was not\nthe howl of either. If they were near, their baying would be audible.\n\nYes, it was Fior. She must have left her pups, and be roaming round the\nsheiling. Why was she not in the barn? What had alarmed her?\n\nIf it were not because of Oona, he would go and quiet her. Tenderly he\nglanced toward the bed. He rose slowly, his heart beating.\n\nIn the flicker of the fire he saw the child sitting upright, her eyes\nwide open and staring fixedly.\n\nShe said no word. He feared to speak. Her unwavering gaze disconcerted\nhim, though now he saw that it was not upon him. He would just whisper\nto her, he thought:\n\n\"Oona-m\u00f9irnean, Oona-uanachan, it is only Fior. She will be baying\nagainst the moon, because of the spell against her pups.\"\n\nShe paid no attention to him. He shivered as he saw that her eyes were\nnow unnaturally bright: and that their gaze shifted, as though they\nfollowed one who moved about the room.\n\nThe child shivered, but seemed more in startled amaze than dread. There\nwas more fear in Nial than with her, when he heard her speak.\n\n\"Why do you come here?\"\n\nNial stared. There was no one visible.\n\n\"_Is coma leam thu!_ I hate you, I hate you!\" cried the child, with a\npassionate sob. \"Go back to him! I left him with you! He is not here; he\nis dead ... he is dead ... he is dead!\"\n\nTrembling, the dwarf advanced a step or two.\n\n\"Oona! Oona! It is I, Nial! Speak to me!\"\n\n\"Stand back, Nial: the woman Anabal, wife of Fergus, is speaking to me.\"\n\nWith a groan he staggered to one side. Was she here, then, and not still\nsitting on the great rock overlooking the Strath? Sure, then, a spirit\nmust she be: and no wraith now, for his eyes were void of her.\n\nBut for all his dread, he must guard his lamb. If only he knew one of\nthe spells in the Book, that he had placed at Oona's feet!\n\n\"And what will An--what will she be saying to you, my bird?\"\n\n\"She says: '_Leanabh, dh' \u00e8irich dha; dh' \u00e8irich domh; eiridh dhuit_!'\"\n\nNial slowly repeated the words below his breath: \"_Child, it has\nhappened to him; it has happened to me; it will happen to you_.\" Oona\nmust be ill, he thought; as Murdo was two winters ago, that time he came\nback from the Strath, on the last night of the year, lurching and\nswaying, and saying wild, meaningless things.\n\n\"And what else will she be saying to you, birdeen?\"\n\n\"'_Thig thu gu h'anamoch!_'\"\n\n\"'_Thou shalt come later_'; sure now, dear, there is no meaning in that!\nOona, my bonnie, lie down; lie down, wee lassie, and sleep, and sleep!\"\n\nBut even as he spoke, he saw a change in her face. It was like moonshine\nsuddenly moving on dark water.\n\nHe caught fragmentary words ... _suain_ ... _s\u00ecth_ ... and then, with\n\"sleep\" and \"peace\" still on her lips, she lay back, smiling.\n\nSlowly and soundlessly he approached the bed. In the intense stillness\nhe heard his breath going like the slow, heavy beat of a heron's wing.\nOutside, the baying of the dog had suddenly ceased.\n\nShe was asleep, or nigh so. He stooped and kissed the yellow tangles\nthat overspread the pillow.\n\nHer lips moved.\n\nWhat was the thing she whispered? He could not hear; ah, she was\nmurmuring it again: \"_... anail ... breath of ... breath of a...._\"\n\n\"_Hush-sh-sh_, birdeen,\" he whispered low; then, seeing that her lips\nagain muttered drowsily, he put his ear to them.\n\n\"_And then ... she ... smiled ... and said: Do not ... fear!_ (a pause,\na sigh) _... sacred is the ... breath ... the breath of ... a mother_.\"\n\nThe child slept. He stole back to the ingle. There was peace now; even\nthe wind, though it moaned and swelled more and more loudly, was as a\nsoothing song.\n\nAnd so the night passed; Nial sleeping fitfully, waking often, and ever\nwhen he woke pondering that last saying of the child, _Is bl\u00e0th anail na\nmathar_.\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\n\nThat night, any wayfarer going down Strath Iolair, between the Pass of\nthe Eagles and Inverglas, must have been startled by a windy blaze of\nflame against the slope of Tornideon.\n\nSince sundown the wind had increased in strength. The loud clarion-call\ncould be heard unceasing on the hills. Through the Pass it came with\nlong wail or dreary sough, then with a howl would swoop along Mairg\nWater, with a noise that washed away the roar of the Linn.\n\nOne man, at least, saw it. Under an arch of rock, in a space half filled\nwith fragrant dry bracken, Murdo the shepherd watched.\n\nDoggedness was at once Murdo's strength and weakness. He had been\nconvinced that Anabal Gilchrist, guilty or innocent, had perished along\nwith Torcall Cameron. He had come to the Linn, and till he found her he\nwould wait. Moreover, had he not the word of the Scriptures for it,\nbidding him be silent? What need, then, for him to go about as an idle\nrumour? All would be known in time without _his_ telling.\n\nWhen at last the twilight came, he was still there. If he could not see\nthe body of Anabal in Mairg Water--and he knew that, if there, it would\nsoon or late be swirled out of the Linn or the Kelpie's Pool--he would\nwait till he saw her wraith.\n\nThere were many things--like certain stories told of the speed of great\nvessels at sea, and about what the electricity, out of which the\nlightning came, could be made to do--which he doubted, or at least\ndiscounted in the telling. But in the sure wisdom of his fathers he knew\nthere was no rock of stumbling; therefore he was well aware that the\nwraith of the dead comes to and fro between its death-place and that\ndarkness which is deeper than the mirk of the blackest night, on the\nnight following its severance from the body. So, he would wait and see.\nIf her wraith came from up the Strath or from down the hill, he would\nknow that she had not died in the water. Wherever it came from, he would\nfollow it.\n\nHe had seen too much, he muttered again and again to himself, with\nquaking heart: he had seen too much in hill-gloamings and drear mountain\nnights to have fear of the wraith of a poor widow-body, who lived no\nfurther away than over against Cnoc-Ruadh on Tornideon. The moaning and\nloud soughing of the wind tried him sore. But the night was cloudless,\nand the moon hung above Iolair, a beacon everywhere in the dark. Then,\ntoo, as the hours went, he grew warm and comfortable in his rocky lair;\nmoreover, fresh text after text came into his mind. In multiplicity of\nthese was safety; even were some of them no more than \"And Chelub, the\nbrother of Shunah, begat Mehir,\" or than that (to Murdo, blasphemously\nfamiliar) saying in Isaiah, \"In that day shall the Lord shave with a\nrazor that is hired\"--though, sure, to his shepherd mind, there was\ncomfortable word as of home, as well as sacred influence, in \"And it\nshall come to pass in that day, that a man shall nourish a young cow,\nand two sheep.\"\n\nHe had been dozing when the first spurt of flame broke out upon\nTornideon. A little later he roused with a start, and looked out upon\nthe Pool. There was a gleam there, or somewhere; could it be the woman\nAnabal?\n\nThen his gaze was drawn swift and steadfast, as iron to a magnet. He\nrealised what and where the flames were. Ardoch-beag was on fire.\n\nIn a moment there flashed upon him the recollection of M\u00e0m-Gorm, on the\nwhite mare Raoilt, in the byre there.\n\nWith the thought came another, that he had been mad to believe Anabal\nwas in the Pool at all. She must have discovered the body of Torcall,\nand set fire to the place--corpse, mare, and byre! There was not a\nmoment to lose. Yet, perhaps it was Alan; well, even then, he muttered,\nhe must go. But supposing ... _but supposing_ ... that ... that M\u00e0m-Gorm\nhimself....\n\nMurdo did not know what to do. The dogs would help him, he thought.\nCrawling from his hiding-place, he whistled to Donn and Luath. Both\ncollies had already crept from the fern, and were standing with\nstiffened tails and rigid bodies, intently watching the shooting,\ndarting, leaping, ever-spreading flame on the hill opposite. Abruptly,\nLuath began to growl. Then Donn stole, whining, to the shepherd's feet.\n\n\"What ails the dogs?\" he muttered, half angrily.\n\nA few minutes later his keen eyes discerned the cause of their\nuneasiness. The full flood of the moonlight was upon the flank of\nTornideon, and it was now possible to see along the whole path from\nArdoch-beag to the Ford, \"_glan mar a ghrian_,\" as he said to\nhimself--clear as in the sunlight.\n\nAnd this was the thing that Murdo the shepherd saw, to be with him to\nhis death-day, and to be for ever in Strath Iolair a legend of terror.\n\nDown the steep descent that began to fall away a few yards beyond\nArdoch-beag, he saw a tall, gaunt woman, with rent garments and long,\nloosened hair fluttering in the wind, striding down the hillway, often\nwith wild gestures. And before the woman trampled and snorted a horse,\nmad with the fear of the flame, and knowing, too, it may be, the awful\nburden of death it bore, now swung crosswise upon its back. As a mad\nhorse will do, it pranced in a strange, stiff, fantastic way: wild to\nleap forward and race like the wind from what lay behind, from what\njerked and jolted above; yet constrained as by another than human force.\n\nEver and again, in a momentary lull of the wind, Murdo could hear its\nshrill, appalling neighing. Once, too, he shrank, because of the\nscreaming laughter of the woman.\n\nFurlong by furlong he watched this ghastly march of the dead and dying.\nWere it not for the flames at Ardoch-beag, where both house and byre\nwere now caught in a swirling blaze, he would have believed the other to\nbe no more than a vision.\n\nWith difficulty he silenced the dogs. He would stay where he was now,\nand see what was going to be done that night: for it was clear that\nAnabal, seemingly mad, and having set fire to Ardoch-beag, was now\ndriving Raoilt and its corpse-burthen either down to Mairg Water, or\nwith intent to cross and go up the mountain of M\u00e0m-Gorm.\n\nThis last, indeed, was evidently her aim: for, when at last the Ford was\nreached, Murdo could see her striving to make the affrighted mare enter\nthe shallows. Raoilt, however, would not budge. With forelegs planted\nfirmly, with head thrown up, quivering flanks, and long tail slashing\nthis way and that, the white mare showed some strange horror of the\nswift-running ford-water. Suddenly she swung round, and with a grotesque\nprancing moved along the north bank toward the Linn.\n\nThey were now close to him. Murdo could see the bloodshot, gleaming\neyeballs of Raoilt: the white set face and staring eyes of Anabal.\nEither the roar of the whirlpool, or the sight of one of the collies\nslinking terrified through the fern, added a new terror to the mare. She\nswerved wildly. The burden she bore became still further unloosed. With\nscraping hoofs she pawed at a bank of heather, in a vain attempt to find\nsolid footing. A plunge ... a fall backward ... a staggering recovery\namong the very rocks of the Linn ... and ... freedom at last!\n\nBut, for the second time since Murdo had last seen him in life, Torcall\nCameron was hurled headlong into the Linn o' Mairg.\n\nWith a cry the shepherd sprang forward. Anabal heard, but did not see.\nAll she knew was the roar of the linn, the wail of the kelpie, and\n_that_--that withering scream of the dead man.\n\nFor a moment she stood on the verge of the cataract. Her arms were\nupraised: her whole body moved with one unutterable supplication.\n\n\"_Fergus! Fergus!_\"\n\nThe wild appeal rang through the night, above the turmoil of the falling\nwater, the increasing moan and loud blasting vehemence of the wind.\n\nMurdo did not see her leap or fall. His gaze had for a moment sought the\nmare, who, at that cry, had leaped as though stung by fire, and was\ncareering at breakneck speed up the boulder-strewn bank by which she had\ncome.\n\nBut when the shepherd looked again, Anabal Gilchrist was gone.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThroughout that night there was a wilder sound on the hillside than any\nwail of the wind. This was the screaming of the white horse, as,\nwrought now to a death-madness, it leaped waywardly through the dark, so\npassing from height to height upward along the whole mountainal flank of\nIolair.\n\nAt dawn, in the sheiling high up on Druimnan-Damh, Sorcha awoke,\ntrembling.\n\nFor a time she listened in awe to the majesty of the wind, a vast choric\nchant that filled the morning-twilight with an ocean of flowing sound.\nThen, again and again, she heard that strange, horrible scream.\n\nAlan stirred. She whispered as she drew closer to him. He, too,\nlistened. A great fear lay upon both. This screaming voice in the night\nwas an omen of sorrow, of doom. Who could it be but the Bandruidh--that\nevil sorceress of the hills, dark daughter of the Haughty Father, who\nhad already won the soul out of Nial?\n\nSleep was impossible. It was banished even from thought, when a wild\nneighing close to the walls of the cot made Sorcha cry out and cling to\nAlan as though death were already upon them.\n\nThey lay shuddering. Clearly this was one of the water-bulls or\nwater-horses which roam the mountain-ways on nights of storm: dread\ndemon-creatures, to see whom even is almost certain death.\n\n\"It will not be long till sunrise,\" Alan whispered; and by that Sorcha\nwas comforted, for she knew that the ravening thing outside would have\nto haste back to loch or river or sea.\n\nAnd by daybreak, in truth, the beast was already away. They heard the\nclamour of its hoofs against the granite stones and rock, as it sped\nupward still.\n\nWhen, hand clasping hand, they ventured to go out, they could see no\nliving thing, but an eagle soaring high above the extreme peak of\nIolair: for the light of the new glorious day was in their eyes as they\nfaced the Ridge of the Stags.\n\nBut suddenly Sorcha caught sight of something white leaping against the\nsunrise.\n\nAlan's gaze followed her trembling arm and outstretched finger. He, too,\nsaw, but unrecognisingly, a white horse, prancing and screaming along\nthe verge of the granite precipice of Sg\u00f2rr-Glan.\n\nThe mad beast was now on the Sg\u00f2rr itself. Behind were deep corries and\nravines: in front, nothing but the flaming disc of fire, nothing but\nthat sheer blank wall of granite, straight from the brow of the Sg\u00f2rr to\nwhere the Sr\u00faantsrh\u00e0 surged darkly its tortuous way, two thousand feet\nbelow.\n\nA faint, impalpable mist was in the air. This, doubtless, it was that\nmade the white horse loom larger and larger, till it stood out against\nthe morning, vast as Liath-Macha, the untamable phantom steed, \"grey to\nwhiteness,\" that Cuculain the Hero rode triumphantly through the valley\nof the shadow of death.\n\nThen it was as though it leaped against the sun itself.\n\n\n\n\nXII\n\n\nWeek after week went by, changelessly fine, so that in the Strath men\nbegan to shake their heads ominously because of the long drought. In the\nmemory of none had there been an autumn so lovely. For a brief spell, in\nmid August, coming indeed with the storm of wind which had helped the\nflames utterly to consume the few poor buildings of Anabal Gilchrist on\nTornideon, great clouds had travelled inland from the Atlantic, and had\nburst floodingly upon hill and valley. But in less than a week the sky\nwas clear again, and of a richer, deeper blue. The whole mountain-land\nwas veiled in beauty.\n\nThe woods at the end of October were, other than the pine-forests, a\nblaze of glory. Few leaves had fallen, except from the limes and\nsycamores, and these sparsely only ... scarce enough to lay a pathway of\nflakes of yellow gold before the hinds and fawns that trooped through\nthe sunlit glades. The innumerable rowan-trees wore fiery hues upon\ntheir feathery foliage: everywhere the scarlet berries suspended in\nblood-red clusters against the blue sky or the cool greenness.\n\nThe dream, the spell, was not only upon the beautiful green earth. It\nlay elsewhere than there, or in the deeps of heaven: elsewhere than on\nthe quiet waters which slept against the shores beyond the mountains and\nslumbered immeasurably toward the ever-receding west, with a soft\nmoaning only, wonderful and sweet to hear.\n\nFor it was upon the heart and in the brain of each of the mountaineers\nof Iolair: but most upon Sorcha and Alan.\n\nFor them the days had gone past, days of rapt happiness in that golden\nweather. Already the world had become to them no more than a dream. They\nwent to and fro, hushed, upon the hills, each oblivious of all save the\nother, all save the ceaseless thrilling wonder of the pageant of the\nhours from dawn to moonset. That strange rapture which comes at times\nto isolated, visionary dreamers upon the hills, wrought a spell upon\nAlan. Scarce less was it upon Sorcha, and that less only, if at all,\nbecause of the second life that she sustained. The \"mirdeeay\" was a\nglamour in their eyes, in their mind, in their heart, from the hour of\nthe waning star to the coming of night. Not all an evil thing is it to\ndream. The world well lost! Ah, shadowy-eyed dreamers that know the\nsecret wisdom, it is well to dream!\n\nNone of the Strath-folk saw them now. The people murmured against them\nbecause of the tragic mystery of the deaths of Torcall Cameron and\nAnabal Gilchrist. Little had been learned from Murdo, and none now\nencountered Oona or Nial. But a dropped word, a reluctant admission, a\ncareful evasion, from the shepherd, went far. Hints grew into a legend:\nsoon a perverted yet not wholly misleading version of the facts became\ncurrent.\n\nOn the same morning when, from the mountain-sheiling, they had seen the\nwhite mare, screaming in her madness, leap from the precipice of\nSg\u00f2rr-Glan, as though full against the sun, Alan and Sorcha learned from\nMurdo what had happened. Below all the grief and horror of the double\ntragedy, there was one thing not to be gainsaid. The hand of God was\nhere.\n\nAfter their first passionate sorrow they whispered this thing the one to\nthe other. It was ordained. God had wrought thus with the thread of all\ntheir lives. There was none to blame, neither Torcall, nor Anabal, nor\nthe child Oona, unwitting instrument of the Divine will. _Is duilich\ncuir an aghaidh d\u00e0n_: Who can oppose Fate, who set himself against\nDestiny?\n\nA strange thing, that had a terrifying significance for the\nStrath-dwellers, was this: never were the bodies of Torcall Cameron and\nAnabal Gilchrist found. The Linn was dragged, the Kelpie's Pool poled\nover and over, the lower reaches of Mairg Water were examined under\nevery shelving bank, or wherever a sunken bole or submerged boulder\nmight have caught the castaways. No trace was seen anywhere, then or\nlater. Possibly it was true, what an old man of Inverglas averred, that\nthere was a slope at the bottom of the Kelpie's Pool, which ran in\nbeneath a shelving ledge, whence the water poured down a funnel-like\npassage into a cavern filled with stalactites, through the innumerable\nholes and crannies at the base of which the flow vanished even as it\ncame.\n\nHe had this knowledge, he said, from his father before him, who in the\ngreat drought of the first year of the century had seen the Pool\nshrunken so that a man might stand in it and yet not be wet above the\nknees. \"And the word of my father will not be for doubting,\" the old\ncrofter added: \"for he lived with God before him till he died, and now\nwas with his own folk in Flaitheanas itself, praising Himself for\nevermore.\"\n\nThereafter, as was but natural, the home upon Tornideon being no more,\nAlan and Sorcha lived at M\u00e0m-Gorm. There was none to dispute their\npossession, for Torcall Cameron was without blood-kin, and all that was\nhis was Sorcha's.\n\nSo week after week went by. Even in the Strath the people said: \"It was\nwilled.\" There was no man nor woman among them, even of those who were\nangry with Sorcha that she was not wedded before the\nminister--forgetful, always, that it was the minister who had refused to\nwed Alan and Sorcha, because of the feud between Torcall and Anabal\n(and, though none had inkling of it, because of the sin he knew of that\nlay between them, the sin that lived and moved and had its being in the\nperson of the child Oona)--and still more who were angry with her\nbecause she came never among them, but was as one lost to the world,\nand she too with the second life in her, when she ought to be seeing and\ntalking to older womenfolk--there was none among these who, in his or\nher heart of hearts, did not recognise that it is ever an idle thing for\nsmall wings to baffle against a great wind. _It was to be: it would be._\nThat was the unspoken refrain of all thoughts: the undertone of all\ncomments.\n\nThe tragic end of Anabal Gilchrist, the doom that had fulfilled itself\nfor Torcall Cameron: what was either but apiece with the passing of the\nancient language, though none wished it to go; with the exile of the\nsons, though they would fain live and die where their fathers wooed\ntheir mothers; with the coming of strangers, and strange ways, and a new\nbewildering death-cold spirit, that had no respect for the green graves,\nand jeered at ancient things and the wisdom of old--strangers whom none\nhad sought, none wished, and whose coming meant the going of even the\nfew hillfolk who prospered in the _m\u00e0char_, the fertile meadows and\npastures along the mountain bases? _It was to be: it would be._\n\nAmong the old there was exceeding bitterness. An angry and a brooding\npain frowned in many hearts. But, alas, what good to meet the\ninevitable with wailing? What had to be, surely would be. Old wifeless\nmen, old childless women, took comfort in that bitter-sweet saying of\nthe Psalmist: \"is iad \u00ecobairtean Dh\u00e9 spiorad briste\"--\"_the sacrifice of\nGod is a broken spirit_.\"\n\nBut, with the harvesting, the Strath-folk forgot for a while the very\nexistence of the mountain-lovers.\n\nSmitten with the strange rapt elation of their dream, Alan and Sorcha\nstill went to and fro as though spellbound. Sometimes he herded the cows\nalone: as before, Sorcha milked the sweet-breath kine, singing low her\nsongs of holy St. Bridget or old-world cadences rare and nigh-forgotten\nnow as the _Fonnsheen_, the fairy melodies once wont to be heard on the\nhills and in remote places. But, though apart for a brief while, it was\nonly to dream the more.\n\nYet, strange to say, Alan knew in his heart that this could not endure.\nIt could not be for over long: God, soon or late, lays winter upon the\nheart, as well as upon the song of the bird, the bloom of the flower.\n\nNevertheless, he had no trouble because of this. There is, at times, in\ndeep happiness, a gloom as of dark water filled with sunlight. While\nthe glow is there, a living joy, the gloom is no more than the quiet\nsorrow of the world.\n\nOften, of late, he had noticed upon the hillside, upon brier and\nbramble, fern-covert or dwarf-elder, that indescribable shadow of light,\nvisible too at full noon in that golden weather as well as at the\npassing of the sun: that glow of omen, known of Celtic poets and seers\nin far-gone days. The first line of a fragmentary rune, come down from\none of these singers, who walked nearer to nature than does any now\namong the sons of men, was upon his lips over and over, because of this\nthing:\n\n  \"_Tha bruaillean air aghaidh nan tom._\"\n  \"_There is boding gloom on the face of the bushes._\"\n\nOnce only the gloom lay upon him, the gloom that is upon the mind as a\ndark cloud upon a field of grain. What if ill should have come to\nSorcha?\n\nHe turned, and went swiftly home. The gloaming had fallen, and Sorcha\nwas sitting before the flaming peats, with clasped hands and dreaming\neyes. She was crooning, half breathing, half crooning, a song, low and\nsweet against his ear as the noise of a running brook heard in sleep as\none fares by green pastures under a moon strange and new in a strange\nland. And the song was one he had not known, not since he was a child,\nand heard Morag, the wife of Kenneth, foster-brother of Fergus\nGilchrist, sing it before, in a day of mourning, she brought forth her\nfirstborn:\n\n  \"An' O, an' O, St. Bride's sweet song 'tis I am hearing, dearie,\n  Dearie, dearie, dearie, my wee white babe that's weary,\n  Weary, weary, weary, with this my womb sae weary,\n  And Bride's sweet song ye hear it too, and stir and sigh, my dearie!\n\n      \"Oh, oh, le\u00e1naban-mo,\n      Wee hands that give me pain and woe:\n      Pain and woe, but be it so,\n      'Tis his dear self that now doth grow,\n      Le\u00e1naban-mo, le\u00e1naban-mo,\n      'Tis his dear self one day you'll know,\n      Le\u00e1naban-mo, le\u00e1naban-mo!\n\n      \"St. Bridget dear, the cradle show,\n      My baby comes, and I must go,\n      Le\u00e1naban-mo, le\u00e1naban-mo!\n      Arone!... Ar\u00f2!\n      Arone!... Ar\u00f2!\"\n\nHe had stood in the shadow, silent, listening with awe and a strange\njoy. His heart yearned to go to her, but he knew that a mother's first\ntears were in the dreaming eyes, and that it was not for him, nor any\nsave God, to be seeing them.\n\nSo Alan turned, and went up through the dusk to the low green summit of\nCnoc-na-shee, a brief way from the sheiling. And when he was there he\nlooked and saw nothing in all the light-gloom sky but one star low in\nthe south--_Reul-na-dhuil_, the star of hope. Peace was in his heart. He\nkneeled down and made a prayer for Sorcha, and the child she bore, and\nfor him too. And when he rose, and went home, and looked back at green\nCnoc-na-shee, he saw there for a moment a figure as of an angel, shining\nbright.\n\nNight and day they were alone there. Murdo the shepherd was up at the\nhigh sheiling on Ben Iolair, and rarely came to M\u00e0m-Gorm save to help\nwith the kye, or do what was needed about the steading. Oona, too, was\nseldom seen of them; and of late, even she had not always come at\nsunrise for the food Sorcha placed for her on the bench by the door each\nmorning. As for Nial, he was for long seen of none, save Oona, and where\nand when that was no one knew.\n\nAs October waned, the day of the mountain lovers became more and more a\nlife of joy. Hand in hand they would sit on the bench in the sun,\nhappily content: or dream, hand clasping hand, before the glowing peats.\nIt was in vain that Murdo, fearing \"the quiet madness,\" reproached Alan,\nurging upon him that he should go down into Inverglas and see to the\nsale of the cattle and the sheep. The young man shook his head, smiled\ngently at the shepherd, and once at least murmured these ominous words:\n\"There is a time for all things, and it is my time to be still. I have\npeace.\"\n\nSorcha, being heavy with child, could not now walk far, and indeed cared\nlittle to go beyond the door-bench, or, at farthest, to the green slope\nof the hillock of Cnoc-na-shee. Her beauty had not waned because of her\ntrouble. Her eyes had grown more large and beautiful: wonderful stars of\nlight to Alan always--stars that shone out of infinite depths, wherein\nhis soul could sink till it reached that ninth wave of darkness which is\nthe sea of light beating upon the coasts of heaven.\n\nSo, ever and again, glad with his joy and ungrievingly gloomed because\nof the shadow that day by day wove a closer veil about his spirit, he\nnot grieving because not in himself knowing the mystery, he went out\nupon the hillside or into the forest. Often it was, then, that he heard\nthe singing of Oona in the woods at sunrise and during the hot noons.\nSometimes now, too, when late-wandering through the forest at gloaming,\nhe saw afar off the still figure of Nial crouching by the tarn, or\nseated with bent head among the flags and rushes of the drought-dried\npools. More than once, as he went home by the remoter glades, he heard\nthe elf-man chanting wildly among the pines at night.\n\nIt was on one such evening that, returning with his mind strangely\ntroubled because of the soulless man of the woods, and of his futile\nquest and the bitter wrong and pity of it, he was met by Murdo with\nstartling news. Sorcha had had a vision; and, being wrought by it, had\nfallen into premature labour. But she was not alone. He, Murdo, had\nbrought his foster-sister, Anna MacAnndra, back with him from the\nclachan by the Ford of the Sheep: for as he had gone down with some\nyoung ewes that noontide he had seen a look like death in Sorcha's face,\nso white and drawn was it with sudden pain. Anna, he added, was a leal\nfriend and dear to Sorcha, so that all was well.\n\nAnd that night, in truth, the child of their great love was born to\nthem. A night it was of pain and joy, of agony and rapture. But when at\nlast the long-waited dawn came--when, as the woman Anna said, there was\nno more need to fear, for the death-hour of woman in travail was well\npast--there was deep breathing of quiet happiness upon the sleeping\nmother, deep slumber of birth-weariness upon the child that lay against\nher breast, deep peace in the heart of Alan.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was not till the eve of that day that Sorcha told him of her vision.\nShe had been sitting in the sun upon Cnoc-na-shee, when she was amazed\nto see three people pass from the forest and make their way up the hill.\nBecause of the noon-glare she could not discern who they were, though\neach seemed vaguely familiar. Dark in the glowing light, their figures\nwere visible till they reached the ancient stones beside the cairn of\nMarsail. There she thought they passed into the long hollow beyond; but,\nwhen she looked again, she saw that they were now four in number, and\nthat they were coming down the kye-path to M\u00e0m-Gorm. Her heart had begun\nto waver; but it was not till they were half-way down that she\nrecognised the white faces of them: Torcall her father and Marsail her\nmother, Anabal and her man Fergus. All four walked in peace. And she\nheard a thin song in the air, that may have been from them or may have\nbeen behind her: a song that said, \"_Beannachd do t'anam is buaidh_,\"\n\"Blessing to thy soul, and victory,\" \"Blessing, blessing to thy soul,\nand peace!\" But still the spirit in her was strong, for why should she\nfear, dead, those whom she had loved, living?\n\nBut as they drew nearer she saw the woman Anabal waving her arms slowly\nas she advanced, even as the prophesying women of old did before the\nLord; and, so waving, she chanted a rune. And the rune that she chanted\nwas the _Rune of the Passion of the Mother_, that no man has ever heard\nsince time was, and that has been in the ears of those women, only, who\nare to lose life in the giving of a life unto Life. So, hearing this\nrune, she fell sobbing, with the pains already upon her: and, but for\nthe coming of Murdo with Anna, she would have borne her child on\nCnoc-na-shee, the fairy hill--and who knows but its doom might have been\nthat of Nial the soulless?\n\nThis vision, Sorcha added, she would not have told to any one had she\nfelt the death-breath enter her as the child was delivered; but now that\nthe boy was born, and was so fair and lusty, blue-eyed and\ngolden-haired as his father had been before him when he too was a\nbreast-babe, and, too, that all was well with her, she told it.\nMoreover, sure, no harm could come of a song of peace: and as for the\n_Rune of the Passion of Mary_, it was no more than an idle tale, that\nsaying of Anna MacAnndra's and of other women, that whoso shall hear it\nshall surely die within the birth-month.\n\nAnd because of her smiling lips and loving eyes, and of the fair, lusty\nchild whose little hands wandered clingingly about the white breast of\nSorcha, Alan believed that the ancient wisdom was an idle tale.\n\nWhen the dark fell, and pinelogs were thrown upon the redhot peats, the\ntwo talked in low, hushed tones, with eyes that ever sought each other\nlovingly--dreamed and talked, whispered and dreamed, far into the night.\n\nThen, with close-clasping arm holding her child to her bosom, as though\nin her exceeding weakness--a weakness nigh unto death, now that it\nseemed to float up to her from within, rather than descend upon her from\nabove--she feared her white blossom of love might be taken from her,\nSorcha sank suddenly into drowning sleep.\n\nSitting by the bedside, with his hand stroking or holding hers, Alan\nrevolved other thoughts than those of love only.\n\nPassing strange, passing strange, this mystery of motherhood over which\nhe brooded obscurely. And, truly, who can know the long, bitter travail\nof the spirit, as well as the pangs of the body, which many women\nendure--except just such a woman, suffering in just that way? Can any\nman know? Hardly can it be so. For though a man can understand the agony\nof birthtide, and even the long ache and strain of the double life, can\nhe comprehend the baffled sense of overmastering weakness, the vague\ninformulate cry against all powers that be--Man, overlord of the womb:\nGod, overlord of men. How many women have prayed not to Him, but to the\none Pontiff before whom all thoughts bow down, worshipping in dread: to\nthat shadowy Lord of the veiled face whom some call Death, that Woman of\nthe compassionate eyes whom others call Oblivion, because of the poppied\ndraught she gives the weary to drink, and the quiet glooms of rest that\nshe holds in the hollow of her hand, and the hushed breath of her that\nis Forgetfulness.\n\nThoughts such as these, though in crude words and simple symbols, were\nin Alan's mind.\n\nNo, he knew: never again could he even listen to men jeering at birth.\nHe, though he had come to her virginal-pure, yet feared Sorcha's eyes at\ntimes, because--though not knowing for what it was--of the deep-buried\nspiritual anathema which, in the gaze of the purest and noblest of\nwomen, affronts the chained brute that is in the man.\n\nAh, do men know, do men know--many a woman cries in her heart--do men\nknow that a woman with child dies daily: that she wakes up to die, and\nthat she lies down to die: and that even as hourly she dies, so hourly\ndoes the child inherit life? Do they know that her body is the temple of\na new soul? What men are they, in any land, who profane the sacred\naltars? Death was of old the just penalty of those who defiled the holy\nplace where godhood stood revealed in stone or wood or living Bread:\nshall they go free who defile the temple of the human soul?\n\n\"Sure, sure,\" Alan breathed rather than whispered, with some such\nthought as this in his mind, \"sure I am the priest of God, and she there\nmy temple ... and lo, my God!\" ... and with that he leaned over and\nkissed the little rosy fingers, and the hot tears in his eyes fell upon\nSorcha's breast, so that she stirred in her sleep and smiled, dreaming\nthat a soft rain was falling upon her out of the Healing Fountain of\nTears that is in the midmost Heaven.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was at sunrise that the door opened and Oona entered. The child was\nwet with dew which glistered all over her as though she were a\nnew-plucked flower.\n\n\"Ah, birdeen, it is you!\" whispered Alan softly, lest the sleepers\nshould wake. \"See, I have been dreaming and sleeping all night before\nthe peats.\"\n\nOona stared at the bed, where all she could see was Sorcha's pale face\namong its mass of dusky hair.\n\n\"Is it true, Alan? That ... over there ... is _that_ true?\"\n\n\"It is true, dear.\"\n\n\"Are you _sure_ that a baby has come to Sorcha?\"\n\n\"It is Himself that sent it.\"\n\n\"Alan, has it a soul?\"\n\n\"A soul?... Yes, sure no evil eye is upon it, to the Stones be it said!\nBut why do you ask that thing?\"\n\nThe child sighed, but made no answer, her gaze wandering from Alan\nround the room, and then to where Sorcha lay.\n\n\"Why do you say that, Oona? It is not a safe thing to say: sure, it is\nnot a good wishing. Who knows who may be hearing, though I wish evil to\nno one, banned or blest!\"\n\n\"I see no one,\" Oona began calmly: \"I see no one, and how can _no one_\nhear? But I will not be for saying an unlucky thing: sure, you know\nthat, dear Alan. _Happiness be in this house!..._ And, now, I will be\ngoing, Alan, for I....\"\n\n\"Going? _Hush-sh!_ wait, Oona, wait: sure, you will be wanting to see\nthe little one?\"\n\n\"I want to see Nial.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"He must not come ... just now.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"At dawn we went up to the top of the hillock, for the 'quiet people'\nare ever away by then, it is said. And we prayed. I prayed, and Nial\nsaid whatever I said. And then, at sunrise, we rose, and went three\ntimes round Cnoc-na-shee south-ways, and each time cried\n_Djayseeul!_\"[17]\n\n     [17] _Deasiul_: \"the way of the south [_i.e._ of the sun] (to\n     you!)\" From _deas_, the south, and _seol_, way of, direction. The\n     common Gaelic exclamation for luck, in the Highlands at any rate.\n     Many old crofters still, on coming out of a morning, cry\n     \"_Deasiul!_\"\n\n\"And what was it you would be praying, Oona?\"\n\n\"That no soul might be in the body of Sorcha's baby.\"\n\nAlan stared at her, too amazed at first to be angry.\n\n\"What madness is this, lassie?\"\n\n\"Sure it is no madness at all, at all, Alan! It is a good thought, and\nno madness.... For ... for why.... There is poor Nial; and when Murdo\nmet him on the hillside last night, and told him about Sorcha, Nial\nfound me out by calling through the woods like a cuckoo, and sure a good\nway too, for there are no cooaks now; and then he and I hoped the baby\nwould have no soul ... and....\"\n\n\"Hush-sh! Hush-sh! Enough! enough! _bi s\u00e0vach!_ I am not being angered\nwith you, because of the good thought that was in your heart. But say\nthese things no more. Come; look at Sorcha and the child.\"\n\nWith a light, swift step Oona moved across the room. Silently she looked\ninto Sorcha's face; silently she stood looking awhile at the child.\n\nAlan had no word from her, to his sorrow. Steadfastly she stared; but\nbreathed no whisper even. Then, with a faint sigh, she turned, moved\nlike a ray of light across the room, and, before he knew what had\nhappened, she was gone.\n\nBewildered at the child going thus quietly away, he went slowly to the\ndoor; but she had already vanished. So small a lass could soon be lost\nin that sunlit sea of green-gold bracken.\n\nFor some days thereafter he caught at times a faint echo of her singing\nin the woods. Once, in a gleaming silver-dusk, he saw the imprint of her\nsmall feet, darkly distinct in the wet dew, underneath the little window\nbehind which Sorcha lay. But she did not come again.\n\nIt was on the eve of the morning that Oona came that Nial also, for the\nfirst and last time, beheld the little Ivor--so called after Ivor, the\nbrother of Marsail that was Sorcha's mother, the noblest man Alan had\never known; \"Ivor the good,\" as he was called by some, \"Ivor the poet\"\nby others.\n\nAlan was out, talking to Anna MacAnndra, when Nial stole into the room.\nOne hope was in his heart: that Sorcha slept.\n\nWith gleaming eyes, seeing that this was so, he drew near. The sight of\nthe little white child, close lain against his mother's bosom, made a\npain in his heart greater than ever the stillest moonlit night had\ndone--a suffocating pain, that made him tremble.\n\nHe drew a long breath. He, too, he knew, had once been small, perhaps\nwhite and sweet, like _that_.\n\nWas it possible that so small, so frail a thing could have a soul? Sure,\nit could not be. If not, should he not take it, and keep it by him in\nthe forest, till the day when it could be mate to him, Nial the\nsoulless? But if....\n\nHis hand touched the skin of the little rosy arm. The child opened its\neyes of wonder full upon him.\n\nThey gazed unwaveringly, seeing nothing, it may be: if seeing, heeding\nnot. Had it cried, even, or turned away its head; but, no, its blue,\nunfearing eyes were fixed upon this creature of another world.\n\nIt was enough. With a low, sobbing moan he turned and stole unseen from\nthe room, and so out on the hillside, and past that praying-place of\nCnoc-na-shee, where so vainly he and Oona had urged that which might not\nbe; and so to the forest, that was the home of the wild fawns, and of\nthe red fox, and of Nial.\n\nNone, save the child Oona, ever saw again the elf-man that was called\nNial the Soulless: none, though Murdo the shepherd averred that, once,\nas he passed through the forest in the darkness of a black dawn, he\nheard a wailing cry come from a great hollow oak that grew solitary\namong the endless avenues of the pines.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was far within that first month of motherhood, presaged by the secret\nrune heard of Sorcha, the _Rune of the Passion of Mary_, that only women\ndying of birth may hear: it was within this time that an unspeakable\nweakness came upon Sorcha.\n\nDay by day she grew frail and more frail. Her eyes were pools for the\ncoming shadows of death.\n\nStrange had been their love: strange the coming of it: stranger still\nwas their joy in the hour of death.\n\nFor this thing upbore her, that was to go, and him, that was to stay:\nJOY.\n\nNot vainly had they lived in dream. Sweet now was the waning of the\ndream into long sleep. Sweet is sleep that will never stir to any\nwaking: sweeter that sleep which is but a balm of rest.\n\nFor they knew this: that they would awake in the fulness of time.\n\nWhen, for the first time, the doom-word passed her lips, Alan shuddered\nslightly, but he did not quail.\n\n\"I am dying, dear heart!\"\n\n\"Sorcha, this thing has been near to us many days. It is not for long.\"\n\n\"And thou wilt look to thine own dark hour with joy?\"\n\n\"Even so.\"\n\n\"And our legacy to this our child ... shall be ... shall be....\"\n\n\"It shall be Joy. He shall be, among men, Ivor the Joy-bringer.\"\n\nNo more was said between them, then, nor later.\n\nIt was in the afternoon of the day following this that Sorcha died. She\nwas fain to breathe her last breath on the mountain-side. Tenderly, to\nthe green hillock by the homestead, Alan had carried her. Soft was the\nwest wind upon her wandering hands; warm the golden light out of the\nshining palaces of cloud whence that wind came.\n\nHe was stooping, with his arm upholding her, and whispering low, when,\nsuddenly, she lifted the little Ivor toward him. Quietly she lay back\nagainst the slope of the green grass. She was dead.\n\nAlan quivered. All the tears of his life rose up in a flood, and\ndrowned his heart. He could not see the child in his arms; but he did\nnot sway nor fall. Sorcha strengthened him.\n\nThen silently the wave of grief, of a grief that might not be spoken,\nebbed. Out of the sea of bitterness his soul rose, a rock with the sun\nshining upon it.\n\nSlowly he raised the child above his head, till the wind was all about\nit, and the flooding glory of light out of the west.\n\nA look of serene peace came into his face: within him the breath of an\nimmortal joy transcended the poor frailty of the stricken spirit.\n\nWhen the words that were on his lips were uttered, they were proud and\nstrong as the fires of the sun against the dawn:\n\n\"_Behold, O God, this is Ivor, the son of Sorcha, that I boon unto Thee,\nto be, for all the days Thou shalt give him, Thy servant of Joy among\nmen._\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere was peace that night upon Iolair. But toward dawn--the morrow of\nthat new, strange life wherein Alan and the child, with Oona mayhap,\nwere to go forth toward those distant isles where, as Sorcha had seen in\na vision, Ivor's ministry of joy was to be--a great wind arose.\n\nThe hills heard, and the moan of them went up before it. The mountains\nawoke, and were filled with a sound of rejoicing.\n\nThrough the darkness that lightened momently it came down the glens and\nthe dim braes of bracken. Many waters felt the breath of it, and leaped.\n\nThe silences of the forest were as yet unbroken. Unbroken of the wind,\nat least: for, faint and far, there rose and fell a monotonous chanting,\nthe chanting of a gaunt, dwarfed, misshapen figure that moved like a\ndrifting shadow from pine-glade to pine-glade.\n\nBut as dawn broke wanly upon the tallest trees, the wings of the tempest\nstruck one and all into a mighty roar, reverberatingly prolonged: a\nsolemn, slow-sounding anthem, full of the awe of the Night, and of the\nmajesty of the Day, hymning mysteries older than the first dawn, deeper\nthan the deepest dark.\n\nAnd after the passing of that great wind the forest was still. Only a\nwhisper as of the sea breathed through its illimitable green wave.\n\n\n\n\nBIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE\n\nBY MRS. WILLIAM SHARP\n\n\n_Pharais_, the first book written by William Sharp over the signature of\n\"Fiona Macleod,\" was published, in 1904, by Mr. Frank Murray (Derby), as\nthe third volume of the \"Regent Library,\" (of which _Vistas_, by William\nSharp, was the second volume). It was reissued, in 1907, by Mr. T. N.\nFoulis. In America _Pharais_ was originally published by Messrs. Stone &\nKimball (Chicago), as the first volume of their \"Green Tree Library,\"\nand was reissued by Messrs. Duffield & Co. in 1906.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_The Mountain Lovers_ was published in 1895, in England and America by\nMr. John Lane, and a second edition was brought out in 1907.\n\nTranscriber's Note:\n\nVariations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained\nexcept in obvious cases of typographical error:\n\n     \"Before they left the farmstead, the (Marcraes -->) Macraes had...\"\n     \"The old (ilsesman -->) islesman muttered...\"\n     \"...(Eaiasaid -->) Ealasaid suddenly fell on her knees,...\"\n     \"For a long while (therafter -->) thereafter...\"\n     \"...Nial thought of M\u00e0m-(Gord -->) Gorm as God...\"\n     \"...genitive of (nathair -->) n\u00e0thair...\"\n     \"...if _she_ is there (to -->) too.\"\n\nFootnotes interrupting paragraphs have been moved.\n\nItalic printed text has been formatted as _text_.","title":"Pharais; and, The Mountain Lovers","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":84371}