/f/o 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 5354.S5 1910 
 The sin-eater.The washer of the ford and 
 
 3 1924 013 546 621 
 
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The Writings of 
 "FIONA MACLEOD" 
 
 UNIFORM EDITION 
 
 ARRANGED BY 
 
 MRS. WILLIAM SHARP 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 The Washer of the Ford 
 
 and 
 Other Legendary Moralities 
 
 BY 
 
 "FIONA MACLEOD" 
 
 (WILLIAM SHARP) 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
 
 1910 
 
Copyright, 1895, 1896, by 
 STONE & KIMBALL 
 
 Copyright, igio, by 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY ' 
 
 
 THE TROW PRESS, NEW YORK 
 
TO 
 
 GEORGE MEREDITH 
 
 IN GRATITUDE AND HOMAGE 
 
 AND BECAUSE HE IS 
 PRINCE OF CELTDOM 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Tales marked * were not included in the original editions of 
 The Sin-Eater or of The Washer of the Ford 
 
 THE SIN-EATER 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Prologue — Prom Iona i 
 
 The Sin-Eater 17 
 
 The Ninth Wave 63 
 
 The Judgment o' God 78 
 
 The Harping of Cravethben .... 91 
 
 Silk o' the Kine 115 
 
 *Ula and Urla 125 
 
 THE WASHER OF THE FORD 
 
 Prologue 
 
 Legendary Moralities: 
 
 The Washer of the Ford 
 St. Bride of the Isles 
 The Fisher of Men 
 The Last Supper . 
 The Dark Nameless One 
 The Three Marvels of Hy 
 The Woman With the Net 
 vii 
 
 141 
 
 161 
 
 183 
 225 
 
 243 
 259 
 273 
 301 
 
■ Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Cathal of the Woods 319 
 
 Seanachas: 
 
 1. The Song of the Sword . . . 369 
 
 2. The Flight of the Culdbes . . 382 
 
 3. MiRCATH 390 
 
 *4. The Sad Queen 39S 
 
 5. The Laughter of Scathach thi; 
 
 Queen 403 
 
 *6. Ahez the Pale 412 
 
 *7. The King of Ys and Dahut the 
 
 Red ... 433 
 
 Bibliographical Note 448 
 
 vui 
 
THE SIN-EATER 
 
 AND OTHER TALES 
 
"Here are told the stories of these picttires of the 
 imagination, of magic and romance. Yet they 
 were gravely chosen withal, and for reasons mani- 
 fold. . . . What if they be but dreams ? 'We 
 are such stuff as dreams are made of.' What if 
 they be but magic and romance? These things are 
 not ancient and dead, but modern and increasing. 
 For wherever a man learns power over Nature, there 
 is Magic; wherever he carries out an ideal into Life, 
 there is Romance." 
 
 Patrick Geddes, 
 "The Interpreter," 
 
FROM lONA. 
 
 To George Meredith. 
 
 Here, where the sound of the falling wave 
 is faintly to be heard, and rather as in the 
 spiral chamber of a shell than in the windy 
 open, I write these few dedicatory words. I 
 am alone here, betwixt sea and sky, for there 
 is no other living thing for the seeing on this 
 bouldered height of Diin-I except a single blue 
 shadow that dreams slowly athwart the hill- 
 side. The bleating of lambs and ewes, the 
 lowing of kine, these, come up from the 
 Machar that lies between the west slopes and 
 the shoreless sea to the west; these ascend as 
 the very smoke of sound. All round the island 
 there is a continuous breathing: deeper and 
 more prolonged on the west, where the sea- 
 heart is; but audible everywhere. This mo- 
 ment, the seals on Soa are putting their 
 breasts- against the running tide: for I see a 
 Hashing of fins here and there in patches at 
 the north end of the Sound, and already from 
 the ruddy granite shores of the Ross ther^ 
 
 3 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 is a congregation of seafowl — gannets and 
 guillemots, skuas and herring-gulls, the long- 
 necked northern-diver, the tern, the cormo- 
 rant. In this sunflood, the waters of the Sound 
 dance their blue bodies and swirl their flash- 
 ing white hair a' foam; and, as I look, they 
 seem to me like children of the wind and the 
 sunshine, leaping and running in these sungold 
 pastures, with a laughter as sweet against the 
 ears as the voices of children at play. 
 
 The joy of life vibrates everywhere. Yet 
 the Weaver doth not sleep, but only dreams. 
 He loves the sun-drowned shadows. They are 
 inivisible thus, but they are there, in the sun- 
 light itself. Sure, they may be heard: as, an 
 hour ago, when on my way hither by the Stair- 
 way of the Kings — for so sometimes they call 
 here the ancient stones of the mouldered 
 princes of long ago — / heard a mother moan- 
 ing because of the son that had had to go 
 over-sea and leave her in her old age; and 
 heard also a child sobbing, because of the sor- 
 row of childhood — that sorrow so mysterious, 
 so unfathomable, so for ever incommunicable. 
 
 To the little one I spoke. But all she would 
 say, looking up through dark, tear-wet eyes, 
 already filled with the shadow of the burden 
 of woman, was: " Ha mee duvachus." 
 
 " Tha mi Dubhachas ! — I have the gloom." 
 
 4 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 Ah, that saying! How often I have heard 
 it in the remote Isles! " The Gloom." It is 
 not grief, nor any common sorrow, nor that 
 deep despondency of weariness that comes of 
 accomplished things, too soon, too literally ful- 
 filled. But it is akin to each of these, and in- 
 volves each. It is, rather, the unconscious 
 knowledge of the lamentation of a race, 
 the unknowing surety of an inheritance of 
 woe. 
 
 On the lips of the children of what people, 
 save in the last despoiled sanctuaries of the 
 Gael, could be heard these all too significant 
 sayings: " Tha mi Dubhachas — / have the 
 gloom " ; " Ma tha sin an Dan — // that he 
 ordained, If it be Destiny"? Never shall I 
 forget the lisping of this phrase — common 
 from The Seven Hunters, that are the ex- 
 treme of the Hebrid Isles, to the Rhinns of 
 Islay, and from the Ord of Sutherland to the 
 Mull of Cantyre — never shall I forget the lisp- 
 ing of this phrase in the mouth of a little 
 birdikin of a lass, not more than three years 
 old — a phrase caught, no doubt, as the jay 
 catches the storms-note of the missel-thrush, 
 but not the less significant, not the less piteous: 
 " Ma tha sin an Dan — If it be Destiny!" 
 
 This is so. And yet not a stone's throw 
 from where I lie, half hidden beneath an over- 
 
 5 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 hanging rock, is a Pool of Healing. To this 
 small, black-brown tarn, pilgrims of every 
 generation, for hundreds upon hundreds of 
 years, have come. Solitary, these: not only 
 because the pilgrim to the Fount of Eternal 
 Youth — which, as all Gaeldom knows, is be- 
 neath this tarn on Dun-I of lona — must fare 
 hither alone, and at dawn, so as to touch the 
 healing water the moment the first sunray 
 quickens it — but- solitary, also, because those 
 who go in quest of this Fount of Youth are 
 the dreamers and the Children of Dreams, and 
 these are not many, and few come to this 
 lonely place. Yet, an Isle of Dream, lona is, 
 indeed. Here the last sun-worshippers bowed 
 before the Rising of God; here Columba and 
 his hymning priests laboured and brooded; 
 and here Oran dreamed beneath the monkish 
 cozvl that pagan dream of his. Here, too, the 
 eyes of Fionn and Oisln, and of many another 
 of the heroic men and women of the Fianna, 
 lingered often; here the Pict and the Celt 
 bowed beneath the yoke of the Norse pirate, 
 who, too, left his dreams, or rather his 
 strangely beautiful soul-rainbows, as a heri- 
 tage to the stricken; here, for century after 
 century, the Gael has lived, suffered, joyed, 
 dreamed his impossible, beautiful dream; as 
 here, now, he still lives, still suffers patiently, 
 6 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 still dreams, and through all and over all, 
 broods deep against the mystery of things. He 
 is an elemental, among the elemental forces. 
 They have the voices of wind and sea; he has 
 these words of the soul of the Celtic race: 
 " Tha mi Dubhachas — Ma tha sin an Dan." 
 It is because the Fount of Youth that is upon 
 Diin-I of lona is not the only Wellspring of 
 Peace, that the Gael can front " an Dan " as 
 he does, and can endure his " Dubhachas." 
 Who knows where its tributaries are? They 
 may be in your heart, or in mine, and in a 
 myriad others. 
 
 I would that the birds of Angus Ogue might, 
 for once, be changed, not into the kisses 
 of love, but into doves of peace; that they 
 might fly forth into the green world, and be 
 nested there awhile, crooning their incomr- 
 municable song that would yet bring joy and 
 hope. 
 
 Why, you may think, do I write these things? 
 It is because 1 wish to say to you, and to all 
 who may read this book, that in what I have 
 said lies the Secret of the Gael. The beauty of 
 the World, the pathos of Life, the gloom, the 
 fatalism, the spiritual glamour — it is out of 
 these, the inheritance of the Gael, that I have 
 zvrought these tales. 
 
 Well I know that they do not give "a 
 
 7 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 rounded and complete portrait of. the Celt." It 
 is more than likely that I could not do so if I 
 tried, but I have not tried; not even to give " a 
 rounded and complete portrait" of the Gael, 
 who is to the Celtic race what the Franco- 
 Breton is to the French, a creature not with- 
 out blitheness and humour, laughter-loving, 
 indolent, steadfast, gentle, fierce, but above all 
 attuned to elemental passions, to the poetry of 
 nature, and wrought in every nerve and fibre 
 by the gloom and mystery of his environment. 
 Elsewhere I may give such delineation as I 
 can, and is within my own knowledge, of the 
 manysidedness of the Celt, and even of the in- 
 sular Gael. But in this book, as in Pharais 
 and The Mountain Lovers, / give the life of 
 the Gael in what is, to me, in accord with my 
 own observation and experience, its most 
 poignant characteristics — that is, of course, in 
 certain circumstances, in a particular environ- 
 ment. Almost needless to say, I do not pre- 
 sent such mere sport of Destiny as Neil Ross, 
 the Sin-Eater, or Neil MacCodrum {" The 
 Dan-nan-Rdn") as typical Gaels, any more 
 than I would have Gloom Achanna, whose 
 sombre personality colours three of the tales of 
 Under the Dark Star, accepted as typical of the 
 perverted Celt. They are true in their degree; 
 that is all. But I do aver that Alasdair 
 8 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 Achanna, the Anointed Man; and the fisher- 
 men of lona of whom I speak; and Ian Mbr 
 of the Hills; and others akin to these — are 
 typical. This, obviously, may be said without 
 affirming that they are "rounded and conu- 
 plete " types of the Gaelic Celt. Of course 
 they are nothing of the kind. This, also, may 
 be said: that they are not typical to the exclu- 
 sion of other types. Could Ian Mbr be com- 
 mon anywhere? Are there so many poet- 
 dreamers? Could Ethlenn Stuart or Eilidh 
 Mclan be met with in each strath, on every 
 hillside? Is the beautiful and one inevitable 
 phrase to be found on any lips? All men 
 speak of love; but only you have said the su- 
 preme thing of the passion of love; namely, 
 that Passion is noble strength on fire. You 
 only have said this. It is individually charac- 
 teristic; it is racially typical; and yet a thou- 
 sand poets have come and gone, a million mil- 
 lion hearts have beat to this chord, and the 
 phrase has waited, isolate, for you. Is it 
 therefore not indicative? Whether with 
 phrase, or the lilt of a free music, or with man 
 — there should be no saying that he or it does 
 not exist because invisible through the dust of 
 the common highway. 
 
 It must not be forgotten that "the Celtic 
 Fringe " is of divers colours. The Armorican, 
 
 9 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 the Cymric, the Gael of Ireland, and the Scot- 
 tish Gael are of the same stock, but are not 
 the same people. Even the crofter of Done- 
 gal or the fisherman of Clare is no more than 
 an older or younger brother of the Hebridean 
 or the Highlander; certainly they are not 
 twins, of an indistinguishable likenesi. Some 
 of my critics, heedless of the complex condi- 
 tions which differentiate the Irish and the 
 Scottish Celt, complain of the Celtic gloom 
 that dusks the life of the men and women I 
 have tried to draw. That may be just. I wish 
 merely to say that I have not striven to de- 
 pict the blither Irish Celt. I have sought 
 mainly to express something of what I have 
 seen as paramount, something of " the Celtic 
 Gloom " which, to many Gaels if not to all, is 
 so distinctive in the remote life of a doomed 
 and passing race. Possibly, though of course 
 it is unlikely they should write save out of 
 fulness of knowledge, those of my critics to 
 whom I allude have dwelt for years among 
 these distant isles, intimate with the speech 
 and mind and daily life and veiled, secretive 
 inner nature of the men and women who in- 
 habit them. I cannot judge, for I do not pro- 
 fess to know every glen in the Highlands, or 
 to have set foot on every one of the Thousand 
 Isles. 
 
 lo 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 A doomed and passing race. Yes, but not 
 wholly so. The Celt has at last reached his 
 horizon. There is no shore beyond. He knows 
 it. This has been the burden of his song since 
 Malvina led the blind Oistn to his grave by the 
 sea. "Even the Children of Light must go 
 down into darkness." But this apparition of 
 a passing race is no more than the fulfilment 
 of a glorious resurrection before our very 
 eyes. For the genius of the Celtic race stands 
 out now with averted torch, and the light of 
 it is a glory before the eyes, and the flame 
 of it is bloivn into the hearts of the mightier 
 conquering people. The Celt falls, but his 
 spirit rises in the heart and the brain of the 
 Anglo-Celtic peoples, with whom are the des- 
 tinies of the generations to come. 
 
 Well, this is a far cry, from one small voice 
 on the hill-slope of Dun-I of lona, to the 
 clarion-call of the future! But, sure, even in 
 this Isle of Joy, as it seems to-day in this daz- 
 zle of golden light and splashing wave, there 
 is all the gloom and all the mystery which 
 lived in the minds of the old seers and bards. 
 Yonder, where that thin spray quivers against 
 the thyme-set cliff, is the Spouting Cave, 
 where to this day the Mar-Tarbh, dread crea- 
 ture of the sea, swims at the full of the tide. 
 II 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 Beyond, out of sight behind these heights, is 
 Port-na-Churaich, where, a thousand years 
 ago, Columba landed in his coracle. Here, 
 eastward, is the landing-place for the dead of 
 old, brought hence, out of Christendom, for 
 sacred burial in the Isle of the Saints. All the 
 story of Albyn is here. lona is the microcosm 
 of Gaeldom. 
 
 Last night, about the hour of the sun's go- 
 ing, I lay upon the heights near the Cave, 
 overlooking the Machar — the sandy, rock- 
 frontiered plain of duneland on the west side 
 of lona, exposed to the Atlantic. There was 
 neither man nor beast, no living thing to see, 
 save one solitary human creature. This 
 brown, bent, aged man toiled at kelp-burning. 
 I watched the smoke till it merged into the 
 sea-mist that came creeping swiftly out of the 
 north, and down from Dun-I eastward. At 
 last nothing was visible. The mist shrouded 
 everything. I could hear the dull, rhythmic 
 beat of the. waves. That was all. No sound, 
 nothing visible. 
 
 It was, or seemed, a long while before a 
 rapid thud-thud trampled the heavy air. Then 
 I heard the rush, the stamping and neighing, 
 of some young mares, pasturing there, as they 
 raced to and fro, bewildered or mayhap only 
 in play. A glimpse I caught of three, with 
 
 12 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 flying manes and tails; the others were blurred 
 shadows only. A swirl, and the mist dis- 
 closed them: a swirl, and the mist en- 
 folded them again. Then, silence once 
 more. 
 
 All at once, though not for a long time 
 thereafter, the mist rose and drifted seaward. 
 
 All was as before. The Kelp-Burner still 
 stood, stroking the smouldering seaweed. 
 Above him a column ascended, bluely spiral, 
 dusked with gloom of shadow. 
 
 The Kelp-Burner: who is he but the Gael of 
 the Isles? Who but the Celt in his sorrow? 
 The mist falls and the mist rises. He is there 
 all the same, behind it, part of it: and the col- 
 umn of smoke is the incense out of his longing 
 heart that desires Heaven and Earth, and is 
 dowered only with poverty and pain, hunger 
 and weariness, a little isle of the seas, a great 
 hope, and the love of love. 
 
 In that mist I had dreamed a dream. When 
 I woke, these strange, unfamiliar words were 
 upon my lips: Am Dia beo, an Domhan ba- 
 sacha,' an Diomhair Cinne'-Daonna. 
 
 Am Dia beo, an Domhan basacha, an Diom- 
 hair Cinne'-Daonna : '" The Living God, the 
 dying World, and the mysterious Race of 
 Men." 
 
 13 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 I knozv not what obscure and remote an- 
 cestral memory rose, there, to the surface; but 
 I imagined for a moment that the Spirit of the 
 race, and not a solitary human being, found 
 utterance in this so typical saying. It is the 
 sense of an abiding spiritual Presence, of a 
 waning, a perishing World, and of the mys- 
 tery and incommunicable destiny of Man, 
 which distinguishes the ethical life of the 
 Celt. 
 
 " The Three Powers," I murmured, as I 
 rose to leave the place where I was. " These 
 are the three powers: the Living God, the 
 evanescent World, and Man. And somewhere 
 in the darkness — an Dan, Destiny." 
 
 Yes, Ma tha sin an Dan ; that is where we 
 come to again. It is Destiny, then, that is the 
 Protagonist in the Celtic Drama — the most 
 moving, the most poignant of all that make up 
 the too tragic Tragi-Comedy of human -life. 
 And it is Destiny, that sombre Demogorgon 
 of the Gael, whose boding breath, ■whose 
 menace, whose shadow, glooms M much of the 
 remote life I know, and hetlce ^oms also this 
 book of inter pretatiottih^ar pages of life 
 must either be iafgfpretative or merely docu- 
 mentary, an& th^e following pages haive far 
 the mast §eCft been Written as by one who re- 
 peafs',.. ■seith curious insistim'ce, a haunting, fa- 
 
 H 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 miliar, yet ever wild and remote air, whose 
 obscure meanings he would fain reiterate, in- 
 terpret. 
 
 You, of all living writers, can best under- 
 stand this; fdr in you the Celtic genius burns 
 a pure flame. True, the Cymric blood that is 
 in you moves to a more lightsome measure 
 than that of the Scottish Gael, and the acci- 
 dents of temperament and life have combined 
 to make you a writer for great peoples rather 
 than for a people. But though England ap- 
 propriate you as her son, and all the Anglo- 
 Celtic peoples are the heritors of your genius, 
 we claim your brain. Now, we are a scattered 
 band. The Breton's eyes are slowly turning 
 from the sea, and slowly his ears are forget- 
 ting the whisper of the wind around Menhir 
 and Dolmen. The Cornishman has lost his 
 language, and there is now no bond between 
 him and his ancient kin. The Manxman has 
 ever been the mere yeoman of the Celtic chiv- 
 alry; but even his rude dialect perishes year by 
 year. In Wales, a great tradition survives; in 
 Ireland, a supreme tradition fades through 
 sunset-hued horizons to the edge o' dark; in 
 Celtic Scotland, a passionate regret, a despair- 
 ing love and longing, narrows yearly before a 
 bastard utilitarianism which is almost as great 
 
 IS 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 a curse to our despoiled land as Calvinistic 
 theology has been and is. 
 
 But with you, and others not less enthusi- 
 astic if less brilliant, we need not despair. 
 " The Englishman may trample down the 
 heather," say the shepherds of Argyll, " but 
 he cannot trample dawn the wind." 
 
 i6 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 Sin. 
 Taste this bread, this substance; tell me 
 I Is it bread or flesh f 
 
 [The Senses approach. 
 
 The Smell. 
 Its smell 
 Is the smell of bread. 
 
 Sin. 
 Touch, come. Why tremblet 
 Say what's this thou touchest f 
 
 The Touch. 
 "Bread. 
 
 Sin. 
 Sight, declare what thou discernest 
 In this object. 
 
 The Sight. 
 Bread alone. 
 
 Calderon: Los Encantos de la Culpa. 
 
 A wet wind out of the south mazed and 
 moaned through the sea-mist that hung over 
 the Ross. In all the bays and creeks was a 
 continuous weary lapping of water. There 
 was no other sound anywhere. 
 
 17 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 Thus was it at daybreak; it was thus at 
 noon; thus was it now in the darkening of 
 the day. A confused thrusting and falling of 
 sounds through the silence betokened the hour 
 of the setting. Curlews wailed in the mist; 
 on the seething limpet-covered rocks the skuas 
 and terns screamed, or uttered hoarse rasping 
 cries. Ever and again the prolonged note of 
 the oyster-catcher shrilled against the air, as 
 an echo flying blindly along a blank wall of 
 cliff. Out of weedy places, wherein the tide 
 sobbed with long gurgling moans, came at in- 
 tervals the barking of a seal. 
 
 Inland by the hamlet of Contullich, there is 
 a reedy tarn called the Loch-a-chaoruinn.^ By 
 the shores of this mournful water a man 
 moved. It was a slow, weary walk that of 
 the man Neil Ross. He had come from Dun- 
 inch, thirty miles to the eastward, and had not 
 rested foot, nor eaten, nor had word of man 
 or woman since his going west an hour after 
 dawn. 
 
 At the bend of the loch nearest the clachan 
 he came upon an old woman carrying peat. 
 To his reiterated question as to where he was, 
 and if the tarn were Feur-Lochan above 
 
 ^Contullich i.e., Ceann-nan-tulaich, "the end of 
 the hillocks." Loch-a-chaoruinn means the loch of 
 the rowan-trees. 
 
 i8 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 Fionnaphort, that is, on the strait of lona on 
 the west side of the Ross of Mull, she did not 
 at first make any answer. The rain trickled 
 down her withered brown face, over which 
 the thin grey locks hung limply. It was only 
 in the deep-set eyes that the flame of life still 
 glimmered, though that dimly. 
 
 The man had used the English when first he 
 spoke, but as though mechanically. Suppos- 
 ing that he had not been understood, he re- 
 peated his question in the Gaelic. 
 
 After a minute's silence the old woman an- 
 swered in the native tongue, but only to put a 
 question in return. 
 
 " I am thinking it is a long time since you 
 have been in lona ? " 
 
 The man stirred uneasily. 
 
 " And why is that, mother ? " he asked, in a 
 weak voice hoarse with damp and fatigue; 
 " how is it you will be knowing that I have 
 been in lona at all ? " 
 
 " Because I knew your kith and kin there, 
 Neil Ross." 
 
 " I have not been hearing that name, moth- 
 er, for many a long year. And as for the old 
 face o' you, it is unbeknown to me." 
 
 " I was at the naming of you, for all that. 
 Well do I remember the day that Silis Macal- 
 lum gave you birth ; and I was at the house 
 
 19 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 on the croft of Ballyrona when Murtagh 
 Ross, that was your father, laughed. It was 
 an ill laughing, that." 
 
 " I am knowing it. The curse of God on 
 him!" 
 
 " 'Tis not the first, nor the last, though 
 the grass is on his head three years agone 
 now." 
 
 " You that know who I am will be know- 
 ing that I have no kith or kin now on 
 lona?" 
 
 " Ay, they are all under grey stone or run- 
 ning wave. Donald your brother, and Mur- 
 tagh your next brother, and little Silis, and 
 your mother Silis herself and your two 
 brothers of your father, Angus and Ian Ma- 
 callum, and your father Murtagh Ross, and 
 his lawful childless wife Dionaid, and his sis- 
 ter Anna, one and all they lie beneath the 
 green wave or in the brown mould. It is said 
 there is a curse upon all who live at Ballyrona. 
 The owl builds now in the rafters, and it is 
 the big sea-rat that runs across the fireless 
 hearth." 
 
 " It is there I am going." 
 
 " The foolishness is on you, Neil Ross." 
 
 " Now it is that I am knowing who you are. 
 It is old Sheen Macarthur I am speaking to." 
 
 " Tha mise — it is I." 
 20 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 "And you will be alone now, too, I am 
 thinking. Sheen ? " 
 
 " I am alone. God took my three boys at 
 the one fishing ten years ago, and before there 
 was moonrise in the blackness of my heart my 
 man went. It was after the drowning of 
 Anndra that my croft was taken from me. 
 Then I crossed the Sound, and shared with 
 my widow sister, Elsie McVurie, till she 
 went; and then the two cows had to go; and 
 I had no rent; and was old." 
 
 In the silence that followed, the rain drib- 
 bled from the sodden bracken and dripping 
 loneroid. Big tears rolled slowly down the 
 deep lines on the face of Sheen. Once there 
 was a sob in her throat, but she put her shak- 
 ing hand to it, and it was still. 
 
 Neil Ross shifted from foot to foot. The 
 ooze in that marshy place squelched with each 
 restless movement he made. Beyond them a 
 plover wheeled a blurred splatch in the mist, 
 crying its mournful cry over and over and 
 over. 
 
 It was a pitiful thing to hear; ah, bitter 
 loneliness, bitter patience of poor old women. 
 That he knew well. But he was too weary, 
 and his heart was nigh full of its own bur- 
 then. The words could not come to his lips. 
 But at last he spoke. 
 
 21 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 " Tha mo chridhe goirt," he said with tears 
 in his voice, as he put his hand on her bent 
 shoulder ; " my heart is sore." 
 
 She put up her old face against his. 
 
 " 'S tha e ruidhinn mo chridhe," she whis- 
 pered — " it is touching my heart you are." 
 
 After that they walked on slowly through 
 the dripping mist, each dumb and brooding 
 deep. 
 
 "Where will you be staying this night?" 
 asked Sheen suddenly, when they had trav- 
 ersed a wide boggy stretch of land; adding, 
 as by an afterthought — " ah, it is asking you 
 were if the tarn there was Feur-Lochan. No ; 
 it is Loch-a-chaoruinn, and the clachan that 
 is near is ContuUich." 
 
 "Which way?" 
 
 " Yonder ; to the right." 
 
 " And you are not going there ? " 
 
 " No. I am going to the steading of Andrew 
 Blair. Maybe you are for knowing it? It 
 is called the Baile-na-Chlais-nambuid-heag." ^ 
 
 " I do not remember. But it is remember- 
 ing a Blair I am. He was Adam the son of 
 Adam the son of Robert. He and my father 
 did many an ill deed together." 
 
 "^Ay, to the Stones be it said. Sure, now, 
 there was even till this weary day no man or 
 
 ' The farm in the hollow of the yellow flowers. 
 
 22 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 woman who had a good word for Adam 
 Blair." 
 
 " And why that— why till this day ? " 
 
 " It is not yet the third hour since he went 
 into the silence." 
 
 Neil Ross uttered a sound like a stifled 
 curse. For a time he trudged wearily on. 
 
 " Then I am too late," he said at last, but 
 as though speaking to himself. " I had hoped 
 to see him face to face again, and curse him 
 between the eyes. It was he who made Mur- 
 tagh Ross break his troth to my mother, and 
 marry that other woman, barren at that, God 
 be praised! And they say ill of him, do 
 they?" 
 
 " Ay, it is evil that is upon him. This crime 
 and that, God knows : and the shadow of mur- 
 der on his brow and in his eyes. Well, well, 
 'tis ill to be speaking of a man in corpse, and 
 that near by. 'Tis Himself only that knows, 
 Neil Ross." 
 
 " Maybe ay, and maybe no. But where is 
 it that I can be sleeping this night. Sheen 
 Macarthur?" 
 
 " They will not be taking a stranger at the 
 farm this night of the nights, I am thinking. 
 There is no place else, for seven miles yet, 
 when there is the clachan before you will be 
 coming to Fionnaphort. There is the warm 
 
 23 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 byre, Neil my man, or if you can bide by my 
 peats you itiay reSt and welcome, though there 
 is no bed for you, and no food either save 
 some of the porridge that is over." 
 
 "And that will do well enough for me. 
 Sheen, and Himself bless you for it." 
 
 And so it was. 
 
 After old Sheen Macarthur had given' the 
 wayfarer food — poor food at that, but wel- 
 come to one nigh starved, and for the heart- 
 some way it was given, and because of the 
 thanks to God that was upon it before even 
 spoon was lifted — she told him a lie. It was 
 the good lie of tender love. 
 
 " Sure now, after all, Neil my man," she 
 said, " it is sleeping at the farm I ought to be, 
 for Maisie Macdonald, the wise-woman, will 
 be sitting by the corpse, and there will be none 
 to keep her company. It is there I must be 
 going, and if I am weary, there is a good bed 
 for me just beyond the dead-board, which I 
 am not minding at all. So if it is tired you are 
 sitting by the peats, lie down on my bed there, 
 and have the sleep, and God be with you." 
 
 With that she went, and soundlessly, for 
 Neil Ross was already asleep, where he sat 
 on an upturned claar with his elbows on his 
 knees and his flame-lit face in his hands. 
 
 24 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 The rain had ceased ; but the mist still hung 
 over the land, though in thin veils now, and 
 these slowly drifting seaward. Sheen stepped 
 wearily along the stony path that led from 
 her bothy to the farm-house. She stood still 
 once, the fear upon her, for she saw three or 
 four blurred yellow gleams moving beyond 
 her eastward along the dyke. She knew what 
 they were — the corpse-lights that on the night 
 of death go between the bier and the place of 
 burial. More than once she had seen them 
 before the last hour, and by that token had 
 known the end to be near. 
 
 Good Catholic that she was, she crossed 
 herself and took heart. Then, muttering — 
 
 "Crois nan nooi aingeal learn 
 'O mhullach mo chinn 
 Gu craican mo bhonn," 
 
 The cross of the nine angels be about me. 
 From the top of my head 
 To the soles of my feet. 
 
 she went on her way fearlessly. 
 
 When she came to the White House she en- 
 tered by the milk-shed that was between the 
 byre and the kitchen. At the end of it was 
 a paved place, with washing-tubs. At one of 
 these stood a girl that served in the house ; an 
 
 25 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 ignorant lass called Jessie McFall, put of 
 Oban. She was ignorant, indeed, not to know 
 that to wash clothes with a newly dead body 
 near by was an ill thing to do. Was it not a 
 matter for the knowing that the corpse could 
 hear, and might rise up in the night and clothe 
 itself in a clean white shroud ? 
 
 She was still speaking to the lassie when 
 Maisie Macdonald, the deid-watcher, opened 
 the door of the room behind the kitchen, to 
 see who it was that was come. The two old 
 women nodded silently. It was not till Sheeij 
 was in the closed room, midway in which 
 something covered with a sheet lay on a board, 
 that any Word was spoken. 
 
 " Duit sith mbr, Beann Macdonald." 
 
 " And deep peace to you, too, Sheen ; and 
 to him that is there." 
 
 " Och, ochone, mise 'n diugh; 'tis a dark 
 hour this." 
 
 " Ay, it is bad. Will you have been hear- 
 ing or seeing anything?" 
 
 " Well, as for that, I am thinking I saw 
 lights moving betwixt here and the green 
 place over there." 
 
 " The corpse-lights ? " 
 
 " Well, it is calling them that they are." 
 
 " I thought they would be out. And I have 
 been hearing the noise of the planks — the 
 26 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 cracking of the boards, you know, that will 
 be used for the coffin to-morrow." 
 
 A long silence followed. The old women 
 had seated themselves by the corpse, their 
 cloaks over their heads. The room was fire- 
 less, and was lit only by a tall wax death- 
 candle, kept against the hour of the going. 
 
 At last Sheen began swaying slowly to and 
 fro, crooning low the while. " I would not 
 be for doing that, Sheen Macarthur," said the 
 deid-watcher, in a low voice, but meaningly; 
 adding, after a moment's pause, " the mice 
 have all left the house." 
 
 Sheen sat upright, a look half of terror, half 
 of awe in her eyes. 
 
 " God save the sinful soul that is hiding," 
 she whispered. 
 
 Well she knew what Maisie meant. If the 
 soul of the dead be a lost soul it knows its 
 doom. The house of death is the house of 
 sanctuary. But before the dawn that follows 
 the death-night the sotil must go forth, whoso- 
 ever or whatsoever wait for it in the homeless, 
 shelterless plains of air around and beyond. 
 If it be well with the soul, it need have no 
 fear; if it be not ill with the soul, it may fare 
 forth with surety ; but if it be ill with the soul, 
 ill will the going be. Thus is it that the spirit 
 of an evil man cannot stay and yet dare not 
 
 27 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 go; and so it strives to hide itself in secret 
 places anywhere, in dark channels and blind 
 walls. And the wise creatures that live near 
 man smell the terror, and flee. Maisie re- 
 peated the saying of Sheen; then, after a 
 silence, added: 
 
 " Adam Blair will not lie in his grave for a 
 year and a day, because of the sins that are 
 upon him. And it is knowing that, they are, 
 here. He will be the Watcher of the Dead for 
 a year and a day." 
 
 " Ay, sure, there will be dark prints in the 
 dawn-dew over yonder." 
 
 Once more the old women relapsed into 
 silence. Through the night there was a sigh- 
 ing sound. It was not the sea, which was too 
 far off to be heard save in a day of storm. 
 The wind it was, that was dragging itself 
 across the sodden moors like a wounded thing, 
 moaning and sighing. 
 
 Out of sheer weariness. Sheen twice rocked 
 forward from her stool, heavy with sleep. At 
 last Maisie led her over to the niche-bed op- 
 posite, and laid her down there, and waited till 
 the deep furrows in the face relaxed some- 
 what, and the thin breath laboured slow across 
 the fallen jaw. 
 
 " Poor old woman," she muttered, heedless 
 of her own grey hairs and greyer years ; " a 
 28 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 bitter bad thing it is to be old-, old and weary. 
 'Tis the sorrow that ; God keep the pain of it." 
 
 As for herself she did not sleep at all that 
 night, but sat between the living and the dead, 
 with her plaid shrouding her. Once, when 
 Sheen gave a low, terrified scream in her sleep, 
 she rose, and in a loud voice cried " Sheeach- 
 ad! Away with you!'' And with that she 
 lifted the shroud from the dead man, and took 
 the pennies off the eyelids, and lifted each lid ; 
 then, staring into these filmed wells, muttered 
 an ancient incantation that would compel the 
 soul of Adam Blair to leave the spirit of 
 Sheen alone, and return to the cold corpse 
 that was its coffin till the wood was ready. 
 
 The dawn came at last. Sheen slept, and 
 Adam Blair slept a deeper sleep, and Maisie 
 stared out of her wan weary eyes against the 
 red and stormy flares of light that came into 
 the sky. 
 
 When, an hour after sunrise. Sheen Mac- 
 arthur reached her bothy, she found Neil 
 Ross, heavy with slumber, upon her bed. The 
 fire was not out, though no flame or spark was 
 visible, but she stooped and blew at the heart 
 of the peats till the redness came, and once it 
 came it grew. Haying done this, she kneeled 
 and said a rune of the morning, and after that 
 29 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 a prayer, and then a prayer for the poor man 
 Neil. She could pray no more because of the 
 tears. She rose and put the meal and water 
 into the pot, for the porridge to be ready 
 against his awaking. One of the hens that 
 was there came and pecked at her ragged 
 skirt. " Poor beastie," she said, " sure, that 
 will just be the way I am pulling at the white 
 robe of the Mother o' God 'Tis a bit meal 
 for you, cluckie, and for me a healing hand 
 upon my tears — O, och, ochone, the tears, the 
 tears ! " 
 
 It was not till the third hour after sunrise of 
 that bleak day in the winter of the winters 
 that Neil Ross stirred and arose. He ate in 
 silence. Once he said that he smelled the 
 snow coming out of the north. Sheen said 
 no word at all. 
 
 After the porridge, he took his pipe, but 
 there was no tobacco. All that Sheen had was 
 the pipeful she kept against the gloom of the 
 Sabbath. It was her one solace in the long 
 weary week. She gave him this, and held a 
 burning peat to his mouth, and hungered over 
 the thin, rank smoke that curled upward. 
 
 It was within half an hour of noon that, 
 after an absence, she returned. 
 
 " Not between you and me, Neil Ross," she 
 began abruptly, " but just for the asking, and 
 30 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 what is beyond. Is it any money you are hav- 
 ing upon you ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Nothing?" 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " Then how will you be getting across to 
 lona? It is seven long miles to Fionnaphort, 
 and bitter cold at that, and you will be need- 
 ing food, and then the ferry, the ferry across 
 the Sound, you know." 
 • " Ay, I know." 
 
 " What would you do for a silver piece, 
 Neil my man ? " 
 
 " You have none to give me. Sheen Mac- 
 arthur, and if you had, it would not be taking 
 it I would." 
 
 " Would you kiss a dead man for a crown- 
 piece — a crown-piece of five good shillings?" 
 
 Neil Ross stared. Then he sprang to his 
 feet. 
 
 " It is Adam Blair you are meaning, wom- 
 an ! God curse him in death now that he is no 
 longer in life ! " 
 
 Then, shaking and trembling, he sat down 
 again, and brooded against the dull red glow 
 of the peats. 
 
 But, when he rose, in the last quarter be- 
 fore noon, his face was white. 
 
 " The dead are dead. Sheen Macarthur. 
 
 31 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 They can know or do nothing. I will do it. 
 It is willed. Yes, I am going up to the house 
 there. And now I am going from here. God 
 Himself has my thanks to you, and my bless- 
 ing too. They will come back to you. It is 
 not forgetting you I will be. Good-bye." 
 
 " Good-bye, Neil, son of the woman that 
 was my friend. A south wind to you! Go 
 up by the farm. In the front of the house you 
 will see what you will be seeing. Maisie Mac- 
 donald will be there. She will tell you what's 
 for the telHng. There is no harm in it, sure ; 
 sure, the dead are dead. It is praying for you 
 I will be, Neil Ross. Peace to you ! " 
 
 " And to you. Sheen." 
 
 And with that the man went. 
 
 When Neil Ross reached the byres of the 
 farm in the wide hollow, he saw two figures 
 standing as though awaiting him, but each 
 alone and unseen of the other. In front of 
 the house was a man he knew to be Andrew 
 Blair; behind the milk-shed was a woman he 
 guessed to be Maisie Macdonald. 
 
 It was the woman he came upon first. 
 
 "Are you the friend of Sheen Macar- 
 thur?" she asked in a whisper, as she beck- 
 oned him to the doorway. 
 
 "I am." 
 
 32 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 " I am knowing no names, or anything. 
 And no one here will know you, I am think- 
 ing. So do the thing, and begone." 
 
 " There is no harm to it? " 
 
 " None." 
 
 " It will be a thing often done, is it not ? " 
 
 " Ay, sure." 
 
 " And the evil does not abide ? " 
 
 " No. The — the — ^person — the person takes 
 them away, and — " 
 
 " Themf " 
 
 "For sure, man! Them — ^the sins of the 
 corpse. He takes them away, and are you for 
 thinking God would let the innocent suffer 
 for the guilty? No — the person — the Sin- 
 Eater, you know — takes them away on him- 
 self, and one by one the air of heaven washes 
 them away till he, the Sin-Eater, is clean and 
 whole as before." 
 
 " But if it is a man you hate — if it is a 
 corpse that is the corpse of one who has been 
 a curse and a foe — if — " 
 
 " Sst! Be still now with your foolishness. 
 It is only an idle saying, I am thinking. Do it, 
 and take the money, and go. It will be hell 
 enough for Adam Blair, miser as he was, if he 
 is for knowing that five good shillings of his 
 money are to go to a passing tramp, because 
 of an old ancient silly tale." 
 
 33 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 Neil Ross laughed low at that. It was for 
 pleasure to him. 
 
 " Hush wi' ye ! Andrew Blair is waiting 
 round there. Say that I have sent you round, 
 as I have neither bite nor bit to give." 
 
 Turning on his heel Neil walked slowly 
 round to the front of the house. A tall man 
 was there, gaunt and brown, with hairless face 
 and lank brown hair, but with eyes cold and 
 grey as the sea. 
 
 " Good day to you an' good faring. Will 
 you be passing this way to anywhere ? " 
 
 " Health to you. I am a stranger here. It 
 is on my way to lona I am. But I have the 
 hunger upon me. There is not a brown bit in 
 my pocket. I asked at the door there, near the 
 byres. The woman told me she could give me 
 nothing — not a penny even, worse luck — nor, 
 for that, a drink of warm milk. 'Tis a sore 
 land this." 
 
 " You have the Gaelic of the Isles. Is it 
 from lona you are ? " 
 
 "It is from the Isles of the West I 
 come." 
 
 " From Tiree?— from Coll ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " From the Long Island — or from Uist — 
 or maybe from Benbecula?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 34 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 " Oh well, sure it is no matter to me. But 
 may I be asking your name ? " 
 
 " Macallum." 
 
 " Do you know there is a death here, Macal- 
 lum?" 
 
 " If I didn't, I would know it now, because 
 of what lies yonder." 
 
 Mechanically, Andrew Blair looked round. 
 As he knew, a rough bier was there, that was 
 made of a dead-board laid upon three milk- 
 ing-stools. Beside it was a claar, a small tub 
 to hold potatoes. On the bier was a corpse, 
 covered with a canvas sheeting that looked 
 like a sail. 
 
 " He was a worthy man, my father," began 
 the son of the dead man, slowly ; " but he had 
 his faults, like all of us. I might even be say- 
 ing that he had his sins, to the Stones be it 
 said. You will be knowing, Macallum, what 
 is thought among the folk — that a stranger, 
 passing by, may take away the sins of the 
 dead, and that too without any hurt whatever 
 — any hurt whatever." 
 
 " Ay, sure." 
 
 " And you will be knowing what is done ? " 
 
 "'Ay." 
 
 " With the Bread— and the Water " 
 
 " Ay." 
 
 " It is a small thing to do. It is a Christian 
 
 35 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 thing. I would be doing it myself, and that 
 gladly; but the — the — ^passer-by who — — " 
 
 " It is talking of the Sin-Eater you are ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, for sure. The Sin-Eater as he 
 is called — and a good Christian act it is, for all 
 that the ministers and the priests make a 
 frowning at it — the Sin-Eater must be a 
 stranger. He must be a stranger, and should 
 know nothing of the dead man, above all bear 
 him no grudge." 
 
 At that, Neil Ross's eyes lightened for a 
 moment. 
 
 "And why that?" 
 
 " Who knows ? I have heard this, and I 
 have heard that. If the Sin-Eater was ha- 
 ting the dead man he could take the sins 
 and fling them into the sea and they would 
 be changed into demons of the air that 
 would harry the flying soul till Judgtpent- 
 Day." 
 
 " And how would that thing be done ? " 
 
 The man spake with flashing eyes and 
 parted lips, the breath coming swift. Andrew 
 Blair looked at him suspiciously, and hesi- 
 tated, before in a cold voice he spoke again. 
 
 " That is all folly, I am thinking, Macal- 
 lum. Maybe it is all folly, the whole of it. 
 But see here, I have no time to be talking with 
 you. If you will take the bread and the water 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 you shall have a good meal if you want it, and 
 — and — ^yes, look you, my man, I will be giv- 
 ing you a shilling too, for luck." 
 
 " I will have no meal in this house, Anndra 
 mhic Adam; nor will I do this thing unless 
 you will be giving me two silver half-crowns. 
 That is the sum I must have, or no other." 
 
 " Two half-crowns ! Why, man, for one 
 hal f -crown ' ' 
 
 " Then be eating the sins o' your father 
 yourself, Andrew Blair! It is going I am." 
 
 " Stop, man ! Stop, Macallum. See here : 
 I will be giving you what you ask." 
 
 " So be it. Is the — are you ready ? " 
 
 "Ay, come this way." 
 
 With that the two men turned, and moved 
 slowly toward the bier. 
 
 In the doorway of the house stood a man 
 and two women; farther in, a woman; and 
 at the window to the. left the serving-wench, 
 Jessie McFall, and two men of the farm. Of 
 those in the doorway, the man was Peter, the 
 half-witted youngest brother of Andrew Blair ; 
 the taller and older woman was Catreen, the 
 widow of Adam the second brother; and the 
 thin slight woman, with staring eyes and 
 drooping mouth, was Muireall, the wife of 
 V Andrew. The old woman, behind these, was 
 Maisie Macdonald. 
 
 37 
 
The SitirEater 
 
 Andrew Blair stooped and took a saucer out 
 of the claar. This he put upon the covered 
 breast of the corpse. He stooped again, and 
 brought forth a thick square piece of new- 
 made bread. That also he placed upon the 
 breast of the corpse. Then he stooped again, 
 and with that he emptied a spoonful of salt 
 alongside the bread. 
 
 " I must see the corpse," said Neil Ross, 
 simply. 
 
 " It is not needful, Macallum." 
 
 " I must be seeing the corpse, I tell you — 
 and for that, too, the bread and the water 
 should be on the naked breast." 
 
 " No, no, man, it — " 
 
 But here a voice, that of Maisie the wise- 
 woman, came upon them, saying that the man 
 was right, and that the eating of the sins 
 should be done in that way and no other. 
 
 With an ill grace the son of the dead man 
 drew back the sheeting. Beneath it the corpse 
 was in a clean white shirt, a death-gown long 
 ago prepared, that covered him from his neck 
 to his feet, and left only the dusky, yellowish 
 face exposed. 
 
 While Andrew Blair unfastened the shirt, 
 and placed the saucer and the bread and the 
 salt on the breast, the man beside him stood 
 staring fixedly on the frozen features of the 
 
 38 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 corpse. The new laird had to speak to him 
 twice before he heard. 
 
 " I am ready. And you, now ? What is it 
 you are muttering over against the lips of the 
 dead?" 
 
 " It is giving him a message I am. There 
 is no harm in that, sure ? " 
 
 " Keep to your own folk, Macallum. You 
 are from theW.est you say, and we are from 
 the North. There can be no messages be- 
 tween you and a Blair of Strathmore, no 
 messages for you to be giving." 
 
 " He that lies here knows well the man to 
 whom I am sending a; message — " and at this 
 response Andrew Blair scowled darkly. He 
 would fain have sent the man about his busi- 
 ness, but he feared he might get no other. 
 
 " It is thinking I am that you are not a Ma- 
 callum at all. I know all of that name in 
 Mull, lona, Skye, and the near isles. What 
 will the name of your naming be, and of your 
 father, and of his place ? " 
 
 Whether he really wanted an answer, or 
 whether he sought only to divert the man 
 from his procrastination, his question had a 
 satisfactory result. 
 
 " Well, now, it's ready I am, Anndra mhic 
 Adam." 
 
 With that, Andrew Blair stooped once 
 
 39 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 more, and from the claar brought a small jug 
 of water. From this he filled the saucer. 
 
 " You know what to say and what to do, 
 Macallum." 
 
 There was not one there who did not have 
 a shortened breath because of the mystery that 
 was now before them, and the fearfulness of 
 it. Neil Ross drew himself up, erect, stiff, 
 with white, drawn face. All who waited, save 
 Andrew Blair, thought, that the moving of his 
 lips was because of the prayer that was slip- 
 ping upon them, like the last lapsing of the 
 ebb-tide. But Blair was watching him closely, 
 and knew that it was no prayer which stole out 
 against the blank air that was around the dead. 
 
 Slowly Neil Ross extended his right arm. 
 He took a pinch of the salt and put it in the 
 saucer, then took another pinch and sprinkled 
 it upon the bread. His hand shook for a mo- 
 ment as he touched the saucer. But there was 
 no shaking as he raised it toward his lips, or 
 when he held it before him when he spoke. 
 
 " With this water that has salt in it, and has 
 lain on thy corpse, O Adam mhic Anndra 
 mhic Adam Mor, I drink away all the evil 
 that is upon thee." There was throbbing si- 
 lence while he paused — " and may it be upon 
 me, and not upon thee, if with this water it 
 cannot flow away." 
 
 40 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 Thereupon he raised the saucer and passed 
 it thrice round the head of the corpse sun- 
 ways, and having done this, Ufted it to his lips 
 and drank as much as his mouth would hold. 
 Thereafter he poured the remnant over his 
 left hand, and let it trickle to the ground. 
 Then he took the piece of bread. Thrice, too, 
 he passed it round the head of the corpse sun- 
 ways. 
 
 He turned and looked at the man by his 
 side, then at the others who watched him with 
 beating hearts. 
 
 With a loud clear voice he took the sins. 
 
 " Thoir dhomh do ciontachd, Adam mhic 
 Anndra mhic Adam Mdr! Give me thy sins 
 to take away from thee ! Lo, now, as I stand 
 here, I break this bread that has lain on thee 
 in corpse, and I am eating it, I am, and in 
 that eating I take upon me the sins of thee, O 
 man that was alive and is now white with the 
 stillness ! " 
 
 Thereupon Neil Ross broke the bread and 
 ate of it, and took upon himself the sins of 
 Adam Blair that was dead. It was a bitter 
 swallowing, that. The remainder of the bread 
 he crumbled in his hand, and threw it on the 
 ground, and trod upon it. Andrew Blair gave 
 a sigh of relief. His cold eyes lightened with 
 malice. 
 
 41 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 " Be off with you, now, Macallum. We are 
 wanting no tramps at the farm here, and per- 
 haps you had better not be trying to get work 
 this side lona, for it is known as the Sin- 
 Eater you will be, and that won't be for the 
 helping, I am thinking ! There : there are the 
 two half-crowns for you — and may they bring 
 you no harm; you that are Scapegoat now ! " 
 
 The Sin-Eater turned at that, and stared 
 like a hill-bull. Scapegoat! Ay, that's what 
 he was. Sin-Eater, scapegoat! Was he not, 
 too, another Judas, to have sold for silver that 
 which was not for the selling? No, no, for 
 sure Maisie Macdonald could tell him the rune 
 that would serve for the easing of this bur- 
 den. He would soon be quit of it. 
 
 Slowly he took the money, turned it over, 
 and put it in his pocket. 
 
 " I am going, Andrew Blair," he said 
 quietly ; " I am going, now. I will not say to 
 him that is there in the silence, A chuid do 
 Pharas da! — nor will I say to you, Gu'n 
 gleidheadh Dia thu — ^nor will I say to this 
 dwelling that is the home of thee and thine, 
 Gu'n beannaicheadh Dia an tigh! " ^ 
 
 ' ( I ) A chuid do Pharas da! "His share of heaven 
 be his." (2) Gu'n gleidheadh Dia thu! "May God 
 preserve you." (3) Gu'n beannaicheadh Dia an 
 tigh! God's blessing on this house." 
 42 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 Here there was a pause. All listened. An- 
 drew Blair shifted uneasily, the furtive eyes of 
 him going this way and that like a ferret in 
 the grass. 
 
 " But, Andrew Blair, I will say this ; when 
 you fare abroad, Droch caoidh ort! and when 
 you go upon the water, Gaoth gun direadh 
 ort! Ay, ay, Anndra mhic Adam, Dia ad 
 aghaidh 's ad aodann — agus bas dunach ort! 
 Dhonas's dholas ort, agus leat-sa! " ^ 
 
 The bitterness of these words was like snow 
 in June upon all there. They stood amazed. 
 None spoke. No one moved. 
 
 Neil Ross turned upon his heel, and with a 
 bright light in his eyes walked away from the 
 dead and the living. He went by the byres, 
 whence he had come. Andrew Blair remained 
 where he was, now glooming at the corpse, 
 now biting his nails and staring at the damp 
 sods at his feet. 
 
 When Neil reached the end of the milk-shed 
 he saw Maisie Macdonald there, waiting. 
 
 " These were ill sayings of yours, Neil 
 
 ' (i) Droch caoidh ort! "May a fatal accident 
 happen to you" (lit. "Bad moan on you"). (2) 
 Gaoth gun direadh ort! "May you drift to your 
 drowning" (lit. "Wind without direction on you"). 
 (3) Dia ad aghaidh, etc! "God against thee and in 
 thy face — and may a death of woe be yours. Evil 
 and sorrow to thee and thine! " 
 
 43 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 Ross," she said in a low voice, so that she 
 might not be overheard from the house. 
 
 " So, it is knowing me you are." 
 
 " Sheen Macarthur told me." 
 
 " I have good cause." 
 
 " That is a true word. I know it." 
 
 " Tell me this thing. What is the rune that 
 is said for the throwing into the sea of the 
 sins of the dead? See here, Maisie Macdon- 
 ald. There is no money of that man that I 
 would carry a mile with me. Here it is. It 
 is yours, if you will tell me that rune." 
 
 Maisie took the money hesitatingly. Then, 
 stooping, she said slowly the few lines of the 
 old, old rune. 
 
 " Will you be remembering that ? " 
 
 " It is not forgetting it I will be, Maisie." 
 
 " Wait a moment. There is some warm 
 milk here." 
 
 With that she went, and then, from within, 
 beckoned to him to enter. 
 
 " There is no one here, Neil Ross. Drink 
 the milk." 
 
 He drank: and while he did so she drew a 
 leather pouch from some hidden place in her 
 dress. 
 
 " And now I have this to give you." 
 
 She counted out ten pennies and two far- 
 things. 
 
 44 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 " It is all the coppers I have. You are 
 welcome to them. Take them, friend of my 
 friend. They will give you the food you 
 need, and the ferry across the Sound." 
 
 " I will do that, Maisie Macdonald, and 
 thanks to you. It is not forgetting it I will 
 be, nor you, good woman. And now, tell me : 
 Is it safe that I am ? He called me a ' scape- 
 goat,' he, Andrew Blair! Can evil touch me 
 between this and the sea ? " 
 
 " You must go to the place where the evil 
 was done to you and yours ; and that, I know, 
 is on the west side of lona. Go, and God pre- 
 serve you. But here, too, is a sian that will 
 be for the safety." 
 
 Thereupon with swift mutterings she said 
 this charm: an old, familiar sian against Sud- 
 den Harm : 
 
 " Sian a chuir Moire air Mac ort, 
 
 Sian ro' marbhadh, sian ro' lot ort, 
 
 Sian eadar a' chlioch 's a' ghlun, 
 
 Sian nan Tri ann an aon ort, 
 
 O mhullach do chinn gu bonn do chois ort: 
 
 Sian seachd eadar a h-aon ort, 
 
 Sian seachd eadar a dha ort, 
 
 Sian seachd eadar a tri ort, 
 
 Sian seachd eadar a ceithir ort, 
 
 Sian seachd eadar a coig ort, 
 
 Sian seachd eadar a sia ort, 
 
 Sian seachd paidir nan seach paidir dol deiseil ri 
 diugh narach ort, ga do ghleidheadh bho bheud 's bho 
 mhi-thapadh! " 
 
 45 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 Scarcely had she finished before she heard 
 heavy steps approaching. 
 
 " Away with you," she whispered ; repeat- 
 ing in a loud angry tone, " Away with you ! 
 Seachad! Seachad! " 
 
 And with that Neil Ross slipped from the 
 milk-shed and crossed the yard, and was be- 
 hind the byres, before Andrew Blair, with sul- 
 len mien and swift wild eyes, strode from the 
 house. 
 
 It was with a grim smile on his face that 
 Neil tramped down the wet heather till he 
 reached the high road, and fared thence as 
 through a marsh because of the rains there 
 had been. 
 
 For the first mile he thought of the angry 
 mind of the dead man, bitter at paying of the 
 silver. For the second mile he thought of the 
 evil that had been wrought for him and his. 
 For the third mile he pondered over all that 
 he had heard, and done, and taken upon him 
 that day. 
 
 Then he sat down upon a broken granite- 
 heap by the way, and brooded deep, till one 
 hour went, and then another, and the third 
 was upon him. 
 
 A man driving two calves came toward him 
 out of the west. He did not hear or see. The 
 man stopped, spoke again. Neil gave no an- 
 46 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 swer. The drover shrugged his shoulders, 
 hesitated, and walked slowly on, often look- 
 ing back. 
 
 An hour later a shepherd came by the way 
 he himself had tramped. He was a tall, 
 gaunt man with a squint. The small pale- 
 blue eyes glittered out of a mass of red hair 
 that almost covered his face. He stood still 
 opposite Neil, and leaned on his cromak. 
 
 " Latha math leat," he said at last, " I wish 
 you good day." 
 
 Neil glanced at him, but did not speak. 
 
 " What is your name, for I seem to know 
 you?" 
 
 But Neil had already forgotten him. The 
 shepherd took out his snuflE-mull, helped him- 
 self, and handed the mull to the lonely way- 
 farer. Neil mechanically helped himself. 
 
 "Am bheil thu 'dot do Fhionphort?" cried 
 the shepherd again, " are you going to Fion- 
 naphort ? " 
 
 " Tha mise 'dol a dh' I-challum-chille," 
 Neil answered in a low, weary voice, and as a 
 man adream, " I am on my way to lona." 
 
 " I am thinking I know now who you are. 
 You are the man Macallum." 
 
 Neil looked, but did not speak. His eyes 
 dreamed against what the other could not see 
 or know. The shepherd called angrily to his 
 
 47 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 dogs to keep the sheep from straying; then, 
 with a resentful air, turned to his victim. 
 
 " You are a silent man for sure, you are. 
 I'm hoping it is not the curse upon you al- 
 ready." 
 
 "What curse?" 
 
 " Ah, that has brought the wind against the 
 mist! I was thinking so! " 
 
 "What curse?" 
 
 "You are the man that was the Sin-Eater 
 over there ? " 
 
 " Ay." 
 
 "The man Macallum?" 
 
 " Ay." 
 
 " Strange it is, but three days ago I saw 
 you in Tobermory, and heard you give your 
 name as Neil Ross, to an lona man that was 
 there." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Oh, sure, it is nothing to me. But they 
 say the Sin-Eater should not be a man with a 
 hidden lump in his pack." ^ 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " For the dead know, and are content. 
 There is no shaking off any sins, then: for 
 that man." 
 
 " It is a lie." 
 
 ' i.e. with a criminal secret, or an undiscovered 
 crime. 
 
 48 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 " Maybe ay, and maybe no." 
 
 " Well, have you more to be saying to me ? 
 I am obliged to you for your company, but it 
 is not needing it I am, though no offence." 
 
 " Och, man, there's no offence between you 
 and me. Sure, there's lona in me, too, for the 
 father of my father married a woman that 
 was the granddaughter of Tomais Macdon- 
 ald, who was a fisherman there. No, no, it is 
 rather warning you I would be." 
 
 "And for what?" 
 
 " Well, well, just because of that laugh I 
 heard about." 
 
 "What laugh?" 
 
 " The laugh of Adam Blair that is dead." 
 
 Neil Ross stared, his eyes large and wild. 
 He leaned a little forward. No word came 
 from him. The look that was on his face was 
 the question. 
 
 " Yes : it was this way. Sure, the telling 
 of it is just as I heard it. After you ate the 
 sins of Adam Blair, the people there brought 
 out the coffin. When they were putting him 
 into it, he was as stiff as a sheep dead in the 
 snow — and just like that, too, with his eyes 
 wide open. Well, some one saw you tramp- 
 ling the heather down the slope that is in front 
 of the house, and said, ' It is the Sin-Eater ! ' 
 With that, Andrew Blair sneered, and said, 
 
 49 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 ' Ay, 'tis the scapegoat he is ! ' Then, after a 
 while, he went on : ' The Sin-Eater they call 
 him ; ay, just so ; and a bitter good bargain it 
 is, too, if all's true that's thought true ! ' — and 
 with that he laughed, and then his wife that 
 was behind him laughed, and then — " 
 
 "Weel, what then?" 
 
 " Well, 'tis Himself that hears and knows if 
 it is true! But this is the thing I was told: 
 After that laughing there was a stillness, and 
 a dread. For all there saw that the corpse 
 had turned its head and was looking after you 
 as you went down the heather. Then, Neil 
 Ross, if that be your true name, Adam Blair 
 that was dead put up his white face against 
 the sky, and laughed." 
 
 At this, Ross sprang to his feet with a gasp- 
 ing sob. 
 
 " It is a lie, that thing," he cried, shaking 
 his fist at the shepherd, " it is a lie." 
 
 " It is no lie. And by the same token, An- 
 drew Blair shrank back white and shaking, 
 and his woman had the swoon upon her, and 
 who knows but the corpse might have come , 
 to life again had it not been for Maisie Mac- 
 donald, the deid-watcher, who clapped a hand- 
 ful of salt on his eyes, and tilted the coffin so 
 that the bottom of it slid forward and so let 
 the whole fall flat on the ground, with Adam 
 
 50 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 Blair in it sideways, and as likely as not curs- 
 ing and groaning as his wont was, for the 
 hurt both to his old bones and his old ancient 
 dignity." 
 
 Ross glared at the man. as though the mad- 
 ness was upon him. Fear, and horror, and 
 fierce rage, swung him now this way and now 
 that. 
 
 " What will the name of you be, shepherd ? " 
 he stuttered huskily. 
 
 " It is Eachainn Gilleasbuig I am to our- 
 selves, and the English of that for those who 
 have no Gaelic is Hector Gillespie; and I am 
 Eachainn mac Ian mac Alasdair, of Srath- 
 sheean, that is where Sutherland lies against 
 Ross." 
 
 " Then take this thing, and that is, the curse 
 of the Sin-Eater ! And a bitter bad thing may 
 it be upon you and yours ! " 
 
 And with that Neil the Sin-Eater flung his 
 hand up into the air, and then leaped past the 
 shepherd, and a minute later was running 
 through the frightened sheep, with his head 
 low, and a white foam on his lips, and his eyes 
 red with blood as a seal's that has the death- 
 wound on it. 
 
 On the third day of the seventh month from 
 that day, Aulay Macneil, coming into Ballie- 
 
 51 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 more of lona from the west side of the island, 
 said to old Ronald MacCormick, that was the 
 father of his wife, that he had seen Neil Ross 
 again, and that he was " absent " — for though 
 he had spoken to him, Neil would not answer, 
 but only gloomed at him from the wet weedy 
 rock where he sat. 
 
 The going back of the man had loosed every 
 tongue that was in lona. When, too, it was 
 known that he was wrought in some terrible 
 way, if not actually mad, the islanders whis- 
 pered that it was because of the sins of Adam 
 Blair. Seldom or never now did they speak 
 of him by his name, but simply as " The Sin- 
 Eater." The thing was not so rare as to cause 
 this strangeness, nor did many (and perhaps 
 none did) think that the sins of the dead ever 
 might or could abide with the living who had 
 merely done a good Christian, charitable 
 thing. But there was a reason. 
 
 Not long after Neil Ross had come again 
 to lona, and had settled down in the ruined 
 roofless house on the croft of Bally rona, just 
 like a fox or a wild-cat, as the saying was, 
 he was given fishing-work to do by Aulay 
 Macneil, who lived at Ard-an-teine, at the 
 rocky north end of the Machar or plain that 
 is on the west Atlantic coa?t of the island. 
 
 One moonlit night, either the seventh or 
 
 52 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 the ninth after the earthing of Adam Blair at 
 his own place in the Ross, Aulay Macneil saw 
 Neil Ross steal out of the shadow of Bally- 
 rona and make for the sea. Macneil was 
 there, by the rocks, mending a lobster-creel. 
 He had gone there because of the sadness. 
 Well, when he saw the Sin-Eater he watched. 
 
 Neil crept from rock to rock till he reached 
 the last fang that churns the sea into yeast 
 when the tide sucks the land, just opposite. 
 
 Then he called out something that Aulay 
 Macneil could not catch. With that he springs 
 up, and throws his arms above him. 
 
 " Then," says Aulay, when he tells the tale, 
 " it was like a ghost he was. The moonshine 
 was on his face like the curl o' a wave. 
 White! there is no whiteness like that of the 
 human face. It was whiter than the foam 
 about the skerry it was, whiter than the moon- 
 shining, whiter than — well, as white as the 
 painted letters on the black boards of the fish- 
 ing-cobles. There he stood, for all that the 
 sea was about him, the slip-slop waves leapin' 
 wild, and the tide making too at that. He 
 was shaking like a sail two points off the 
 wind. It was then that all of a sudden he 
 called in a womany screamin' voice: 
 
 '"I am throwing the sins of Adam Blair 
 into the midst of ye, white dogs o' the sea! 
 
 53 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 Drown them, tear them, drag them away out 
 into the black deeps! Ay, ay, ay, ye dancin' 
 wild waves, this is the third time I am doing 
 it; and now there is none left, no, not a sin, 
 not a sin. 
 
 '0-hi, 0-ri, dark tide o' the sea, 
 
 I am giving the sins of a dead man to thee! 
 
 By the Stones, by the Wind, by the Fire, by the 
 
 Tree, 
 From the dead man's sins set me free, set me free! 
 Adam, mhic Anndra mhic Adam and me. 
 Set us free! Set us free! ' 
 
 " Ay, sure, the Sin-Eater sang that over 
 and over; and after the third singing he 
 swung his arms and screamed: 
 
 'And listen to me, black waters an' running tide. 
 That rune is the good rune told me by Maisie the 
 
 wise. 
 And I am Neil, the son of Silis Macallum, 
 By the black-hearted evil man Murtagh Ross, 
 That was the friend of Adam Mac Anndra, God 
 
 against him!' 
 
 " And with that he scrambled and fell into the 
 sea. But, as I am Aulay Mac Luais and no 
 other, he was up in a moment, an' swimmin' 
 like a seal, and then over the rocks again, an' 
 away back to that lonely roofless place once 
 more, laughing wild at times, an' muttering 
 an' whispering." 
 
 54 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 It was this tale of Aulay Macneil's that 
 stood between Neil Ross and the islefolk. 
 There was something behind all that, they 
 whispered one to another. 
 
 So it was always the Sin-Eater he was 
 called at last. None sought him. The few 
 children who came upon him, now and again, 
 fled at his approach, or at the very sight of 
 him. Only Aulay Macneil saw him at times, 
 and had word of him. 
 
 After a month had gone by, all knew that 
 the Sin-Eater was wrought to madness, be- 
 cause of this awful thing ; the burden of Adam 
 Blair's sins would not go from him! Night 
 and day he could hear them laughing low, it 
 was said. 
 
 But it was the quiet madness. He went to 
 and fro like a shadow in the grass, and almost 
 as soundless as that, and as voiceless. More 
 and more the name of him grew as a terror. 
 There were few folk on that wild west coast 
 of lona, and these few avoided him when the 
 word ran that he had knowledge of strange 
 things, and converse, too, with the secrets of 
 the sea. 
 
 One day Aulay Macneil, in his boat, but 
 dumb with amaze and terror for him, saw 
 him at high-tide swimming on a long rolling 
 wave right into the hollow of the Spouting 
 
 55 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 Cave. In the memory of man, no one had 
 done this and escaped one of three things: a 
 snatching away into obhvion, a strangled 
 death, or madness. The islanders know that 
 there swims into the cave at full tide a Mar- 
 Tarbh, a dreadful creature of the sea that 
 some call a kelpie; only it is not a kelpie, 
 which is like a woman, but rather is a sea- 
 bull, offspring of the cattle that are never 
 seen. Ill indeed for any sheep or goat, ay or 
 even dog or child, if any happens to be 
 leaning over the edge of the Spouting 
 Cave when the Mar-Tarbh roars; for, of a 
 surety, it will fall in and straightway be 
 devoured. 
 
 With awe and trembling Aulay listened for 
 the screaming of the doomed man. It was 
 full tide, and the sea-beast would be there. 
 
 The minutes passed, and no sign. Only 
 the hollow booming of the sea, as it moved 
 like a baffled blind giant round the cavern- 
 bases; only the rush and spray of the water 
 flung up the narrow shaft high into the windy 
 air above the cliff it penetrates. ' 
 
 At last he saw what looked like a mass of 
 sea-weed swirled out on the surge. It was 
 the Sin-Eater. With a leap, Aulay was at, his 
 oars. The boat swung through the sea. Just 
 before Neil Ross was about to sink for the 
 
 56 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 second time, he caught him, and dragged him 
 into the boat. 
 
 But then, as ever after, nothing was to be 
 got out of the Sin-Eater save a single saying : 
 " Tha e lamhan fuar! Tha e lamhan fuar! " 
 "It has a cold, cold hand!" 
 
 The telling of this and other tales left none 
 free upon the island to look upon the " scape- 
 goat " save as one accursed. 
 
 It was in the third month that a new phase 
 of his madness came upon Neil Ross. 
 
 .The horror of the sea and the passion for 
 the sea came over him at the same happening. 
 Oftentimes he would race along the shore, 
 screaming wild names to it, now hot with hate 
 and loathing, now as the pleading of a man 
 with the woman of his love. And strange 
 chants to it, too, were upon his lips. Old, old 
 lines of forgotten runes were overheard by 
 Aulay Macneil, and not Aulay only — lines 
 wherein the ancient sea-name of the island, 
 loua, that was given to it long before it was 
 called lona, or any other of the nine names 
 that are said to belong to it, occurred again 
 and again. 
 
 The flowing tide it was that wrought him 
 thus. At the ebb he would wander across 
 the weedy slabs or among the rocks, silent, 
 and more like a lost duinshee than a man. 
 
 57 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 Then again after three months a change in 
 his madness came. None knew what it was, 
 though Aulay said that the man moaned and 
 moaned because of the awful burden he bore. 
 No drowning seas for the sins that could not 
 be washed away, no grave for the live sins 
 that would be quick till the Day of the Judg- 
 ment! 
 
 For weeks thereafter he disappeared. As 
 to where he was, it is not for the knowing. 
 
 Then at last came that third day of the sev- 
 enth month when, as I have said, Aulay Mac- 
 neil told old Ronald MacCormick that he had 
 Seen the Sin-Eater again. 
 
 It was only a half-truth that he told, though. 
 For after he had seen Neil Ross upon the 
 rock, he had followed him when he rose and 
 wandered back to the roofless place which he 
 haunted now as of yore. Less wretched a 
 shelter now it was^ because of the summer 
 that was come, though a cold wet summer at 
 that. 
 
 " Is that you, Neil Ross ? " he had asked, as 
 he peered into the shadows among the ruins 
 of the house. 
 
 " That's not my name," said the Sin-Eater ; 
 and he seemed as strange then and there, as 
 though he were a castaway from a foreign 
 ship. 
 
 58 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 " And what will it be then, you that are my 
 friend, and sure knowing me as Aulay Mac 
 Luais — Aulay Macneil that never grudges you 
 bit or sup ? " 
 
 " / am Judas." 
 
 " And at that word," says Aulay Macneil, 
 when he tells the tale, " at that word the pulse 
 in my heart was like a bat in a shut room. 
 But after a bit I took up the talk. 
 
 " ' Indeed,' I said, ' and I was not for 
 knowing that. May I be so bold as to ask 
 whose son, and of what place ? ' 
 
 " But all he said to me was, ' I am Judas.' " 
 
 " Well, I said, to comfort him, ' Sure, it's 
 not such a bad name in itself, though I am 
 knowing some which have a more homelike 
 sound.' But no, it was no good. 
 
 " ' I am Judas. And because I sold the Son 
 of God for five pieces of silver — ' But here I 
 interrupted him and said, ' Sure now, Neil, — I 
 mean, Judas — it was eight times five.' Yet 
 the simpleness of his sorrow prevailed, and I 
 listened with the wet in 'my eyes. 
 
 " ' I am Judas. And because I sold the Son 
 of God for five silver shillings. He laid upon 
 me all the nameless black sins of the world. 
 And that is why I am bearing them till the 
 Day of Days.' " 
 
 59 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 And this was the end of the Sin-Eater — for 
 I will not tell the long story of Aulay Mac- 
 neil, that gets longer and longer every win- 
 ter, but only the unchanging close of it. 
 
 I will tell it in the words of Aulay. 
 
 " A bitter wild day it was, that day I saw 
 him to see him no more. It was late. The 
 sea was red with the flamin' light that burned 
 up the air betwixt lona and all that is west of 
 West. I was on the shore, looking at the 
 sea. The big green waves came in like the 
 chariots in the Holy Book. Well, it was on 
 the black shoulder of one of them, just short 
 of the ton o' foam that swept above it, that I 
 saw a spar surgin' by. 
 
 '"What is that?' I said to myself. And 
 the reason of my wondering was this. I saw 
 that a smaller spar was swung across it. And 
 while I was watching that thing another great 
 billow came in with a roar, and hurled the 
 double-spar back, and not so far from me but 
 I might have gripped it. But who would have 
 gripped that thing if he were for. seeing what 
 I saw? 
 
 " It is Himself knows that what I say is a 
 true thing. 
 
 " On that spar was Neil Ross, the Sin- 
 Eater. Naked he was as the day he was born. 
 
 60 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 And he was lashed, too, ay, sure he was lashed 
 to it by ropes round and round his legs and 
 his waist and his left arm. It was the Cross 
 he was on. I saw that thing with the fear 
 upon me. Ah, poor drifting wreck that he 
 was! Judas on the Cross! It was his eric! 
 
 " But even as I watched, shaking in my 
 limbs, I saw that there was life in him still. 
 The lips were moving, and his right arm was 
 ever for swinging this way and that. 'Twas 
 like an oar working him off a lee shore; ay, 
 that was what I thought. 
 
 " Then all at once he caught sight of me. 
 Well, he knew me, poor man, that has his 
 share of Heaven now, I am thinking ! 
 
 " He waved, and called, but the hearing 
 could not be, because of a big surge o' water 
 that came tumbling down upon him. In the 
 stroke of an oar he was swept close by the 
 rocks where I was standing. In that floun- 
 derin', sefethin' whirlpool I saw the white face 
 of him for a moment, an', as he went out on 
 the resurge like a hauled net, I heard these 
 words fallin' against my ears: 
 
 " ' An eirig m'anama! — In ransom for my 
 soul ! ' 
 
 " And with that I saw the double-spar turn 
 over and slide down the back-sweep of a 
 drowning big wave. Ay, sure, it went out to 
 6i 
 
The Sin-Eater 
 
 the deep sea swift enough then. It was in 
 the big eddy that rushes between Skerry-Mor 
 and Skerry-Beag. I did not see it again, no, 
 not for the quarter of an hour, I am think- 
 ing. Then I saw just the whirling top of it 
 rising out of the flying yeast of a great black, 
 blustering wave that was rushing northward 
 before the current that is called the Black- 
 Eddy. 
 
 " With that you have the end of Neil Ross : 
 ay, sure, him that was called the Sin-Eater. 
 And that is a true thing, and may God save 
 us the sorrow of sorrows ! 
 
 " And that is all." 
 
 62 
 
THE NINTH WAVE 
 
 The wind fell as we crossed the Sound. 
 There was only one oar in the boat, and 
 we lay idly adrift. The tide was still on the 
 ebb, and so we made way for Soa, though well 
 before the island could be reached the tide 
 would turn, and the sea-wind would stir, and 
 we be up the Sound, and at Balliemore agiin 
 almost as quick as the laying of a net. 
 
 As we — and by " us " I am meaning Pad- 
 ruig Macrae and Ivor McLean, fishermen of 
 lona, and myself beside Ivor at the helm — 
 as we slid slowly past the ragged islet known 
 as Eilean-na-h'Aon-Chaorach, torn and rent 
 by the tides and surges of a thousand years, 
 I saw a school of seals basking in the sun. 
 One by one slithered into the water, and I 
 could note the dark forms, like moving patches 
 of sea-weed, drifting in the green under- 
 glooms. 
 
 Then after a time we bore down Upon 
 Sgeir-na-Oir, a barren rock. Three great 
 cormorants stood watching us. Their necks 
 shone in the sunlight like snakes mailed in 
 
 63 
 
The Ninth Waz>e 
 
 blue and green. On the upper ledges were 
 eight or ten northern divers. They did not 
 seem to see us, though I knew that their fierce 
 light-blue eyes noted every motion we made. 
 The small sea-ducks bobbed up and down, 
 first one flirt of a little black-feathered rump, 
 then another, then a third, till a score or so 
 were under water, and half a hundred more 
 were ready at a moment's notice to follow suit. 
 A skua hopped among the sputtering weed, 
 and screamed disconsolately at intervals. 
 Among the myriad colonies of close-set mus- 
 sels, which gave a blue bloom, like that of the 
 sloe, to the weed-covered boulders, a few 
 kitti-wakes and dotterels flitted to and fro. 
 High over head, white against the blue as a 
 cloudlet, a gannet hung motionless, seemingly 
 frozen to the sky. 
 
 Below the lapse of the boat the water was 
 pale green. I could see the liath and saithe 
 fanning their fins in slow flight, and some- 
 times a little scurrying cloud of tiny fluckies 
 and inch-long codling. For two or three 
 fathoms beyond the boat the waters were blue. 
 If blueness can be alive, and have its own life 
 and movement, it must be happy on these 
 western seas, where it dreams into shadowy 
 Lethes of amethyst and deep, dark oblivions 
 of violet. 
 
 64 
 
The Ninth Wave 
 
 Suddenly a streak of silver ran for a mo- 
 ment along the sea to starboard. It was like 
 an arrow of moonlight shot along the surface 
 of the blue and gold. Almost immediately 
 afterward, a stertorous sigh was audible. A 
 black knife cut the flow of the water: the 
 shoulder of a pollack. 
 
 " The mackerel are coming in from the 
 sea," said Macrae. He leaned forward, wet 
 the palm of his hand, and held it seaward. 
 "Ay, the tide has turned — 
 
 Ohrone — achree — an — SriUh-mhra! 
 Ohrone — achree — an — Lionadh! ' ' 
 
 he droned monotonously, over and over with 
 few variations. 
 
 "An' it's Oh an' Oh for the tides o' the sea, 
 An' it's Oh for the flowing tide," 
 
 I sang at last in mockery. 
 
 " Come, Padruig," I cried, " you are as bad 
 as Peter McAlpin's lassie, Elsie, with the 
 pipes ! " 
 
 Both men laughed lightly. On the last Sab- 
 bath, old McAlpin had held a prayer-meeting 
 in his little house in the " street," in Ballie- 
 more of lona. At the end of his discourse he 
 told his hearers that the voice of God was 
 
 65 
 
The Ninth Wave 
 
 terrible only to the evil-doer but beautiful to 
 the righteous man, and that this voice was 
 even now among them, speaking in a thou- 
 sand ways and yet in one way. And at this 
 moment, that elfin granddaughter of his, who 
 was in the byre close by, let go upon the pipes 
 with so long and weary a whine that the col- 
 lies by the fire whimpered, and would have 
 howled outright but for the Word of God that 
 still lay open on the big stool in front of old 
 Peter. For it was in this way that the dogs 
 knew when the Sabbath readings were over; 
 and there was not one that would dare to bark 
 or howl, much less rise and go out, till the 
 Book was closed with a loud, solemn bang. 
 Well, again and again that weary quavering 
 moan went up and down the room, till even 
 old McAlpin smiled, though he was fair angry 
 with Elsie. But he made the sign of silence, 
 and began : " My brethren, even in this trial it 
 may be the Almighty has a message for us " 
 — when at that moment Elsie was kicked by a 
 cow, and fell against the board with the pipes, 
 and sqiieezed out so wild a wail that McAlpin 
 started up and cried, in the Lowland way that 
 he had won out of his wife, "Hoots, havers, 
 an' d! come oot o' that, ye Deil's spunkie! " 
 So it was this memory that made Padruig 
 and Ivor smile. Suddenly Ivor began with 
 66 
 
The Ninth Wave 
 
 a long rising and falling cadence, an old Gaelic 
 rune of the Faring of the Tide. 
 
 Athair, A mhic, A Spioraid Naoimh, 
 Biodh an Tri-aon leinn, a la's a dh' oidhche; 
 S'air chul nan tonn, no air thaobh nam beann! 
 
 O Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, 
 
 Be the Three-in-One with us day and night. 
 
 On the crested wave, when waves run high! 
 
 And out of the place in the West 
 
 Where Tir-nan-Og, the Land of Youth 
 
 Is, the Land of Youth everlasting, 
 
 Send the great Tide that carries the sea-weed 
 
 And brings the birds, out of the North: 
 
 And bid it wind as a snake through the bracken. 
 
 As a great snake through the heather of the sea. 
 
 The fair blooming heather of the sunlit sea. 
 
 And may it bring the fish to our nets, 
 
 And the great fish to our lines : 
 
 And may it sweep away the sea-hounds 
 
 That devour the herring: 
 
 And may it drown the heavy pollack 
 
 That respect not our nets 
 
 But fall into and tear them and ruin them wholly. 
 
 And may I, or any that is of my blood. 
 
 Behold not the Wave-Haunter who comes in with the 
 
 Tide, 
 Or the Maighdeann-m4ra who broods in the shallows, 
 Where the sea-caves are, in the ebb: 
 And fair may my fishing be, and the fishing of those 
 
 near to me, 
 
 67 
 
The Ninth Wave 
 
 And good may this Tide be, and good may it bring: 
 And may there be no calling in the Flow, this Sruth- 
 
 mira. 
 And may there be no burden in the Ebb ! Ochone! 
 
 AnainmanAthar, s' anMhic, s' an Spioraid Naoitnh, 
 Biodh an Tri-aon leinn, a la's a dh' oidhche, 
 S' air chul nan tonn, no air thaobh nam beann! 
 
 Ochone! arone! 
 
 Both men sang the closing lines with loudly 
 swelling voices and with a wailing fervour 
 which no words of mine could convey. 
 
 Runes of this kind prevail all over the isles, 
 from the Butt of Lewis to the Rhinns of Islay : 
 identical in spirit, though varying in lines and 
 phrases, according to the mood and tempera- 
 ment of the rannaiche or singer, the local or 
 peculiar physiognomy of nature, the instinct- 
 ive yielding to hereditary wonder-words, and 
 other compelling circumstances of the outer 
 and inner life. Almost needless to say, the 
 sea-maid or sea-witch and the Wave-Haunter 
 occur in many of those wild runes, particu- 
 larly in those that are impromptu. In the 
 Outer Hebrides, the runes are wild natural 
 hymns rather than Pagan chants; though 
 marked distinctions prevail there also — for in 
 Harris and the Lews the folk are Protestant 
 almost to a man, while in Benbecula and the 
 Southern Hebrides the Catholics are in a like 
 68 
 
The Ninth Wave 
 
 ascendancy. But all are at one in the com- 
 mon Brotherhood of Sorrow. 
 
 The only lines in Ivor McLean's wailing 
 song which puzzled me were the two last 
 which came before " the good words," " in 
 the name of the Father, the Son, and the 
 Spirit," etc. 
 
 "Tell me, in English, Ivor," I said, after 
 a silence, wherein I pondered the Gaelic words, 
 " what is the meaning of — 
 
 'And mayjhere be no calling in the Flow, this Sriith- 
 
 m^ra, 
 And may there be no burden in the Ebb?' " 
 
 " Yes, I will be telling you what is the 
 meaning of that. When the great tide that 
 wells out of the hollow of the sea, and sweeps 
 toward all the coasts of the world, first stirs, 
 when she will be knowing that the Ebb is not 
 any more moving at all, she sends out nine 
 long waves. And I will be forgetting what 
 these waves are: but one will be to shepherd 
 the sea-weed that is for the blessing of man, 
 and another is for to wake the fish that sleep 
 in the deeps, and another is for this, and an- 
 other will be for that, and the seventh is to 
 rouse the Wave-Haunter and all the creat- 
 ures of the water that fear and hate man, and 
 the eighth no man knows, though the priests 
 69 
 
The Ninth Wave 
 
 say it is to carry the Whisper of Mary, and 
 the ninth — " 
 
 "And the ninth, Ivor?" 
 
 " May it be far from us, from you and from 
 me and from those of us ! An' I will be say- 
 in' nothing against it, not I ; nor against any- 
 thing that is in the sea ! An' you will be not- 
 ing that! 
 
 " Well, this ninth wave goes through the 
 water on the forehead of the tide. An' wher- 
 ever it will be going it calls. An' the call of 
 it is, ' Come away, come away, the sea waits! 
 Follow! . . . Come away, come away, the sea 
 waits! Follow!''^ An' whoever hears that 
 must arise and go, whether he be fish or pol- 
 lack, or seal or otter, or great skua or small 
 tern, or bird or beast of the shore, or bird or 
 beast of the sea, or whether it be man or 
 woman or child, or any of the others." 
 
 " Any of the others, Ivor? " 
 
 " I will not be saying anything about that," 
 replied McLean, gravely ; " you will be know- 
 ing well what I mean, and if you do not 
 it is not for me to talk of that which is not to 
 be talked about. 
 
 " Well, as I was for saying: that calling of 
 
 ' Ivor, of course, gave these words in the Gaelic, 
 the sound of which has the strange wail of the sea 
 in it. 
 
 70 
 
The Ninth Wave 
 
 the ninth wave of the Tide is what lan-Mor 
 of the hill speaks of as ' the whisper of the 
 snow that falls on the hair, the whisper of the 
 frost that lies on the cold face of him that 
 will never be waking again.' " 
 
 " Death? " 
 
 " It is you that will be saying it. 
 
 " Well," he resumed after a moment's hush, 
 "a man may live by the sea for five score 
 years and never hear that ninth wave call in 
 any Sriith-indra, but soon or late he will hear 
 it. An' many is the Flood that will be silent 
 for all of us: but there will be one Flood for 
 each of us that will be a dreadful Voice, a 
 voice of terror and of dreadfulness. And 
 whoever hears that Voice, he for sure will be 
 the burden in the Ebb." 
 
 " Has any heard that Voice, and lived ? " 
 
 McLean looked at me, but said nothing. 
 Padruig Macrae rose, tautened a rope, and 
 made a sign to me to put the helm alee. Then, 
 looking into the green water slipping by — 
 for the tide was feeling our keel, and a 
 stronger breath from the sea lay against the 
 hollow that was growing in the sail — he said 
 to Ivor: 
 
 " You should be telling her of Ivor Mac- 
 Ivor mhic Niall." 
 
 " Who was Ivor MacNeil ? " I said. 
 
 71 
 
The Ninth Wave 
 
 "He was the father of my mother," an- 
 swered McLean, " and was known through- 
 out the north isles as Ivor Carminish, for he 
 had a farm on the eastern lands of Carmin- 
 ish which lie between the hills called Stron- 
 deval and Rondeval, that are in the far south 
 of the northern Hebrides, and near what will 
 be known to you as the Obb of Harris. 
 
 " And I will now be telling you about him 
 in the Gaelic, for it is more easy to me, and 
 more pleasant for us all. 
 
 " When Ivor MacEachainn Carminish, that 
 was Ivor's father, died, he left the farm to his 
 elder son and to his second son, Seumas. 
 By this time, Ivor was married, and had the 
 daughter who is my mother. But he was a 
 lonely man, and an islesman to the heart's 
 core. So . . . but you will be knowing the 
 isles that lie off the Obb of Harris — ^the 
 Saghay, and Ensay, and Killegray, and 
 farther west, Berneray and, north-west, Pa- 
 baidh, and beyond that again, Shillaidh ? " 
 
 For the moment I was confused, for these 
 names are so common : and I was thinking of 
 the big isle of Berneray that lies in huge Loch 
 Roag that has swallowed so great a mouthful 
 of Western Lewis, to the seaward of which 
 also are the two Pabbays, Pabaidh Mor and 
 Pabaidh Beag. But when McLean added, 
 72 
 
The Ninth Wave 
 
 " and other isles of the Caolas Harrish " (the 
 Sound of Harris), I remembered aright; and 
 indeed I knew both, though the nor' isles bet- 
 ter, for I had lived near Callernish on the in- 
 ner waters of Roag. 
 
 " Well, Carminish had sheep-runs upon 
 some of these. One summer the gloom came 
 upon him, and he left Seumas to take care 
 of the farm and of Morag his wife, and of 
 Sheen their daughter; and he went to live 
 upon Pabbay, near the old castle that is by 
 the Rua Dune on the south-east of the isle. 
 There he stayed for three months. But on 
 the last night of each month he heard the sea 
 calling in his sleep; and what he heard was 
 like ' Come away, come away, the sea waits! 
 Follow . . . Come away, come away, the sea 
 waits! Follow! ' And he knew the voice of 
 the ninth wave ; and that it would not be there 
 in the darkness of sleep if it were not already 
 moving toward him through the dark ways 
 of An Dan (Destiny). So, thinking to pass 
 away from a place doomed for him, and that 
 he might be safe elsewhere, he sailed north 
 to a kinsman's croft on Aird- Vanish in the 
 island of Taransay. But at the end of that 
 month he heard in his sleep the noise of tidal 
 waters, and at the gathering of the ebb he 
 heard ' Come away, come away, the sea waits! 
 
 7Z 
 
The Ninth Wave 
 
 Follow! ' Then once more, when the Novem- 
 ber heat-spell had come, he sailed farther 
 northward still. He stopped a while at Eilean 
 Mhealastaidh, which is under the morning 
 shadow of high Griomabhal on the mainland, 
 and at other places, till he settled, in the third 
 week, at his cousin Eachainn MacEachainn's 
 bothy, near Callernish, where the Great Stones 
 of old stand by the sea, and hear nothing for- 
 ever but the noise of the waves of the North 
 Sea and the cry of the sea-wind. 
 
 " And when the last night of November had 
 come and gone, and he had heard in his sleep 
 no calling of the ninth wave of the Flowing 
 Tide, he took heart of grace. All' through that 
 next day he went in peace. Eachainn won- 
 dered often with slant eyes when he saw the 
 morose man smile, and heard his silence give 
 way now and again to a short, mirthless laugh. 
 
 " The two were at the porridge, and Each- 
 ainn was muttering his Bui'cheas dhcfn Ti, 
 the Thanks to the Being, when Carminish 
 suddenly leaped to his feet, and, with white 
 face, stood shaking like a rope in the wind. 
 
 " ' In the name of the Son, what is it, Ivor 
 mhic Ivor? What is it, Garminish?' cried 
 Eachainn. 
 
 " But the stricken man could scarce speak. 
 At last, with a long sigh, he turned and 
 
 74 
 
The Ninth Wave 
 
 looked at his kinsman, and that look went 
 down into the shivering heart like the polar 
 wind into a crofter's hut. 
 
 " ' What will be that? ' said Carminish, in 
 a hoarse whisper. 
 
 " Eachainn listened, but he could hear no 
 wailing beann-sith, no unwonted sound. 
 
 " ' Sure, I hear nothing but the wind moan- 
 ing through the Great Stones, an' beyond 
 them the noise of the Flowin' Tide.' 
 
 " 'The Flowing Tide ! The Flowing Tide 1 ' 
 cried Carminish, and no longer with the hush 
 in the voice. ' An' what is it you hear in the 
 Flowing Tide ? ' 
 
 " Eachainn looked in silence. What was 
 the thing he could say? For now he knew. 
 
 " Ah, och, och, ochone, you may well sigh, 
 Eachainn mhic Eachainn ! For the ninth wave 
 o' the Flowing Tide is coming out o' the 
 North Sea upon this shore, an' already I can 
 hear it calling, ' Come away, come away, the 
 sea waits! Follow! . . . Come away, come 
 away, the sea waits! Follow! ' 
 
 " And with that Carminish dashed out the 
 light that was upon the table, and leaped upon 
 Eachainn, and dinged him to th€ floor and 
 would have killed him but for the growing 
 noise of the sea beyond the Stannin' Stones o' 
 Callanish, and the woe-weary sough o' the 
 
 75 
 
The Ninth Wave 
 
 wind, an' the calling, calling, ' Come, come 
 away! Come, come away! ' 
 
 " And so he rose and staggered to the door, 
 and flung himself out into the night, while 
 Eachainn lay upon the floor and gasped for 
 breath, and then crawled to his knees, an' took 
 the Book from the shelf by his fern-straw 
 mattress, an' put his cheek against it, an' 
 moaned to God, an' cried like a child for the 
 doom that was upon Ivor Maclvor mhic Niall, 
 who was of his own blood, and his own foster- 
 brother at that. 
 
 " And while he moaned, Carminish was 
 stalking through the great, gaunt, looming 
 Stones of the Druids, that were here before 
 St. Colum and his Shona came, and laughing 
 wild. And all the time the tide was com- 
 ing in, and the tide and the deep sea and 
 the waves of the shore and the wind in 
 the salt grass and the weary reeds and the 
 black-pool gale made a noise of a dreadful 
 hymn, that was the death-hymn, the going- 
 rune, of Ivor the son of Ivor of the kindred 
 of Niall. 
 
 " And it was there that they found his body 
 in the grey dawn, wet and stiff with the salt 
 ooze. For the soul that was in him had heard 
 the call of the ninth wave that was for him. 
 So, and may the Being keep back that hour 
 76 
 
The Ninth Wave 
 
 for us, there was a burden upon that Ebb on 
 the morning of that day. 
 
 " Also, there is this thing for the hearing. 
 In the dim dark before the curlew cried at 
 dawn, Eachainn heard a voice about the house, 
 a voice going like a thing blind and baffled, 
 
 " 'Cha till, cha till, cha till mi tuille!' " 
 I return, I return, I return never more! 
 
 77 
 
THE JUDGMENT O' GOD 
 
 The wind that blows on the feet of the 
 dead came calling loud across the Ross, as 
 we put about the boat off the Rudhe Cal- 
 lachain in the Sound of lona. The ebb sucked 
 at the keel, while, like a cork, we were swung 
 lightly by the swell. For we were in the strait 
 between Eilean Dubh and the Isle of the 
 Swine; and that is where the current has a 
 bad pull, the current that is made of the inflow 
 and the outflow. I have heard that a weary 
 woman of the olden days broods down there 
 in a cave, and that day and night she weaves 
 a web of water, which a fierce spirit in 
 the sea tears this way and that as soon as 
 woven. 
 
 So we put about, and went before the east 
 wind; and below the dip of the sail alee I 
 watched Soa grow bigger and gaunter and 
 blacker against the white wave. As we came 
 so near that it was as though the wash of 
 the sea among the hollows bubbled in our 
 ears, I saw a large bull-seal lying half-in, 
 half-out of the water, and staring at us with 
 78 
 
The Judgment o' God 
 
 an angry, fearless look. Padruig and Ivor 
 caught sight of it almost at the same mo- 
 ment. 
 
 To my surprise Padruig suddenly rose and 
 put a spell upon it. I could hear the wind 
 through his clothes as he stood by the mast. 
 
 The rosad or spell was, of course, in the 
 Gaelic, but its meaning was something like 
 this: 
 
 Ho, ro, O Ron dubh, O Ron dubhl 
 
 An ainm an Athar, O Ron/ 
 
 'S an mhic, O Ron! 
 
 'S an Spioraid Naointh, 
 
 O Ron-it' -mhtira, O Ron dubh! 
 
 Ho, ro, O black Seal, O black Seal! 
 In the name of the Father, 
 And of the Son, 
 And of the Holy Ghost, 
 
 Seal of the deep sea, O black Seal 
 
 Hearken the thing that I say to thee, 
 I, Phadric MacAlastair MhicCrae, 
 Who dwell in a house on the Island 
 That you look on night and day from Soa! 
 For I put rosad upon thee. 
 
 And upon the woman-seal that won thee, 
 And the women-seal that are thine, 
 And the young that thou hast, 
 Ay, upon thee and all thy kin 
 
 1 put rosad, O Ron dubh, O Ron-4'-mh4ra! 
 
 79 
 
The Judgment o' God 
 
 And may no harm come to me or mine, 
 
 Or to any fishing or snaring that is of me, 
 
 Or to any sailing by storm or dusk. 
 
 Or when the moonshine fills the blind eyes of the dead. 
 
 No harm to me or mine 
 
 From thee or thine! 
 
 With a slow, swinging motion of his head 
 Padruig broke out again into the first words 
 of the incantation, and now Ivor joined him; 
 and with the call of the wind and the leaping 
 and the splashing of the waves was blent the 
 chant of the two fishermen: 
 
 Ho, ro, O Ron dubh! O Ron dubht 
 
 An ainm an Athar, 'sanMhic, 's anSpioraid Naoimh, 
 
 O Ron-h'-mhiira, O Ron dubht 
 
 Then the men sat back, with that dazed 
 look in the eyes I have so often seen in those 
 of men or women of the Isles who are 
 wrought. No word was spoken till we came 
 almost straight upon Eilean-na-h' Aon-Chao- 
 rach. Then at the rocks we tacked and went 
 splashing up the Sound, like a pollack on a 
 Sabbath noon.^ 
 
 ' The lona fishermen, and indeed the Gaelic and 
 Scottish fishermen generally, believe that the pollack 
 (porpoise) knows when it is the Sabbath ; and on that 
 day will come closer to the land, and be more wanton 
 in its gambols on the sun-warmed surface of the sea, 
 than on the days when the herring-boats are abroad. 
 80 
 
The Judgment o' God 
 
 " What was wrong with the old man of the 
 sea ? " I asked Padruig. 
 
 At first he would say nothing. He looked 
 vaguely at a coiled rope; then, with hand- 
 shaded gaze across to the red rocks at Fion- 
 naphort. I repeated my question. He took, 
 refuge in English. 
 
 " It wass ferry likely the Clansman would 
 be pringing ta new minister-body. Did you pe 
 knowing him, or his people, or where he came 
 from?" 
 
 But I was not to be put off thus ; and at last, 
 while Ivor stared down the green shelving 
 lawns of the sea below us, Padruig told me 
 this thing. His reluctance was partly due to 
 the shyness which with the Gael almost in- 
 variably follows strong emotion ; and partly 
 to that strange, obscure, secretive instinct 
 which is also so characteristically Celtic, and 
 often even prevents Gaels of far apart isles, 
 or of different clans, from communicating to 
 each other stories or legends of a peculiarly 
 intimate kind. 
 
 " I will tell you what my father told me, 
 and what, if you like, you may hear again 
 from the sister of my father, who is the wife 
 of Ian Finlay, who has the farm on the north 
 side of Dun I. 
 
 " You will have heard of old Robert Ach- 
 
 8i 
 
The Judgment o' God 
 
 anna of Eilanmore, off the Ord o' Sutherland ? 
 To be sure, for have you not stayed there. 
 Well, I need not tell you how he came there 
 out of the south ; but it will be news to you to 
 learn that my elder brother Murdoch was had 
 by him as a shepherd, and to help on the farm. 
 And the way of that thing was this : Murdoch 
 had gone to the fishing north of Skye, with 
 Angus and William Macdonald, and in the 
 great gale that broke up their boat, among so 
 many others, he found himself stranded on 
 Eilanmore. Achanna told him that as he was 
 ruined, and so far from home, he would give 
 him employment, and though Murdoch had 
 never thought to serve under a Galloway man, 
 he agreed. 
 
 " For a year he worked on the upper farm, 
 Ardoch-beag, as it was called. There the 
 gloom came upon him. Turn which way he 
 would, the beauty that is in the day was no 
 more. In vain, when he came out into the 
 air in the morning, did he cry Deasiul! and 
 keep by the sunway. At night he heard the 
 sea calling in his sleep. So, when the lambing 
 was over, he told Achanna that he must go, 
 for he hungered for the sea. True, the wave 
 ran all around Eilanmore, but the farm was 
 between bare hills and among high moors, 
 and the house was in a hollow place. But it 
 82 
 
The Judgment o' God 
 
 was needful for him to go. Even then, 
 though he did not know it, the madness of the 
 sea was upon him. 
 
 " But the Galloway man did not wish to 
 lose my brother, who was a quiet man, and 
 worked for a small wage. Murdoch was a 
 silent lad, but he had often the light in his 
 eyes, and none knew of what he was thinking ; 
 maybe it was of a lass, or a friend, or of the 
 ingle-neuk where his old mother sang o' 
 nights, or of the sight and sound of lona that 
 was his own land; but I'm considerin' it was 
 the sea he was dreamin' of — ^how the waves 
 ran laughin' an' dancin' against the tide, 
 like lambkins comin' to meet the shep- 
 herd, or how the big green billows went 
 sweepin' white an' ghostly through the moon- 
 less nights. 
 
 " So the troth that was come to between 
 them was this: that Murdoch should abide 
 for a year longer, that is, till Lammastide; 
 then that he should no longer live at Ardoch- 
 beag, but instead should go and keep the 
 sheep on Bac-Mor." 
 
 " On Bac-Mor, Padruig," I interrupted, 
 " for sure, you do not mean our Bac-Mor ? " 
 
 " For sure I mean no other : Bac-Mor, of 
 the Treshnish Isles, that is eleven miles north 
 
 83 
 
The Judgment o' God 
 
 of lona and a long four north-west of Staffa ; 
 
 an' just Bac-Mor an' no other." 
 
 " Murdoch would be near home, there." 
 " Ay, near, an' farther away ; for 'tis to be 
 
 farther off to be near that your heart loves 
 
 but ye can't get. 
 
 " Well, Murdoch agreed to this, but he did 
 not know there was no boat on the island. It 
 was all very well in the summer. The her- 
 rin'-smacks lay off Bac-Mor or Bac-Beag 
 many a time; and he could see them momin', 
 noon, an' night; an' nigh every day he could 
 watch the big steamer comin' southward down 
 the Mornish and Treshnish coasts of Mull, 
 and stand by for an hour off Staflfa, or else 
 come northward out of the Sound of lona 
 round the Eilean Rabach; and once or twice 
 a week he saw the Clansman coming or going 
 from Bunessan in the Ross to Scamish in the 
 Isle of Tiree. Maybe, too, now and again a 
 foreign sloop or a coasting schooner would 
 sail by ; and twice, at least, a yacht lay off the 
 wild shore, and put a boat in at the landing- 
 place, and let some laughing folk loose upon 
 that quiet place. The first time, it was a 
 steam-yacht, owned by a rich foreigner, either 
 an Englishman or an American, I misremem- 
 ber now : an' he spoke to Murdoch as though 
 84 
 
The Judgment o' God 
 
 he were a savage, and he and his gay folk 
 laughed when my brother spoke in the only 
 English he had (an' sober good English it 
 was), an' then he shoved some money into his 
 hand, as though both were evil-doers and were 
 ashamed to be seen doing what they did. 
 
 " ' An' what is this for ? ' said my brother. 
 
 " ' O it's for yourself, my man, to drink our 
 health with,' answered the English lord, or 
 whatever he was, rudely. 
 
 " Then Murdoch looked at him and his 
 quietly ; an' he said, ' God has your health an' 
 my health in the hollow of His hand. But I 
 wish you well. Only I am not being your man 
 any more than I am for calling you my man ; 
 an' I will ask you to take back this money to 
 drink with; nor have I any need for money, 
 but only for that which is free to all — ^but that 
 only God can give.' And with that the for- 
 eign people went away, and laughed less. But 
 when the second yacht came, though it was a 
 yawl owned by a Glasgow man who had folk 
 in the west, Murdoch would not come down 
 to the shore, but lay under the shadow of a 
 rock amid his sheep, and kept his eyes upon 
 the sun that was moving west out of the south. 
 
 " Well, all through the fine months Mur- 
 doch stayed on Bac-Mor, and thereafter 
 through the early winter. The last time I 
 
 85 
 
The Judgment o' God 
 
 saw him was at the New Year. On Hog- 
 manay night my father was drinking hard, 
 and nothing would serve him but he must bor- 
 row Alec Macarthur's boat, and that he and 
 our mother and myself, and Ian Finlay and 
 his wife, my sister, should go out before the 
 quiet south-wind that was blowing, and see 
 Murdoch where he lay sleeping or sat dream- 
 ing in his lonely bothy. And truth, we went. 
 It was a white sailing, that I remember. The 
 moonshinings ran in and out of the wavelets 
 like herrings through salmon nets. The fire- 
 flauchts, too, went speeding about. I was but 
 a laddie then, an' I noted it all ; an' the sheet- 
 lightning that played behind the cloudy lift 
 in the nor'-west. 
 
 " But when we got to Bac-Mor there was 
 no sign of Murdoch at the bothy; no, not 
 though we called high and low. Then my 
 father and Ian Finlay went to look, and we 
 stayed by the peats. When they came back, 
 an hour later, I saw that my father was no 
 more in drink. He had the same look in his 
 eyes as Ronald McLean had that day last win- 
 ter when they told him his bit girlie had been 
 caught by the smallpox in Glasgow. 
 
 " I could not hear, or I could not make out 
 what was said; but I know that we all got 
 into the boat again, all except my father. And 
 86 
 
The Judgment o' God 
 
 he stayed. And next day, Ian Finlay and 
 Alec Macarthur went out to Bac-Mor and 
 brought him back. 
 
 " And from him and from Ian I knew all 
 there was to be known. It was a hard New 
 Year for all, and since that day till a night of 
 which I will tell you, my father brooded and 
 drank, drank and brooded, and my mother 
 wept through the winter gloamings and spent 
 the night starin' into the peats wi' her knit- 
 tin' lyin' on her lap. 
 
 " For when they had gone to seek Murdoch 
 that Hogmanay night, they came upon him 
 away from his sheep. But this was what they 
 saw. There was a black rock that stood out 
 in the moonshine, with the water all about it. 
 And on this rock Murdoch lay naked, and 
 laughing wild. An' every now and then he 
 would lean forward, and stretch his arms out, 
 an' call to his dearie. An' at last, just as the 
 watchers, shiverin' wi' fear an' awe, were go- 
 ing to close in upon him, they saw a — a — ^thing 
 — come out o' the water. It was long an' 
 dark, an' Ian said its eyes were like clots o' 
 blood ; but as to that no man can say yea or 
 nay, for Ian himself admits it was a seal. 
 
 " An' this thing is true, an ainm an Athar! 
 they saw the dark beast o' the sea creep on to 
 the rock beside Murdoch, an' lie down beside 
 
 87 
 
The Judgment o' God 
 
 him, and let him clasp an' kiss it. An' then 
 he stood up, and laughed till the skin crept 
 on those who heard, and cried out on his 
 dearie and on a' the dumb things o' the sea, 
 an' the Wave-Hunter an' the grey shadow; 
 an' he raised his hands, ^' cursed the world 
 o' men, and cried out to God, ' Turn your face 
 to your own airidh, O God, an' may rain an' 
 storm an' snow be between us! ' 
 
 " An' wi' that Deirg, his collie, could bide 
 no more, but loupit across the water, and was 
 on the rock beside him, wi' his feH bristling 
 like a hedge-rat. ( For both the naked man an' 
 the wet gleamin' beast, a great sea-seal out 
 o' the north, turned upon Deirg, an' he fought 
 for his life. But what could the puir thing 
 do? The seal buried her fangs in his shoul- 
 der, at last, an' pinned him to the ground. 
 Then Murdoch stooped, an' dragged her off, 
 an' bent down an' tore at the throat o' Deirg 
 wi' his own teeth. Ay, God's truth it is ! An' 
 when the collie was stark, he took him up by 
 the hind legs an' the tail, an' swung him round 
 an' round his head, an' whirled him into the 
 sea, where he fell black in a white splatch o' 
 the moon. 
 
 " An' wi' that, Murdoch slipped, and reeled 
 backward into the sea, his hands gripping at 
 the whirling stars. An' the thing beside him 
 88 
 
The Judgment o' God 
 
 louped after him, an' my father an' Ian heard 
 a cry an' a cryin' that made their hearts sob. 
 But when they got down to the rock they 
 saw nothing, except the floating body o' 
 Deirg. 
 
 " Sure it was a weary night for the old man, 
 there on Bac-Mor by himself, with that awful 
 thing that had happened. He stayed there to 
 see and hear what might be seen and heard. 
 But nothing he heard, nothing saw. It was 
 afterwards that he heard how Donncha Mac- 
 Donald had been on Bac-Mor three days be- 
 fore this, and how Murdoch had told him he 
 was in love wi' a maigdeannhmara, a sea- 
 maid. 
 
 " But this thing has to be known. It was a 
 month later, on the night o' the full moon, that 
 Ian Finlay and Ian Macarthur and Seumas 
 Macallum were upset in the calm water inside 
 the Sound, just off Port-na-Frang, and were 
 nigh drowned, but that they called upon God 
 and the Son, and so escaped and heard no 
 more the laughter of Murdoch from the sea. 
 
 " And at midnight my father heard the 
 voice of his eldest son at the door; but he 
 would not let him in; but in the morning he 
 found his boat broken and shred in splinters, 
 and his one net all torn. An' that day was 
 the Sabbath ; so being a holy day he took the 
 
 89 
 
The Judgment o' God 
 
 Scripture with him, an' he and Neil Morrison 
 the minister, having had the Bread an' Wine, 
 went along the Sound in a boat, following a 
 shadow in the water, till they came to Soa. 
 An' there Neil Morrison read the Word o' 
 God to the seals that lay baskin' in the sun; 
 and one, a female, snarled and showed her 
 fangs; and another, a black one, lifted its 
 head, and made a noise that was not like the 
 barking of any seal, but was as the laughter 
 of Murdoch when he swung the dead body 
 of Deirg. 
 
 " And that is all that is to be said. And 
 silence is best now between you and any other. 
 And no man knows the judgments o' God. 
 
 " And that is all." 
 
 90 
 
THE HARPING OF CRAVETHEEN 
 
 When Cormac, that was known throughout 
 all Northern Eire as Cormac Conlingas, Cor- 
 mac the son of Concobar the son of Nessa, 
 was one of the ten hostages to Conairy Mor 
 for the lealty of the Ultonians, he was loved 
 by men and women because of his strength, 
 his valour, and his comeliness. 
 
 He was taller than the tallest of his nine 
 comrades by an inch, and broader by two 
 inches than the broadest; though that fellow- 
 ship of nine was of the tallest and broadest 
 men among the Ultonians, who were the 
 greatest warriors that green Banba, as Eire 
 or Erin was called by the bards who loved her, 
 has ever seen. 
 
 The shenachies sang of him as a proud 
 champion, with eyes full of light and fire, his 
 countenance broad above and narrow below, 
 ruddy-faced, with hair as of the gold of the 
 September moon. 
 
 The commonalty spoke of his mighty spear- 
 thrust, of his deft sword-swing, the terror of 
 his wrath, of the fury of his battle-lust, of his 
 laughter and light joy, and the singing that 
 
 91 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 was on his lips when his sword had the silence 
 upon it. No man dared touch " Blue-Green," 
 as Cormac Conlingas called it — ^the " Whis- 
 pering Sword," as it was named among his 
 fellows. " Blue-Green," for in its sweep it 
 gleamed blue-green as the leaping levin, whis- 
 pered whenever it was athirst, and a red 
 draught it was that would quench that thirst, 
 and no other draught for the drinkmg; and 
 it whispered when there was a ferment of 
 the red blood among men who hated while 
 they feared the Ultonians; and it whispered 
 whenever a shadow dogged the shadow of 
 Cormac, the son of Concobar the son of Nes- 
 sa. Therefore it was that of all who desired 
 his death, there was none that did not fear 
 the doom-whisper of the sword that had been 
 forged by Len, the Smith, where he sits and 
 works forever amid his mist of rainbows. 
 Women spoke of his strength as though it 
 were their proud beauty. He had the way 
 of the sunlight with him, they said. And of 
 the sunfire, added ever one, below her 
 breath ; and that was Eilidh,* the daughter of 
 
 ' The name Eilidh (pronounced Eill'ih, or Isle-ee 
 with a long accent on the first syllable) is also 
 ancient, but lingers in the Isles still, and indeed 
 throughout the Western Highlands, as also, I under- 
 stand, in Connaught and Connemara. Somhairle 
 (Somerled) is pronounced So-irl-u. 
 92 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 Conn Mac Art and of Dearduil, the daughter 
 of Somhairle, the Prince of the Isles — Eilidh, 
 the daughter of Dearduil the daughter of 
 Moma, the three queens of beauty in the 
 three generations of the generations. 
 
 She was not of the Ultonians, this fair 
 Eilidh; but of the people who were subject 
 to Conairy Mor. It was when the ten hos- 
 tages abode with the Red Prince that she grew 
 faint and wan with the love-sickness. Her 
 mother, Dearduil, knew who the man was. 
 She put a mirror of polished steel against the 
 mouth of the girl while she slept, and then 
 it was that she saw the flames of love burn- 
 ing a red heart on which was written in white 
 fire — " I am the heart of Cormac, the son of 
 Concobar." Gladness was hers, as well as 
 fear. Sure, there was no greater hero than 
 Cormac Conlingas; but then he was an Ul- 
 tonian, and would soon be for going away; 
 and ill-pleased would Conairy Mor be that 
 the beautiful Eilidh, who was his ward since 
 the death of Conn, should be the wife of one 
 of the men of Concobar Mac Nessa whom in 
 his heart he hated. 
 
 There was a warrior there called Art Mac 
 Art Mor. Conairy Mor favoured him, and 
 had promised him Eilidh. One day this man 
 came to the overlord, and said this thing: 
 
 93 
 
The Harping of Crcevetheen 
 
 " Is she, Eilidh, to be hearing the lowing of 
 the kine that are upon my hills ? " 
 
 " That is so, Art Mac Art." 
 
 " I have spoken to the girl. She is like the 
 wind in the grass." 
 
 " It is the way of women. Follow, and 
 trace, and you shall not find. But say ' Come,' 
 and they will come ; and say ' Do,' and they 
 will obey." 
 
 " I have put the word upon her, and she has 
 laughed at me. I have said ' Come,' and she 
 asked me if the running wave heard, the voice 
 of yesterday's wind. I have said 'Do,' and 
 she called to me, ' Do the hills nod when the 
 fox barks?'" 
 
 " What is the thing that is behind your lips. 
 Art Mac Art Mor?" 
 
 " This. That you send the man away who 
 is the cause of the mischief that is upon 
 Eilidh." 
 
 "Who is the man?" 
 
 " He is of the Hostages." 
 
 Conairy Mor brooded awhile. Then he 
 stroked his beard, brown-black as burn-water 
 in shadow; and laughed. 
 
 " Why is there laughter upon you, my 
 king?" 
 
 " Sure, I laugh to think of the blood of a 
 white maid. They say it is of milk, but I am 
 
 94 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 thinking it must be the milk of the hero- 
 women of old that was red and warm as the 
 stream the White Hound that courses through 
 the night swims in. And that blood that is 
 in Eilidh leads to the blood of heroes. She 
 would have the weight of Cormac, the Yel- 
 low-haired, on her breast ! " 
 
 " His blood or mine ! " 
 
 The king kept silence for a time. Then he 
 smiled, and that boded ill. Then, after a 
 while, he frowned, and that was not so ill. 
 
 " Not thine, Art." 
 
 " And if not mine, what of Cormac Mac 
 Concobar? " 
 
 " He shall go." 
 
 "Alone?" 
 
 " Alone." 
 
 And, sure, it was on the eve of that day 
 that Dearduil went to warn Cormac Con- 
 lingas, and to beg him to leave the whiteness 
 of the snow without a red stain. 
 
 But, when she entered his sleeping-place, 
 Eilidh was there, upon the deer-skins. 
 
 Dearduil looked for long before she spoke. 
 
 " By what is in your eyes, Eilidh my daugh- 
 ter, this is not the first time you have come to 
 Cormac Conlingas ? " 
 
 The girl laughed low. The white arms of 
 her moved through the sheen of her hair like 
 
 95 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 sickles among the corn. She looked at Cor- 
 mac. The flame that was in her eyes was 
 bright in his. The wife of Conn turned to 
 him. 
 
 " No," he said gravely, " it is not the first 
 time." 
 
 " Has the seed been sown, O husband- 
 man?" 
 
 " The seed has been sown." 
 
 " It is death." 
 
 " The tide flows, the tide ebbs." 
 
 " Cormac, there will be two dead this night 
 if Conary Mor hears this thing. And even 
 now his word moves against you. Do you 
 love Eildih?" 
 
 Cormac smiled slightly, but made no an- 
 swer. 
 
 "If you love her, you would not see her 
 slain." ' 
 
 " There is no great evil in being slain, Dear- 
 duil-nic-Somhairle." 
 
 " She is a woman, and she has your child 
 below her heart." 
 
 " That is a true thing." 
 
 "Will you save her?" 
 
 " If she will." 
 
 " Speak, Eilidh." 
 
 Then the terror that was in the girl's heart 
 arose and moved about like a white bewil- 
 96 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 dered bird in the dark. She knew that Dear- 
 duU had spoken out of her heart. She knew 
 that Art Mac Art Mor was in this evil. She 
 knew that death was near for Cormac, and 
 near for her. The limbs that had trembled 
 with love, trembled now with the breath of the 
 fear. Suddenly she drew a long sobbing sigh. 
 
 " Speak, Eilidh." 
 
 She turned hei- face to the wall. 
 
 " Speak, Eilidh." 
 
 " I will speak. Go, Cormac Conlingas." 
 
 The chief of the Ultonians started. This 
 doom to life was worse to him than the death- 
 doom. An angry flame burned in his eyes. 
 His lip curled. 
 
 " May it not be a man-child you will have, 
 Eilidh of the gold-brown hair," he said scorn- 
 fully, " for it would be an ill thing for a son 
 of Cormac Mac Concobar to be a coward, as 
 his mother was, and to fear death as she did, 
 though never before her any of her race." 
 
 And with that he turned upon his heel, and 
 went out. 
 
 Cormac Conlingas had not gone far when 
 he met Art Mac Art Mor, with the others. 
 
 " It is the king's word," said Art, simply. 
 
 " I am ready," answered Cormac. " Is it 
 death?" 
 
 " Come ; the king shall tell you." 
 
 97 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 But there was to be no blood that night. 
 Only, on the morrow the hostages were nine. 
 The tenth man rode slowly north-eastward, 
 against the greying of the dawn. 
 
 If, in the heart of Gormac Conlingas, there 
 was sorrow and a bitter pain, because of Ei- 
 lidh, whom he loved, and from whom he would 
 fain have taken the harshness of his word, 
 there was, in the heart of Eilidh, the sound as 
 of trodden sods. 
 
 That day it was worse for her. 
 
 Conairy Mor came to her himself. Art was 
 at his right hand. The king asked her if she 
 would give her troth to the son of Art-M6r, 
 and, that being given, if she would be his wife. 
 
 " That cannot be," she said. The fear that 
 had been in the girl's heart was dead now. 
 The saying of Cormac had killed it. She 
 knew that, like her ancestor, the mother of 
 Somhairle, she could, if need be, have a log 
 of burning wood against her breast and face 
 the torture as though she were no more than 
 holding a dead child there. 
 
 " And for why cannot it be ? " asked Con- 
 airy Mor. 
 
 " For it is not Art's child that I carry in my 
 womb," answered Eilidh, simply. 
 
 The king gloomed. Art Mac Art put his 
 98 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 right hand to the dagger at his silver-bossed 
 leathern belt. 
 
 " Is it a wanton that you are ? " 
 
 " No : by my mother's truth, and the mo- 
 ther of my mother. I love another man than 
 Art Mac Art Mor, and that man loves me, 
 and I am his." 
 
 "Who is this man?" 
 
 " His name is in my heart only." 
 
 " I will ask you three things, Eilidh, daugh- 
 ter of Dearduil. Is the man one of your race ? 
 is he of noble blood? is he fit to wed the 
 king's ward ? " 
 
 " He is more fit to wed the king's ward than 
 any man in Eire. He is of noble blood, and 
 himself the son of a king. But he is an Ul- 
 tonian." 
 
 " Thou hast said. It is Cormac Mac Con- 
 cobar Mac Nessa. 
 
 " It is Cormac Conlingas." 
 
 With a loud laugh Art Mac Art strode for- 
 ward. He raised his hand and flung it across 
 the face of the girl. 
 
 "Art thou his tenth or his hundredth? 
 Well, I would not have you now as a serving- 
 wench." 
 
 Once more the king gloomed. It went ill 
 with him, that sight of a man striking a wo- 
 man, howsoever lightly. 
 
 99 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 "Art, I have slain a better man than you, 
 for a thing less worthy than that. Take 
 heed." 
 
 The man frowned, with the red light in his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Will you do as you said, O king? " 
 
 " No, not now. Eilidh, that blow has saved 
 you. I was going to let Art have his way of 
 you, and then do with you what he willed, 
 servitude or death. But now you are free 
 of him. Only this thing I say; no Ulton- 
 ian shall ever take you in his arms. You 
 shall wed Cravetheen, the step-brother of 
 Art." 
 
 " Cravetheen the Harper ? " 
 
 " Even so." 
 
 " He is old, and is neither comely nor gra- 
 cious." 
 
 " There is no age upon him that a maid need 
 mock at; and he is gracious enough to those 
 who do not cross him ; and he has the mouth 
 of honey, he Ijas, and, if not as comely as 
 Cormac Conlingas, is yet fair to see." 
 
 " But—" 
 
 " I have said." 
 
 And so it was. Cravetheen took Eilidh to 
 wife. But he left the great Dun of Conairy 
 Mor and went to live in his own dun in the 
 
 ICO 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 forest that clothed the frontiers of the land 
 of the Ultonians. 
 
 He took his harp that night when for the 
 first time she lay upon the deerskins in his 
 dun, and he played a wild air. Eilidh listened. 
 The tears came into her eyes. Then deep 
 shadows darkened them. Then she clenched 
 her hands till the nails drew blood. At last 
 she lay with her face to the wall, trembling. 
 
 For Cravetheen was a harper that had been 
 taught by a Green Hunter on the slopes of 
 Sliav-Sheean. He could say that in music that 
 the Druids themselves could not say aright in 
 words. 
 
 And when he had ended he went over to his 
 wife, and said this only: 
 
 " No, Eilidh, for all you are so white and 
 soft, and for all the sweet ways of you, I shall 
 not be laying my heart upon yours this night, 
 nor for many nights. But a day shall come 
 when I will be playing you a marriage song. 
 But before that day I will play to you twice." 
 " And beware the third playing " said, when 
 he had gone, his old mother, who sat before 
 the smouldering logs, crooning and muttering. 
 
 As for the second playing ; that was not till 
 months later. It was at the set of the sun that 
 had shone on. the birthing of the child of 
 Eilidh and Cormac Conlingas. 
 loi 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 All through the soundless labour of the 
 woman, for she had the pride of pride, Crave- 
 theen the Harper played. What he played 
 was that the child might be born dead. Eilidh 
 knew this, and gave it the breath straight from 
 her heart. " My pulse to you," she whispered 
 between her smothered sobs. Then Crave- 
 theen played that it might be born blind and 
 deaf and dumb. But Eilidh knew this, and 
 she whispered to the soul that was behind 
 her eyes, Give it light; and to the soul that was 
 listening behind her ears, Give it hearing: and 
 to the soul whose silence was beneath her 
 silence, Give it speech. 
 
 And so the child was born; and it was a 
 man-child, and fair to see. 
 
 Wlien the swoon was upon Eilidh, Crave- 
 theen ceased from his harping. He rose, and 
 looked upon the woman. Then he lifted 
 the child, and laid it on a doeskin in the 
 sunlight, on a green place, that was the 
 meeting-place of the moonshine dancers. With 
 that he took up his harp again, and again 
 played. 
 
 At the first playing, the birds ceased from 
 singing: there was silence amid the boughs. 
 At the second, the leaves ceased from rustling : 
 there was silence on the branches. At the 
 third, the hare leaped no more, the fox blinked 
 
 I02 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 with sleep, the wolf lay down. At the fourth, 
 and fifth, and sixth, the wind folded its wings 
 like a great bird, the wood-breeze crept be- 
 neath the bracken and fell asleep, the earth 
 sighed and was still. There was silence there 
 — for sure, silence everywhere, as of sleep. 
 
 At the seventh playing, the quiet people 
 came out upon the green place. They were 
 small and dainty, clad in green with small, 
 white faces; just like lilies-of-the-valley they 
 were. 
 
 They laughed low among themselves, and 
 some clapped their hands. One climbed a this- 
 tle, and swung round and round till he fell on 
 his back with a thud, like the fall of a dew- 
 drop, and cried pitifully. There was no peace 
 till a duinshee took him by a green leg, and 
 shoved him down a hole in the grass and 
 stopped it with a dandelion. 
 
 Then one among them, with a scarlet robe 
 and a green cap with a thread of thistledown 
 waving from it like a plume, and with his wee, 
 wee eyes aflame, stepped forward, and began 
 to play on a little harp made of a bird-bone 
 with three gossamer-films for strings. And 
 the wild air that he played and the songs that 
 he sang were those fonnsheen that few hear 
 now, but that those who do hear know to be 
 sweeter than the sorrow of joy. 
 103 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 Suddenly Cravetheen ceased playing, and 
 then there was silence with the Green Harper 
 also. 
 
 All of the hillside-folk stood still. When 
 an eddy of air moved along the grass they 
 wavered to and fro like reeds with the cool- 
 ness at their feet. 
 
 Then the Green Harper threw aside his 
 scarlet cloak and his green cap, and the hair 
 of him was white and flowing as the Canna. 
 He broke the three threads of gossamer, and 
 flung away the bird-bone harp. Then he drew 
 a wee bit reed from his waist-band that was 
 made of beaten gold, and put it to his lips, 
 and began to play. And what he played was 
 so passing sweet that Cravetheen went into a 
 dream, and played the same wild air, and he 
 not knowing it, nor any man. 
 
 It was with that that the soul of the child 
 heard the elfin-music, and came free. Sure, it 
 is a hard thing for the naked spirit to steal 
 away from its warm home of the flesh, with 
 the blood coming and going forever like a 
 mother's hand, warm and soft. But to the 
 playing of Cravetheen and the Green Harp- 
 er there was no denying. The soul came 
 forth, and stood with great frightened 
 eyes. 
 
 "Shrink! Shrink! Shrink!" cried all the 
 104 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 quiet people, and, as they cried, the human 
 spirit shrank so as to be at one with them. 
 
 Then, as it seemed, two shining white flow- 
 ers — for they were bonnie, bonnie — stepped 
 forward and took the human by the hand, and 
 led it away. And as they went, the others fol- 
 lowed, all singing a glad song, that fell strange 
 and _ faint upon the ear of Cravetheen. All 
 passed into the hillside, save the Green Harp- 
 er, who stopped awhile, playing and playing 
 and playing, till Cravetheen dreamed he 
 was AUdai, the God of Gods, and that the 
 sun was his bride, and the moon his para- 
 mour, and the stars his children and the 
 joys that were before him. Then he, too, 
 passed. 
 
 With that^ Cravetheen came out of his 
 trance, and rubbed his eyes as a man startled 
 from sleep. 
 
 He looked at the child. It would be a 
 changeling now, he knew. But when he 
 looked again he saw that it was dead. 
 
 So he called to Gealcas, that was his 
 mother, and gave her the body. 
 
 " Take that to Eilidh," he said, " and tell 
 her that this is the second playing ; and that I 
 will be playing once again, before it's breast 
 to breast with us." 
 
 And these were the words that Gealcas said 
 
 105 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 to Eilidh, who in her heart cursed Crave- 
 theen, and mocked his cruel patience, and 
 longed for Cormac of the Yellow Hair, and 
 cared not for all the harping that Cravetheen 
 could do now. 
 
 It was the Month of the White Flowers 
 that Cormac Conlingas came again. 
 
 He was in the southland when news reached 
 him that his father, Concobar Mac Nessa, was 
 dead. He knew that if he were not speedily 
 in Ulster, the Ultonians might not grant him 
 the Ard-Righship. He, surely, and no other, 
 should be Ard-Righ after Concobar ; yet there 
 was one other who might well become over- 
 lord of the Ultonians in his place, were he not 
 swift with word and act. 
 
 So swift was he that he mounted and rode 
 away from his fellows without taking with 
 him the famous Spear of Pisarr, which was a 
 terror in battle. This was that fiery, living 
 spear, wrought by the son of Turenn, and won 
 out of Eire by the god Lu Lam-fada. In bat- 
 tle it flew hither and thither, a live thing. 
 
 He rode from noon to within an hour of 
 the setting of the sun. Then he saw a long, 
 green hill rise like a pine-cone out of the 
 wood, bossed with still-standing stones of an 
 ancient ruined dun. Against it a blue column 
 io6 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 of smoke trailed. Cormac knew now where 
 he was. Word had come to him recently from 
 Eilidh herself. 
 
 He drew rein, and stared awhile. Then he 
 smiled; then once more he gloomed, and his 
 eyes were heavy with the shadow of that 
 gloom. 
 
 It was then that he drew " Blue-Green '' 
 from its sheath, and listened. There was a 
 faint murmur along the blade, as of gnats 
 above a pool ; but there was no whispering. 
 
 Once more he smiled. 
 
 " It will be for the happening," he mur- 
 mured. Then, leaning back, he sang this 
 Rune to Eilidh. 
 
 Oimi, Oitai, Woman of the white breasts, Eilidh; 
 Woman of the gold-brown hair, and lips of the red, 
 red rowan! 
 
 Oim^, 0-rl, Oim^l 
 
 Where is the swan that is whiter, with breast more 
 
 soft. 
 Or the wave on the sea that moves as thou movest 
 
 Eilidh— 
 
 Oim^, a-rd; Oim^, a-r6! 
 
 It is the marrow in my bones that is aching, aching, 
 
 Eilidh; 
 It is the blood in my body that is a bitter, wild tide 
 
 Oim^l 
 
 O-rl, 0-hion, O-rJ, ar6ne! 
 
 107 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 Is it the heart of thee calling that I am hearing, 
 
 Eilidh, 
 Or the wind in the wood, or the beating of the sea, 
 
 Eilidh, 
 
 Or the beating of the sea ? 
 
 Shide, shule agrdh, skule agrhh, shule agriih, Shule! 
 Heart of me, move to me! move to me! heart of me, 
 Eilidh, Eilidh, 
 
 Move to me! 
 
 Ah, let the wild hawk take it, the name of me, Cormac 
 
 Conlingas, 
 Take it and tear at thy heart with it, heart that of old 
 
 was so hot with it, 
 
 EUidh, Eilidh, o-rt, Eilidh, Eilidh! 
 
 And the last words of that song were so 
 loud and clear — loud and clear as the voice of 
 the war-horn — ^that Eilidh heard. The heart 
 of her leaped, the breast of her heaved, the 
 pulses danced in the surge of the blood. Once 
 more it was with her as though she were with 
 child by Cormac Conlingas. She bade the old 
 mother of Cravetheen and all who abode in 
 the dtin to remain within, and not one to put 
 the gaze upon the grianan, her own place 
 there, or upon whom she should lead to it. 
 Then she went forth to meet Cormac, glad to 
 think of Cravetheen far thence on the hunt- 
 ing, and not to be back again till the third day. 
 
 It was a meeting of two waves, that. Each 
 was lost in the other. Then, after long look- 
 io8 ' 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 ing in the eyes, and with the words aswoon 
 on the lips, they moved hand in hand toward 
 the Dun. 
 
 And as they moved, the Whispering of the 
 Sword made a sound like the going of wind 
 through grass. 
 
 " What is that ? " said Eilidh, her eyes large. 
 
 " It is the wind in the grass," Cormac an- 
 swered. 
 
 And as they entered the Dtin the Whisper- 
 ing of the Sword made a confused murmur 
 as of the wind among swaying pines. 
 
 "What is that?" Eilidh asked, fear in her 
 eyes. 
 
 " It is the wind in the forest," said Gor- 
 mac. 
 
 But when, after he hadi eaten and drunken, 
 they went up to the Grianan, and lay down 
 upon the deer-skins, the Whispering of the 
 Sword was so loud that it was as the surf of 
 the sea in a wild wind. 
 
 " What is that ? " cried Eilidh, with a sob in 
 her throat. 
 
 " It is the wind on the sea," Cormac said, 
 his voice hoarse and low. 
 
 " There is no sea within three days' march," 
 whispered Eilidh, as she clasped her hands. 
 
 But Cormac said nothing. And, now, the 
 Sword was silent also. 
 109 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 It was starshine when Cravetheen returned. 
 He was playing one of the fonnsheen he knew, 
 as he came through the wood in the moon- 
 Hght; for in the hunting of a stag he had 
 made a great circle and was now near 
 Dunchraig again, Dunchraig that was his 
 Dun. But he had left his horse with his kin- 
 dred in the valley, and had come afoot 
 through the wood. 
 
 He stopped as he was nigh upon the rocks 
 against which the Diin was built. He saw 
 the blackness of the shadow of a living 
 thing. 
 
 "Who is that?" he cried. 
 
 " It is I, Murtagh Lam-Rossa,"— and with 
 that a man out of the Dun came forward 
 slowly and hesitatingly. He was a man who 
 hated Eilidh, because she had put him to 
 shame. 
 
 Cravetheen looked at him. 
 
 " I am waiting," he said. 
 
 Still the man hesitated. 
 
 " I am waiting, Murtagh Lam-Rossa." 
 
 " This is a bitter thing I have to say. I 
 was on my way for the telling." 
 
 " It is of Eilidh that is my wife? " 
 
 " You have said it." 
 
 " Speak." 
 
 " She does not sleep alone in the Grianan, 
 no 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 and there is no one of the Dun who is there 
 with her." 
 
 "Who is there?" 
 
 "A man." 
 
 " Cravetheen drew a long breath. His hand 
 went to the wolf-knife at his belt. 
 
 "Whatman?" 
 
 " Cormac mac Concobar, that is called Cor- 
 mac Conlingas." 
 
 Again Cravetheen drew a deep breath, and 
 the blood was on his lip. 
 
 " You are knowing this thing for sure ? " 
 
 " I am knowing it." 
 
 " That is what no other man shall do — " 
 and with that Cravetheen flashed the wolf- 
 knife in the moonshine, and thrust it with a 
 sucking sound into the heart of Murtagh 
 Lam-Rossa. 
 
 With a groan the man sank. His white 
 hands wandered among the fibrous dust of 
 the pine-needles : his face was as a livid wave 
 with the foam of death on it. 
 
 Cravetheen looked at the froth on his lips ; 
 it was like that of the sped deer. He looked 
 at the bubbles about the hilt of the knife ; they 
 were as the yeast of cranberries. 
 
 " That is the sure way of silence," he said ; 
 and he moved on, and thought no more of the 
 man. 
 
 Ill 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 In the shadow of the Dun he stood a long 
 while in thought. He could not reach the 
 Grianan, he knew. Swords and spears for 
 Eilidh, before then, mayhap ; and, if not, there 
 was Cormac Conlingas — and not Cormac 
 only, but the Sword " Blue-Green," and the 
 Spear " Pisarr." 
 
 But a thought drove into his mind as a 
 wind into a corrie. He put back his sword, 
 and took his harp again. " It is the third 
 playing," he muttered and smiled grimly, 
 knowing that he smiled. Then once more he 
 stood on the green rath of the quiet people, 
 and played the fonnsheen, till they heard. And 
 when the old elfin harper was come, Crave- 
 theen played the Tune of the Asking. 
 
 " What will you be wanting, Cravetheena 
 Mac Roury," asked the Green Harper. 
 
 " The Tune of the Trancing Sleep, green 
 prince of the hill." 
 
 " Sure, you shall have it . . ." and with 
 that the Green Harper gave the magic mel- 
 ody, so that not a leaf stirred, not a bird 
 moved, and even the dew ceased to fall. 
 
 Then Cravetheen took his harp and played. 
 
 The dogs in the dun rose, but none howled. 
 Then all lay down nosing their outstretched 
 paws. Thrice the stallions in the rear of the 
 Dun put back their ears, but no neighing was 
 
 112 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 on their curled lips. The mares whimpered, 
 and then stood with heads low, asleep. The 
 armed men did not awake, but slumbered 
 deep. The women dreamed into the darkness 
 where no dream is. The old mother of Crave- 
 theen stirred, crooned wearily, bowed her grey 
 head and was in Tir-na'n-6g again, walking 
 with Roury mac Roury that loved her, him 
 that was slain with a spear and a sword long, 
 long ago. 
 
 Only Eilidh and Cormac Conlingas were 
 waking. Sweet was that wild harping against 
 their ears. 
 
 " It will be the Green Harper himself," 
 whispered Cormac, drowsy with the sleep that 
 was upon him. 
 
 " It will be the harping of Cravetheen I am 
 thinking," said Eilidh, with a low sigh, yet as 
 though that thing were nothing to her. But 
 Cormac did not hear, for he was asleep. 
 
 " I see nine shadows leaping upon the 
 wall," murmured Eilidh, while her heart beat 
 and her limbs lay in chains. 
 
 " '. . . move to me, heart of me, Eilidh, Eilidh, 
 Move to met' " 
 
 murmured Cormac in his dream. 
 
 " I see nine hounds leaping into the Dun," 
 Eilidh cried, though none heard. 
 
 "3 
 
The Harping of Cravetheen 
 
 Cormac smiled in his sleep. 
 
 " Ah, ah, I see nine red phantoms leaping 
 into the room ! " screamed Eilidh ; but none 
 heard. 
 
 Cormac smiled in his sleep. 
 
 And then it was that the nine red flames 
 grew ninefold, and the whole dun was 
 wrapped in flame. 
 
 For this was the doing of Cravetheen the 
 Harper. All there died in the flame. That 
 was the end of Eilidh, that was so fair. She 
 laughed the pain away, and died. And Cor- 
 mac smiled, and as the flame leaped on his 
 breast he muttered, " Ah, hot heart of Eilidh! 
 — heart to me — move to me! " And he died. 
 
 There was no dtin, and there were no folk, 
 and no stallions and mares, and no baying 
 hounds, when Cravetheen ceased from the 
 playing — but only ashes. 
 
 He looked at them till dawn. Then he 
 rose, and he broke his harp. Northward he 
 went, to tell the Ultonians that thing, and to 
 die the death. 
 
 And this was the end of Cormac the Hero, 
 Cormac the son of Concobar the son of Nessa, 
 that was called Cormac Conlingas. 
 
 114 
 
SILK O' THE KINE^ 
 
 " What I shall now be telling you," said 
 Ian Mor to me once — ^and indeed, I should re- 
 member the time of it well, for it was in the 
 last year of his life, when rarely any other 
 than myself saw aught of Ian of the Hills. 
 " What I shall now be telling you is an ancient 
 forgotten tale of a man and woman of the 
 old heroic days. The name of the man was 
 Isla, and the name of the woman was Eilidh." 
 
 "Ah yes, for sure," Ian added, as I inter- 
 rupted him ; " I knew you would be saying 
 that; but it is not of Eilidh that loved Cor- 
 mac that I am now speaking. Nor am I tak- 
 ing the hidden way with Isla, that was my 
 friend, nor with Eilidh that is my name-child, 
 whom you know. Let the Birdeen be, bless 
 her bonnie heart! No, what I am for telling 
 you is all as new to you as the green grass to 
 a lambkin ; and no one has heard it from these 
 
 ' Silko' the Kine, one of the poetic "secret" names 
 of conquered Erin, was in ancient days, there and in 
 the Scottish Isles, a designation for a woman of rare 
 beauty. 
 
Silk o' the Kine 
 
 tired lips o' mine since I was a boy, and 
 learned it off the mouth of old Barabol Mac- 
 Aodh, that was my foster-mother." 
 
 Of all the many tales of the olden time that 
 Ian Mor told" me, and are to be found in 
 no book, this was the last. That is why I 
 give it here, where I have spoken much of 
 him. 
 
 Ian told me this thing one winter night, 
 while we sat before the peats, where the ingle 
 was full of warm shadows. We were in the 
 croft of the small hill-farm of Glenivore, 
 which was held by my cousin, Silis Macfar- 
 lane. But we were alone then, for Silis was 
 over at the far end of the Strath, because of 
 the baffling against death of her dearest 
 friend, Giorsal MacDiarmid. 
 
 It was warm there, before the peats, with a 
 thick wedge of spruce driven into the heart of 
 them. The resin crackled and sent blue sparks 
 of flame up through the red and yellow 
 tongues that licked the sooty chimney-slopes, 
 in which, as in a shell, we could hear an end- 
 less soughing of the wind. 
 
 Outside, the snow lay deep. It was so hard 
 on the surface that the white hares, leaping 
 across it, went soundless as shadows, and as 
 trackless. 
 
 Ii6 
 
Silk o' the Kine 
 
 In the far-off days, when Somhairle was 
 Maormor of the Isles, the most beautiful 
 woman of her time was named Eilidh. 
 
 The king had sworn that whosoever was 
 his best man in battle, when next the Fomorian 
 pirates out of the north came down upon the 
 isles, should have Eilidh to wife. 
 
 Eilidh, who, because of her soft, white 
 beauty, for all the burning brown of her by 
 the sun and wind, was also called Silk o' the 
 Kine, laughed low when she heard this. For 
 she loved the one man in all the world for 
 her, and that was Isla, the son of Isla Mor, 
 the blind chief of Islay. He, too, loved her 
 even as she loved him. He was a poet as well 
 as a warrior, and scarce she knew whether 
 she loved best the fire in his eyes when, girt 
 with his gleaming weapons and with his fair 
 hair unbound, he went forth to battle : or the 
 shine in his eyes when, harp in hand, he 
 chanted of the great deeds of old, or made a 
 sweet song to her, Eilidh, his queen of 
 women; or the flame in his eyes when, meet- 
 ing her at the setting of the sun, he stood 
 speechless, wrought to silence because of his 
 worshipping love of her. 
 
 One day she bade him go to the Isle of the 
 Swans to fetch her enough of the breast-down 
 of the wild cygnets for her to make a white 
 117 
 
Silk o' the Kine 
 
 cloak of. While he was still absent — and the 
 going there, and the faring thereupon, and 
 the returning took three days — ^the Fomorians 
 came down upon the Long Island. 
 
 It was a hard fight that was fought, but at 
 last the Norlanders were driven back with 
 slaughter. Somhairle, the Maormor, was all 
 but slain in that fight, and the corbies would 
 have had his eyes had it not been for Osra 
 Mac Osra, who with his javelin slew the 
 spearman who had waylaid the king while he 
 slipped in the Fomorfan blood he had spilt. 
 
 While the ale was being drunk out of the 
 great horns that night, Somhairle called for 
 Eilidh. 
 
 The girl came to the rath where the king 
 and his warriors feasted, white and beautiful 
 as moonlight among turbulent, black waves. 
 
 A murmur went up from many bearded 
 lips. The king scowled. Then there was si- 
 lence. 
 
 " I am here, O King," said Eilidh. The 
 sweet voice of her was like soft rain in the 
 woods at the time of the greening. 
 
 Somhairle looked at her. Sure, she was 
 fair to see. No wonder men called her Silk 
 o' the Kine. His pulse beat against the 
 stormy tide in his veins. Then, suddenly, his 
 gaze fell upon Osra. The heart of his kins- 
 ii8 
 
Silk o' the Kine 
 
 man that had saved him was his own ; and he 
 smiled, and lusted after Eilidh no more. 
 
 " Eilidh, that are called Silk o' the Kine, 
 dost thou see this man here before me ? " 
 
 " I see the man." 
 
 " Let the name of him, then, be upon your 
 lips." 
 
 " It is Osra Mac Osra." 
 
 " It is this Osra and no other man that is to 
 wind thee, fair Silk o' the Kine. And by the 
 same token, I have sworn to him that he shall 
 lie breast to breast with thee this night. So 
 go hence to where Osra has his sleeping- 
 place, and await him there upon the deer- 
 skins. From this hour thou art his wife. It 
 is said." 
 
 Then a silence fell again upon all there, 
 when, after a loud surf of babbling laughter 
 and talk, they saw that Eilidh stood where she 
 was, heedless of the king's word. 
 
 Somhairle gloomed. The great black eyes 
 under his cloudy mass of hair flamed upon 
 her. 
 
 " Is it dumb you are, Eilidh," he said at 
 last, in a cold, hard voice. " Or do you wait 
 for Osra to take you hence ? " 
 
 " I am listening," she answered, and that 
 whisper was heard by all there. It was as the 
 wind in the heather, low and sweet. 
 119 
 
Silk o' the Kine 
 
 Then all listened. 
 
 The playing of a harp was heard. None 
 played like that, save Isla Mac Isla Mor. 
 
 Then the deer-skins were drawn aside, and 
 Isla came among those who feasted there. 
 
 " Welcome, O thou who wast afar off when 
 the foe came," began Somhairle, with bitter 
 mocking. 
 
 But Isla took no note of that. He went 
 forward till he was nigh upon the Maormor. 
 Then he waited. 
 
 " Well, Isla that is called Isla-Aluinn, Isla 
 fair-to-see, what is the thing you want of me, 
 that you stand there, close-kin to death I am 
 warning you ? " 
 
 "I want Eilidh that is called Silk o' the 
 Kine." 
 
 " Eilidh is the wife of another man." 
 
 " There is no other man, O King." 
 
 " A brave word that ! And who says it, O 
 Isla my over-lord ? " 
 
 " I say it." 
 
 Somhairle, the great Maormor, laughed, 
 and his laugh was like a black bird of omen 
 let loose against a night of storm. 
 
 "And what of Eilidh?" 
 
 " Let her speak." 
 
 With that the Maormor turned to the girl, 
 who did not quail. 
 
 I20 
 
Silk o' the Kine 
 
 "Speak, Silko' the Kine!" 
 
 "There is no other man, O King." 
 
 " 'Fool, I have this moment wedded you and 
 Osra Mac Osra." 
 
 " I am wife to Isla-Aluinn." 
 
 " Thou canst not be wife to two men ! " 
 
 " That may be, O King. I know not. But 
 I am wife to Isla-Aluinn. 
 
 The king scowled darkly. None at the 
 board whispered even. Osra shifted uneasily, 
 clasping his sword-hilt. Isla stood, his eyes 
 ashine as they rested on Eilidh. He knew 
 nothing in life or death could come between 
 them. 
 
 " Art thou not still a maid, Eilidh ? " Som- 
 hairle asked at last. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Shame to thee, wanton." 
 
 The girl smiled. But in her eyes, darkened 
 now, there shone a flame. 
 
 " Is Isla-Aluinn the man ? " 
 
 " He is the man." 
 
 With that the king laughed a bitter laugh. 
 
 " Seize him ! " he cried. 
 
 But Isla made no movement. So those who 
 were about to bind him stood by, ready with 
 naked swords. 
 
 " Take up your harp," said Somhairle. 
 
 Isla stooped, and lifted the harp. 
 
 121 
 
Silk o' the Kine 
 
 " Play now the wedding song of Osra Mac 
 Osra and Eilidh Silk o' the Kine." 
 
 Isla smiled, but it was a grim smile that, 
 and only Eilidh understood. Then he struck 
 the harp, and he sang thus far this song out 
 of his heart to the woman he loved better 
 than life. 
 
 Eilidh, Eilidh, heart oi my life, my pulse, my flame. 
 There are two men loving thee, and two who are 
 calling thee wife! 
 
 But only one husband to thee, Eilidh, that art my 
 
 wife and my joy; 
 Ay, sure thy womb knows me and the child thou 
 
 bearest is mine. 
 
 Thou to me, I to thee, there is nought else in the 
 
 world, Eilidh, Silk o' the Kine, — 
 Nought else in the world, no, no other man for thee, 
 
 no woman for me! 
 
 But with that Somhairle rose, and dashed 
 the hilt of his great spear upon the ground. 
 
 " Let the twain go," he shouted. 
 
 Then all stood or leaned back, as Isla and 
 Eilidh slowly moved through their midst, hand 
 in hand. Not one there but knew they went 
 to their death. 
 
 " This night shall be theirs," cried the king 
 with mocking wrath. " Then, Osra, you can 
 
 122 
 
Silk o' the Kine 
 
 have your will of Silk o' the Kine that is your 
 wife, and have Isla-Aluinn to be your slave — 
 and this for the rising and setting of three 
 moons from to-night. Then they shall each 
 be blinded and made dumb, and that for the 
 same space of time. And at the end of that 
 time they shall be thrown upon the snow to 
 the wolves." 
 
 Nevertheless Osra groaned in his heart be- 
 cause of that night of Isla with Eilidh. Not 
 all the years of the years could give him a joy 
 like unto that. 
 
 In the silence of the mid-dark he went 
 stealthily to where the twain lay. 
 
 It was there he was found in the morning, 
 where he had died soundlessly, with Eilidh's 
 dagger up to the hilt in his heart. 
 
 But none saw them go, save one; and that 
 was Sorch the brother of Islaj Sorch who in 
 later days was called Sorch Mouth o' Honey 
 because of his sweet songs. Of all songs 
 that he sang none was so sweet against the 
 ears as that of the love of Eilidh and 
 Isla. Two lovers these that loved as few 
 love; and deathless, too, because of that 
 great love. 
 
 And what Sorch saw was this. Just before 
 the rising of the sun, Isla and Eilidh came 
 hand in hand from out of the rath, where they 
 123 
 
Silk o' the Kine 
 
 had lain awake all night because of their deep 
 
 joy- 
 Silently, but unhasting, fearless still as of 
 
 yore, they moved across the low dunes that 
 
 withheld the sea from the land. 
 
 The waves were just frothed, so low were 
 they. The loud glad singing of them filled 
 the morning. Eilidh and Isla stopped when 
 the first waves met their feet. They cast their 
 raiment from them. Eilidh flung the gold fil- 
 let of her dusky hair far into the sea. Isla 
 broke his sword, and saw the two halves shelve 
 through the moving greenness. Then they 
 turned, and kissed each other upon the lips. 
 
 And the end of the song of Sorch is this: 
 that neither he nor any man knows whether 
 they went to life or to death; but that Isla 
 and Eilidh swam out together against the sun, 
 and were seen never again by any of their 
 kin or race. Two strong swimmers were 
 these, who swam out together into the sun- 
 light : Eilidh and Isla. 
 
 124 
 
ULA AND URLA^ 
 
 Ula and XJrla were under vow to meet by 
 the Stone of Sorrow. But Ula, dying first, 
 stumbled blindfold when he passed the Shad- 
 owy Gate ; and, till Urla's hour was upon her, 
 she remembered not. 
 
 These were the names that had been given 
 to them in the north isles, when the birlinn 
 that ran down the war-galley of the vikings 
 brought them before the Maormor. 
 
 No word had they spoken that day, and no 
 name. They were of the Gael, though Ula's 
 hair was yellow, and though his eyes were 
 blue as the heart of a wave. They would ask 
 nothing, for both were in love with death. 
 The Maormor of Siol Tormaid looked at Urla, 
 and his desire gnawed at his heart. But he 
 knew what was in her mind, because he saw 
 into it through her eyes, and he feared the 
 sudden slaying in the dark. 
 
 • The first part of the story of Ula and Urla, as Isla 
 and Eilidh, is told in "Silk o' the Kine," [The name 
 Eilidh, is pronounced Eily (liq.) or Isle-ih.] 
 
 125 
 
Ula and Urla 
 
 Nevertheless, he brooded night and day 
 upon her beaqty. Her skin was more white 
 than the foam of the moon: her eyes were 
 as a star-lit dewy dusk. When she moved, he 
 saw her like a doe in the fern: when she 
 stooped, it was as the fall of wind-swayed 
 water. In his eyes there was a shimmer as 
 of the sun-flood in a calm sea. In that daz- 
 zle he was led astray. 
 
 " Go," he said to Ula, on a day of the days. 
 "Go: the men of-Siol Torquil will take you 
 to the south isles, and so you can hale to your 
 own place, be it Eireann or Manannan, or 
 wherever the south wind puts its hand upon 
 your home." 
 
 It was on that day Ula spoke for the first 
 time. 
 
 " I will go. Coll mac Torcall ; but 1 go not 
 alone. Urla that I love goes whither I go." 
 
 " She is my spoil. But, man out of Eireann 
 — for so I know you to be, because of the 
 manner of your speech — ^tell me this: Of 
 what clan and what place are you, and 
 whence is Urla come ; and by what shore was 
 it that the men of Lochlin whom we slew took 
 you and her out of the sea, as you swam 
 against the sun, with waving swords upon the 
 strand when the viking-boat carried you 
 aviray ? " 
 
 126 
 
Ula and Urla 
 
 " How know you these things ? " asked Ula, 
 that had been Isla, son of the king of Islay. 
 
 " One of the sea-rovers spake before he 
 died." 
 
 " Then let the viking speak again. I have 
 nought to say." 
 
 With that the Maormor frowned, but said 
 no more. That eve Ula was seized, as he 
 walked in the dusk by the sea, singing low to 
 himself an ancient song. 
 
 " Is it death ? " he said, remembering an- 
 other day when he and Eilidh, that they 
 called Urla, had the same asking upon their 
 lips. 
 
 " It is death." 
 
 Ula frowned, but spake no word for a 
 time. Then he spake. 
 
 " Let me say one word with Urla." 
 
 " No word canst thou have. She, too, must 
 die." 
 
 Ula laughed low at that. 
 
 " I am ready," he said. And they slew him 
 with a spear. 
 
 When they told Urla, she rose from the 
 deerskins and went down to the shore. She 
 said no word then. But she stooped, and she 
 put her lips upon his cold lips, and she whis- 
 pered in his unhearing ear. 
 
 That night Coll mac Torcall went secretly 
 127 
 
Ula and Urla 
 
 to where Urla was. When he entered, a 
 groan came to his lips and there was froth 
 there; and that was because the spear that 
 had slain Ula was thrust betwixt his shoul- 
 ders by one who stood in the shadow. He lay 
 there till the dawn. Wheft they found Coll 
 the Maormor he was like a seal speared upon 
 a rock, for he had his hands out, and his head 
 was between them, and his face was down- 
 ward. 
 
 " Eat dust, slain wolf," was all that Eilidh, 
 whom they called Urla, said, ere she moved 
 away from that place in the darkness of the 
 night. 
 
 When the sun rose, Urla was in a glen 
 among the hills. A man who shepherded 
 there took her to his mate. They gave her 
 milk, and because of her beauty and the fro- 
 zen silence of her eyes, bade her stay with 
 them and be at peace. 
 
 They knew in time that she wished death. 
 But first, there was the birthing of the 
 child. 
 
 " It was Isla's will," she said to the woman. 
 Ula was but the shadow of a bird's wing: an 
 idle name. And- she, too, was Eilidh once 
 more. 
 
 " It was death he gave you when he gave 
 you the child," said the woman once. 
 128 
 
Ula and Urla 
 
 " It was life," answered Eilidh, with her 
 eyes filled with the shadow of dream. And 
 yet another day the woman said to her that it 
 would be well to bear the child and let it die : 
 for beauty was like sunlight on a day of 
 clouds, and if she were to go forth young and 
 alone and so wondrous fair, she would have 
 love, and love is best. 
 
 " Truly, love is best," EiUdh answered. 
 " And because Isla loved me, I would that an- 
 other Isla came into the world and sang his 
 songs — ^the songs that were so sweet, and the 
 songs that he never sang, because I gave him 
 death when I gave him life. But now he shall 
 live again, and he and I shall be in one body, 
 in him that I carry now." 
 
 At that the woman understood, and said no 
 more. And so the days grew out of the nights, 
 and the dust of the feet of one month was in 
 the eyes of that which followed after; and 
 this until Eilidh's time was come. 
 
 Dusk after dusk, Ula that was Isla the 
 Singer, waited by the Stone of Sorrow. 
 Then a great weariness came upon him. He 
 made a song there, where he lay in the nar- 
 row place; the last song that he made, 
 for after that he heard no trampling of the 
 hours. 
 
 129 
 
Ula and Urla 
 
 The swift years slip and slide adown the steep; 
 
 The slow years pass ; neither will come again. 
 Yon huddled years have weary eyes that weep, 
 
 These laugh, these moan, these silent frown, these 
 plain. 
 
 These have their lips acurl with proud disdain. 
 
 years with tears, and tears through weary years, 
 How weary I who in your arms have lain : 
 
 Now, I am tired : the sound of slipping spears 
 Moves soft, and tears fall in a bloody rain. 
 And the chill footless years go over me who am 
 slain. 
 
 1 hear, as in a wood, dim with old light, the rain. 
 
 Slow falling; old, old, weary, human tears: 
 And in the deepening dark my comfort is jny Pain, 
 Sole comfort left of all my hopes and fears. 
 Pain that alone survives, gaunt hound of the 
 shadowy years. 
 
 But, at the last, after many days, he stirred. 
 There was a song in his ears. 
 
 He listened. It was like soft rain in a wood 
 in June. It was like the wind laughing among 
 the leaves. 
 
 Then his heart leaped. Sure, it was the 
 voice of Eilidh! 
 
 "Eilidh! Eilidh! Eilidh! " he cried. But 
 a great weariness came upon him again. He 
 fell asleep, knowing not the little hand that 
 was in his, and the small, flower-sweet body 
 that was warm against his side. 
 130 
 
Ula and Urla 
 
 Then the child that was his looI<ed into the 
 singer's heart, and saw there a mist of rain- 
 bows, and midway in that mist was the face 
 of Eilidh, his mother. 
 
 Thereafter, the Httle one looked into his 
 brain that was so still, and he saw the music 
 that was there : and it was the voice of Eilidh 
 his mother. 
 
 And, again, the birdeen, that had the blue 
 of Isla's eyes and the dream of Eilidh's, 
 looked into Ula's sleeping soul: and he saw 
 that it was not Isla nor yet Eilidh, but that it 
 was like unto himself, who was made of 
 Eilidh and Isla. 
 
 For a long time the child dreamed. Then 
 he put his ear to Isla's brow, and listened. 
 Ah, the sweet songs that he heard. Ah, bit- 
 ter-sweet moonseed of song ! Into his life they 
 passed, echo after echo, strain after strain, 
 wild air after wild sweet air. 
 
 " Isla shall never die," whispered the child, 
 " for Eilidh loved him. And I am Isla and 
 Eilidh." 
 
 Then the little one put his hands above 
 Isla's heart. There was a flame there, that 
 the Grave quenched not. 
 
 " O flame of love ! " sighed the child, and 
 he clasped it to his breast : and it was a moon- 
 shine glory about the two hearts that he had, 
 
 131 
 
Ula and Urla 
 
 the heart of Isla and the heart of Eilidh, that 
 were thenceforth one. 
 
 At dawn he was no longer there. Al- 
 ready the sunrise was warm upon him 
 where he lay, new-born, upon the breast of 
 Eilidh. 
 
 " It is the end," murmured Isla when he 
 waked. " She has never come. For sure, 
 now, the darkness and the silence." 
 
 Then he remembered the words of Maol 
 the Druid, he that was a seer, and had told 
 him of Orchil, the dim goddess who is under 
 the brown earth, in a vast cavern, where she 
 weaves at two looms. With one hand she 
 weaves life upward through the grass; with 
 the other she weaves death downward through 
 the mould; and the sound of the weaving is 
 Eternity, and the name of it in the green world 
 is Time. And, through all. Orchil weaves 
 the weft of Eternal Beauty, that passeth not, 
 though its soul is Change. 
 
 And these were the words of Orchil, on 
 the lips of Maol the Druid, that was old, and 
 knew the mystery of the Grave. 
 
 When thou journeyest toward the Shad- 
 owy Gate take neither Fear with thee nor 
 Hope, for both are abashed hounds of silence 
 in that place; but take only the purple night- 
 132 
 
Ula and Urla 
 
 shade for sleep, and a vial of tears and wine, 
 tears that shall be known unto thee and old 
 wine of love. So shalt thou have thy silent 
 festival, ere the end. 
 
 So therewith Isla, having, in his weariness, 
 the nightshade of sleep, and in his mind the 
 slow dripping rain of familiar tears, and deep 
 in his heart the old wine of love, bowed his 
 head. 
 
 It was well to have lived, since life was 
 Eilidh. It was well to cease to live, since 
 Eilidh came no more. 
 
 Then suddenly he raised his head. There 
 was music in the green world above. A sun- 
 ray opened the earth about him: staring up- 
 ward he beheld Angus Og. 
 
 " Ah, fair face of the god of youth," he 
 sighed. Then he saw the white birds that fly 
 about the head of Angus Og, and he heard the 
 music that his breath made upon the harp of 
 the wind. 
 
 " Arise," said Angus ; and, when he smiled, 
 the white birds flashed their wings and made 
 a mist of rainbows. 
 
 " Arise," Said Angus Og again, and, when 
 he spoke, the spires of the grass quivered to a 
 wild, sweet haunting air. 
 
 So Isla arose, and the sun shone upon him, 
 
 133 
 
Ula and Urla 
 
 and his shadow passed into the earth. Orchil 
 wove into it her web of death. 
 
 " Why dost thou wait here by the Stone of 
 Sorrow, Isla that was called Ula at the end ? " 
 
 " I wait for Eilidh, who cometh not." 
 
 At that the wind-listening god stooped and 
 laid his head upon the grass. 
 
 " I hear the coming of a woman's feet," he 
 said, and he rose. 
 
 'Eilidh! Eilidh!" cried Isla, and the sor- 
 row of his cry was a moan in the web of Or- 
 chil. 
 
 Angus Og took a branch, and put the cool 
 greenness against his cheek. 
 
 " I hear the beating of a heart," he said. 
 
 "Eilidh! Eilidh! Eilidh !" Isla cried, and 
 the tears that were in his voice were turned 
 by Angus into dim dews of remembrance in 
 the babe-brain that was the brain of Isla and 
 Eilidh. 
 
 " I hear a word," said Angus Og, " and that 
 word is a flame of joy." 
 
 Isla listened. He heard a singing of birds. 
 Then, suddenly, a glory came into the shine 
 of the sun. 
 
 " / have come, Isla my king! " 
 
 It was the voice of Eilidh. He bowed his 
 head, and swayed; for it was his own life 
 that came to him. 
 
 1.34 
 
Ula and Urla 
 
 " Eilidhf" he whispered. 
 And so, at the last, Isla came into his king- 
 dom. 
 
 But are they gone, these twain, who loved 
 with deathless love? Or is this a dream that 
 I have dreamed? 
 
 Afar in an island-sanctuary that I shall not 
 see again, where the wind chants the blind 
 oblivious rune of Time, I have heard the 
 grasses whisper: Time never was. Time is 
 not. 
 
 135 
 
THE WASHER OF THE 
 FORD : 
 
 AND OTHER LEGENDARY 
 MORALITIES 
 
"It is Loveliness I seek, not lovely things." 
 
C. A. J. 
 
PROLOGUE 
 
"/ find under the boughs of love and hate 
 Eternal Beauty wandering on her way." 
 
 ("The Rose upon the Rood of Time.") 
 
Prologue 
 
 (To Kathia) 
 
 To you, in your far-away home in Prov- 
 ence, I send these tales out of the remote 
 North you love so well, and so well understand. 
 The same blood is in our veins, a deep cur- 
 rent somewhere beneath the tide that sus- 
 tains us. We have meeting-places that none 
 knows of; we understand what few can un- 
 derstand; and we share in common a strange 
 and inexplicable heritage. It is because you, 
 who are called Kathia of the Sunway, are 
 also Kathia nan Ciar, Kathia of the Shadow, 
 it is because you are what you are that I in- 
 scribe this book to you. In it you will find 
 much that is familiar to you; for there is a 
 reality, beneath the mere accident of novelty, 
 which may be recognised in a moment as na- 
 tive to the secret life, that lives behind the 
 brain and the wise nerves with their dim an- 
 cestral knowledge. 
 
 The greater portion of this book deals with 
 the remote life of a remote past. As for 
 
 143 
 
Prologue 
 
 "The Last Supper" and "The Fisher of 
 Men," they are of no time or date, for they 
 are founded upon elemental facts which are 
 modified but not transformed by the changing 
 years. 
 
 It may be the last of its kind I shall write 
 — at any rate, for a time. I would like it to 
 be associated with you, to whom not only the 
 mystery but the pagan sentiment and the old 
 barbaric emotion are so near. With the sec- 
 ond sight of the imagination we can often 
 see more clearly in the dim subsided waters 
 than through the foam and spray of the pres- 
 ent; and most clearly when we recognise that, 
 amid the ebb and flow of time and circum- 
 stance, the present is but a surface-eddy of 
 that past to which we belong. In the strange 
 arrogance of our passing hour we are as ships 
 swinging happily content to anchors which 
 are linked to us by ropes of sand. 
 
 If I am eager to have my say on other as- 
 pects of our Celtic life in the remoter West 
 Highlands and in the Isles: now with the 
 idyllic, now with the tragic, now with the 
 grotesque^ the humorous, the pathetic, with 
 all the medley cast from the looms of Life— 
 all that 
 
 "... from the looms of Life are spun, 
 Warp of shadow and woof of sun " 
 
 144. 
 
Prologue 
 
 and if, too, I long to express anew something 
 of that wonderful historic romance in which 
 we of our race and country are so rich, I am 
 not likely to forget those earlier dreams 
 which are no whit less realities — realities of 
 the present seen through an inverted glass — 
 which have been, and are, so full of inspira- 
 tion and of a strange and terrible beauty. 
 
 But one to whom life appeals by a myriad 
 avenues, all alluring and full of wonder and 
 mystery, cannot always abide where the heart 
 longs most to be. It is well to remember 
 that there are Shadowy Waters even in the 
 cities, and that the Fount of Youth is discov- 
 erable in the dreariest towns as well as in 
 Hy Brasil: a truth apt to be forgotten by 
 those of us who dwell with ever-wondering 
 delight in that land of lost romance which had 
 its own way, as this epoch of a still stranger, 
 if a less obvious, romance has its own passing 
 hour. 
 
 The titular piece — with its strange name 
 that will not be unfamiliar to you who know 
 our ancient Celtic literature, or may bear in 
 mind the striking image wrought out of the 
 old local legend, by the author of the Irish 
 epic, Congal — gives the keynote, not only of 
 this book, but of what has been for hundreds 
 of years, and to some extent still is, the char- 
 
 145 
 
Prologue 
 
 acteristic of the purely Celtic mind in the 
 Highlands and the Isles. This characteristic 
 is a strange complexity of paganism and 
 Christianity, or rather an apparent complexity 
 arising from the grafting of Christianity upon 
 paganism. Columba, St Patrick, St Ronan, 
 Kentigern, all these militant Christian saints 
 were merely transformed pagans. Even in 
 the famous dialogue between St Patrick and 
 Oisin, which is the folk-telling of the passing 
 of the old before the new, the thrill of a 
 pagan sympathy on the part of the uncom- 
 promising saint is unmistakable. To this day 
 there are Christian rites and superstitions 
 which are merely a gloss upon a surviving 
 antique paganism. I have known an old 
 woman, in nowise different from her neigh- 
 bours, who on the day of Beltane sacrificed a 
 hen : though for her propitiatory rite she had 
 no warrant save that of vague traditionary 
 lore, the lore of the teinntean, of the hearth- 
 side — where, in truth, are best to be heard the 
 last echoes of the dim mythologic faith of our 
 ancestors. What is the familiar "clachan," 
 now meaning a hamlet with a kirk, but an 
 , echo of the " Stones," the circles of the 
 Druids — or of a more ancient worship still, 
 that perhaps of the mysterious Anait, whose 
 sole record is a clach on a lonely moor, of 
 146 
 
Prologue 
 
 which from time immemorial the people have 
 spoken as the " TeampuU na'n Anait " ? A 
 relative of mine saw, in South Uist, less than 
 twenty-five years ago, what may have been 
 the last sun-sacrifice in Scotland, when an old 
 Gael secretly and furtively slew a lamb on 
 the summit of a conical grassy knoll at sun- 
 rise. Those who have the Gaelic have their 
 ears filled with rumours of a day that is gone. 
 When an evicted crofter laments, mo 
 chreach, mo chreach! ^ or some poor soul on 
 a bed of pain cries, O mo chradhshlat! ^ he 
 who knows the past recognises in the one the 
 mournful refrain of the time when the sea- 
 pirates or the hill-robbers pillaged and devas- 
 tated quiet homesteads ; and, in the other, not 
 the moan of suffering only, but the cry of tor- 
 ment from the victim racked on the " cradh- 
 shlat," a bitter ignominious torture used by 
 the ancient Gaels. When, in good fellowship 
 one man says to another, Tha, a laochain (yes, 
 my dear fellow), he recalls Fionn and the 
 chivalry of eld; for laochain is merely a 
 contraction for laoch-Fhinn, meaning a com- 
 panion in war, a hero, literally Fionn's right- 
 hand man in battle. To this day, women, ac- 
 
 '"O, alas, alas!" Literally. "O, my undoing," 
 or "O, my utter ruin." 
 " "Alas, my torment! " 
 
 147 
 
Prologue 
 
 companying a marching regiment, are some- 
 times heard to say in the Gaelic, " We are go- 
 ing with the dear souls to the wars " — literally 
 an echo of the Ossianic Siubhlaidh sinn le'n 
 anam do'n araich, " We shall accompany their 
 souls to the battle-field." A thousand instances 
 could be adduced. The language is a her- 
 ring-net through which the unchanging sea 
 filtrates even though the net be clogged with 
 the fish of the hour. Nor is it the pagan at- 
 mosphere only that survives : often we breathe 
 the air of that early day when the mind of 
 man was attuned to a beautiful piety which 
 was wrought into nature itself. Of the sev- 
 eral words for the dawn, there is a beautiful 
 one, Uinneagachadh. We have it in the 
 phrase, 'nuair a bha an latha ag uinneaga- 
 chadh, " when the day began to dawn." Now 
 this word is simply an extension of Uinneag, 
 a window, and the application of the image 
 dates far back to the days of St Columba, 
 when some devout and poetic soul spoke of 
 the uinneagan Neimh, the windows of Heaven. 
 Sometimes, among the innumerable legend- 
 ary moralities which exist fragmentarily in 
 the West Highlands and in the Isles, there is 
 a coherent narrative basis — as, for example, 
 in the Irish and Highland folk-lore about St 
 Bride, or Brigit, " Muime Chriosd." Some- 
 148 
 
Prologue 
 
 times there is simply a phrase survived out 
 of antiquity. I doubt if any now living, either 
 in the Hebrides or in Ireland, has heard even 
 a fragmentary legend of the Washer of the 
 Ford. The name survives, with its atmos- 
 phere of a remote past, its dim ancestral 
 memory of a shadowy figure of awe haunting 
 a shadowy stream in a shadowy land. Sir 
 Samuel Ferguson, in Congal, has done little 
 more than limn an obscure shadow of 
 that shadow; yet it haunts the imagination. 
 In the passage of paganism, these old myths 
 were too deep-rooted in the Celtic mind to 
 vanish at thel bidding of the Cross : thus came 
 about that strange grafting of the symbolic 
 imagery of the devout Culdee, of the visionary 
 Mariolater, upon the surviving Druidic and 
 pre-historic imagination. In a word, the 
 Washer of the Ford might well have ap- 
 peared, to a single generation, now as a ter- 
 rible and sombre pagan goddess of death, 
 now as a symbolic figure in the new faith, 
 foreshadowing spiritual salvation and the 
 mystery of resurrection. 
 
 If, in a composition such as " Cathal-of-the- 
 Woods," there is the expression of revolt — 
 not ancient only, nor of the hour, but eternal, 
 for the revolt is of the sovereign nature with- 
 in us whereon all else is an accidental super- 
 149 
 
Prologue 
 
 structure — ^against the Christian ethic of re- 
 nunciation, with a concurrent echo of our deep 
 primeval longing for earth-kinship with every 
 life in Nature: if here there is the breath of 
 a day that may not come again, there is little 
 or nothing of the past, save what is merely 
 accidental, in " The Fisher of Men " or " The 
 Last Supper." I like to think that these each- 
 daireachd spioradail, these spiritual chronicles, 
 might as well, in substance, have been told a 
 thousand years ago or be written a thousand 
 years hence. That Fisher still haunts the in- 
 visible shadowy stream of human tears ; those 
 mystic Spinners still ply their triple shuttles, 
 and the fair Weaver of Hope now as of yore 
 and for ever sends his rainbows adrift across 
 the hearts and through the minds of men. 
 What does it matter, again, that the Three 
 Marvels of Hy are set against the background 
 of the lona of St Columba? St Francis 
 blessed the birds of Assisi, and San Antonio 
 had a heart as tender for all winged and 
 gentle creatures; and there are innumerable 
 quiet gardens of peace in the world even now, 
 where the kindred of San Antonio and St 
 Francis and St Columba are kith to our fel- 
 low-beings, knowing them akin one and all to 
 the seals whom St Molios blessed at the end 
 of his days, and in his new humbleness hailed 
 ISO 
 
Prologue 
 
 as likewise of the company of the sons of 
 God. 
 
 But of this I am sure. If there be spirit- 
 ual truth in the vision of the Blind Harper 
 who saw the Washer of the Ford, or in that 
 of Molios who hailed the seals as brethren, 
 or in that of Colum, who blessed the birds and 
 the fish of the sea, and even the vagrant flies 
 of the air, and saw the Moon-Child, and in 
 that seeing learned the last mystery of the 
 life of the soul ; if in these, as in the " Fisher 
 of Men " and " The Last Supper," I have given 
 faint utterance to the heart-knowledge we 
 all have, I would not have you or any think 
 that the pagan way is therefore to me as the 
 way of darkness. The lost monk who loved 
 the Annir-Choille was doubtless not the less 
 able to see the Uinneagan Neimh because he 
 was under ban of Colum and all his kin; and 
 there are those of us who would rather be 
 with Cathal of the Woods, and be drunken 
 with green fire, than gain the paradise of the 
 holy Molios who banned him, if in that gain 
 were involved the forfeiture of the sunny 
 green world, the joy of life, and the earth- 
 sweet ancient song of the blood that is in the 
 veins of youth. 
 
 These tales, let me add, are not legendary 
 mysteries but legendary moralities. They are 
 
 151 
 
Prologue 
 
 reflections from the mirror that is often ob- 
 scured but is never dimmed. There is no 
 mystery in them, or anywhere; except the 
 eternal mystery of beauty. 
 
 Of the section called Sean^chas, the short 
 barbaric tales, I will say nothing to you, whose 
 favourite echo from Shelley is that thrilling 
 line — " The tempestuous loveliness of terror." 
 
 You in your far Provence, amid the austere 
 hills that guard an ancient land of olive and 
 vine, a land illumined by the blue flowing 
 light of the Rhone, and girt by desert places 
 where sun and wind inhabit, and scarce any 
 other — ^you there and I here have this in com- 
 mon. Everywhere we see the life of Man in 
 subservient union with the life of Nature; 
 never, in a word, as a sun beset by tributary 
 stars, but as one planet among the innumerous 
 concourse of the sky, nurtured, it may be, by 
 light from other luminaries and other spheres 
 than we know of. That we are intimately at 
 one with Nature is a cosmic truth we are all 
 slowly approaching. It is not only the dog, 
 it is not only the wild beast and the wood- 
 dove, that are our close kindred, but the green 
 tree and the green grass, the blue wave and 
 the flowing wind, the flower of a day and the 
 granite peak of an aeon. And I for one would 
 rather have the wind for comrade, and the 
 
 152 
 
Prologue 
 
 white stars and green leaves as my kith and 
 kin, than many a human companion, whose 
 chief claim is the red blood that differs little 
 from the sap in the grass or in the pines, and 
 whose " deathless soul " is, mayhap, no more 
 than a fugitive light blown idly for an hour 
 betwixt dawn and dark. We are woven in 
 one loom, and the Weaver thrids our being 
 with the sweet influences, not only of the 
 Pleiades, but of the living world of which each 
 is no more than a multi-coloured thread: as, 
 in turn, He thrids the wandering wind with 
 the inarticulate cry, the yearning, the passion, 
 the pain, of that bitter clan, the Human. 
 
 Truly, we are all one. It is a common 
 tongue we speak, though the wave has its own 
 whisper, and the wind its own sigh, and the 
 lip of man its word, and the heart of woman 
 its silence. 
 
 Long, long ago a desert king, old and blind, 
 but dowered with ancestral wisdom beyond 
 all men that have lived, heard that the Son of 
 God was bom among men. He rose from 
 his place, and on the eve of the third day he 
 came to where Jesus sat among the gifts 
 brought by the wise men of the East. The 
 little lad sat in Mary's lap, beneath a tree 
 filled with quiet light; and while the folk of 
 
 153 
 
Prologue 
 
 Bethlehem came and went He was only a child 
 as other children are. But when the desert 
 king drew near, the child's eyes deepened with 
 knowledge. 
 
 " What is it, my little son? " said Mary the 
 Virgin. 
 
 " Sure, Mother dear," said Jesus, who had 
 never yet spoken a word, " it is Deep Knowl- 
 edge that is coming to me." 
 
 " And what will that be, O my Wonder and 
 Glory?" 
 
 " That which will come in at the door be- 
 fore you speak to me again." 
 
 Even as the child spoke, an old blind man 
 entered, and bowed his head. 
 
 " Come near, O tired old man," said Mary 
 that had borne a son to Joseph, but whose 
 womb knew him not. 
 
 With that the tears fell into the old man's 
 beard. " Sorrow of sorrows," he said, " but 
 that will be the voice of the Queen of 
 Heaven ! " 
 
 But Jesus said to his mother : " Take up 
 the tears, and throw them into the dark 
 night." And Mary did so: and lo! upon the 
 wilderness, where no light was, and on the 
 dark wave, where seamen toiled without hope, 
 clusters of shining stars rayed downward in a 
 white peace. 
 
 154 
 
Prologue 
 
 Thereupon the old king of the desert said: 
 " Heal me, O King of the Elements." 
 And Jesus healed him. His sight was upon 
 
 him again, and his grey ancientness was green 
 
 youth once more. 
 
 " I have come with Deep Knowledge," he 
 
 said. 
 
 " Ay, sure, I am for knowing that," said 
 
 the King of the Elements, that was a little 
 
 child. 
 
 " Well, if you will be knowing that, you 
 
 can tell me who is at my right side ? " 
 " It is my elder brother the Wind." 
 " And what colour will the Shadow be ? " 
 " Now blue as Hope, now green as Com- 
 passion." 
 
 " And who is on my left ? " 
 
 " The Shadow of Life." 
 
 " And what colour will the Shadow be? " 
 
 " That which is woven out of the bowels 
 
 of the earth and out of the belly of the 
 
 sea." 
 
 " Truly, thou art the King of the Elements. 
 
 I am bringing you a great gift, I am : I have 
 
 come with Deep Knowledge." 
 
 And with that the old blind man, whose 
 
 eyes were now as stars, and whose youth was 
 
 a green garland about him, chanted nine 
 
 runes. 
 
 155 
 
Prologue 
 
 The first rune was the Rune of the Four 
 Winds. 
 
 The second rune was the Rune of the Deep 
 Seas. 
 
 The third rune was the Rune of the Lochs 
 and Rivers and the Rains and the Dews and 
 the many waters. 
 
 The fourth rune was the Rune of the Green 
 Trees and of all things that grow. 
 
 The fifth rune was the Rune of Man and 
 Bird and Beast, and of everything that lives 
 and moves, in the air, on the earth, and in 
 the sea: all that is seen of man, and all that 
 is unseen of man. 
 
 The sixth rune was the Rune of Birth, from 
 the spawn on the wave to the Passion of 
 Woman. 
 
 The seventh rune was the Rune of Death, 
 from the quenching of a gnat to the fading of 
 the stars. 
 
 The eighth rune was the Rune of the Soul 
 that dieth not, and the Spirit that is. 
 
 The ninth rune was the Rune of the Mud 
 and the Dross and the Slime of Evil — ^that is 
 the Garden of God, wherein He walks with 
 sunlight streaming from the palms of His 
 hands and with stars springing beneath His 
 feet. 
 
 Then when he had done, the old man said: 
 156 
 
Prologue 
 
 " I have brought you Deep Knowledge." But 
 at that Jesus the Child said : 
 
 " All this I heard on my way hither." 
 
 The old desert king bowed his head. Then 
 he took a blade of grass, and played upon it. 
 It was a wild, strange air that he played. 
 
 " losa mac Dhe, tell the woman what song 
 that is," cried the desert king. 
 
 " It is the secret speech of the Wind that 
 is my Brother," cried the Child, clapping his 
 hands for joy. 
 
 "And what will this be?" and with that 
 the old man took a green leaf, and played a 
 lovely whispering song. 
 
 " It is the secret speech of the leaves," 
 cried Jesus the little lad, laughing low. 
 
 And thereafter the desert king played upon 
 a handful of dust, and upon a drop of water, 
 and upon a flame of fire; and the Child 
 laughed for the knowing and the joy. Then 
 he gave the secret speech of the singing bird, 
 and the barking fox, and the howling wolf, 
 and the bleating sheep: of all and every cre- 
 ated kind. 
 
 " O King of the Elements," he said then, 
 " for sure you knew much ; but now I have 
 made you to know the secret things of the 
 green Earth that is Mother of you and of 
 Mary too." 
 
 157 
 
Prologue 
 
 But while Jesus pondered that one mystery, 
 the old man was gone: and when he got to 
 his people, they put him alive into a hollow 
 of the earth and covered him up, because of 
 his shining eyes, and the green youth that was 
 about him as a garland. 
 
 And when Christ was nailed upon the 
 Cross, Deep Knowledge went back into the 
 green world, and passed into the grass and 
 the sap in trees, and the flowing wind, and 
 the dust that swirls and is gone. 
 
 All this is of the wisdom of the long ago, 
 and you and I are of those who know how an- 
 cient it is, how remoter far than when Mary, 
 at the bidding of her little son, threw up into 
 the firmament the tears of an old man. 
 
 It is old, old — 
 
 "Thousands of years, thousands of years. 
 If all were told." 
 
 Is it wholly unwise, wholly the fantasy of a 
 dreamer, to insist, in this late day, when the 
 dust of ages and the mists of the present hide 
 from us the Beauty of the World, that we can 
 regain our birthright only by leaving our 
 cloud-palaces of the brain, and becoming con- 
 sciously at one with the cosmic life of which, 
 merely as men, we are no more than a per- 
 petual phosphorescence ? 
 
 158 
 
LEGENDARY MORALITIES 
 
 159 
 
* tell 
 
 Of the dim wisdoms old and deep. 
 That God gives unto man in sleep. 
 For the elemental beings go 
 About my table to and fro. 
 In How and fire and clay and wind. 
 They huddle from, man's pondering mind; 
 Yet he who treads in austere ways, 
 May surely meet their ancient gaze. 
 Man ever journeys on with them 
 After the red-rose-bordered hem,. 
 Ah, faeries, dancing under the moon, 
 A Druid land, a Druid tune!" 
 
 1 60 
 
The Washer of the 
 Ford 
 
 When Torcall the Harper heard of the 
 death of his friend, Aodh-of-the-Songs, he 
 made a vow to mourn for him for three sea- 
 sons — a green-time, an apple-time, and a snow- 
 time. 
 
 There was sorrow upon him because of that 
 death. True, Aodh was not of his kindred, 
 but the singer had saved the harper's life when 
 his friend was fallen in the Field of Spears. 
 
 Torcall was of the people of the north^ — of 
 the men of Lochlin. His song was of the 
 fjords and of strange gods, of the sword and 
 the war-galley, of the red blood and the white 
 breast, of Odin and Thor and Freya, of Bal- 
 der and the Dream-God that sits in the rain- 
 bow, of the starry North, of the flames of pale 
 blue and flushing rose that play around the 
 Pole, of sudden death in battle, and of Val- 
 halla. 
 
 Aodh was of the south isles, where these 
 shake under the thunder of the western seas. 
 His clan was of the isle that i§ now called 
 161 
 
The Washer of the Ford 
 
 Barra, and was then'Aoidu ; but his mother 
 was a woman out of a royal rath in Banba, 
 as men of old called Eire or Eireann. She was 
 so fair that a man died of his desire of her. 
 He was named Ulad, and was a prince. " The 
 Melancholy of Ulad " was long sung in his 
 land after his end in the dark swamp, where 
 he heard a singing, and went laughing glad 
 to his death. Another man was made a prince 
 because of her. This was Aodh the Harper, 
 out of the Hebrid Isles. He won the heart 
 out of her, and it was his from the day she 
 heard his music and felt his eyes flame upon 
 her. Before the child was born, she said, 
 " He shall be the son of love. He shall be 
 called Aodh. He shall be called Aodh-of-the- 
 Songs." And so it was. 
 
 Sweet were his songs. He loved, and he 
 sang, and he died. 
 
 And when Torcall that was his friend knew 
 this sorrow, he rose and made his vow, and 
 went out for evermore from the place where 
 he was. 
 
 Since the hour of the Field of Spears he 
 had been blind. Torcall Dall he was upon 
 men's lips thereafter. His harp had a moon- 
 shine wind upon it from that day, it was said : 
 a beautiful strange harping when he went 
 down through the glen, or out upon the sandy 
 162 
 
The Washer of the Ford 
 
 machar by the shore, and played what the 
 wind sang, and the grass whispered, and the 
 tree murmured, and the sea muttered or cried 
 hollowly in the dark. 
 
 Because there was no sight to his eyes, 
 men said he saw and he heard. What was 
 it he heard and saw that they saw not and 
 heard not? It was in the voice that sighed 
 in the strings of his harp, so the saying was. 
 
 When he rose and went away from his 
 place, the Maormor asked him if he went 
 north, as the blood sang; or south, as the 
 heart cried; or west, as the dead go; or east, 
 as the light comes. 
 
 " I go east," answered Torcall Dall. 
 
 " And why so, Blind Harper ? " 
 
 " For there is darkness always upon me, 
 and I go where the light comes." 
 
 On that night of the nights, a fair wind 
 blowing out of the west, Torcall the Harper 
 set forth in a galley. It splashed in the 
 moonshine as it was rowed swiftly by nine 
 men. 
 
 " Sing us a song, O Torcall Dall ! " they 
 cried. 
 
 " Sing us a song, Torcall of Lochlin," said 
 the man who steered. He and all his com- 
 pany were of the Gael: the Harper only was 
 of the Northmen. 
 
 163 
 
The Washer of the Ford 
 
 "What shall I sing?" he asked. "Shall 
 it be of war that you love, or of women that 
 twine you like silk o' the kine; or shall it be 
 of death that is your meed ; or of your dread, 
 the Spears of the North?" 
 
 A low sullen growl went from beard to 
 beard. 
 
 "We are under ceangal. Blind Harper," 
 said the steersman, with downcast eyes be- 
 cause of his flaming wrath; "we are under 
 bond to take you safe to the mainland, but 
 we have sworn no vow to sit still under the 
 lash of your tongue. 'Twas a wind-fleet ar- 
 row that sliced the sight out of your eyes: 
 have a care lest a sudden sword-wind sweep 
 the breath out of your body." 
 
 Torcall laughed a low, quiet laugh. 
 
 " Is it death I am fearing now — I who have 
 washed my hands in blood, and had love, and 
 known all that is given to man? But I will 
 sing you a song, I will." 
 
 And with that he took his harp, and struck 
 the strings: 
 
 A lonely stream there is, afar in a lone dim land: 
 It hath white dust for shore it has, white bones be- 
 strew the strand: 
 The only thing that liveth there is a naked leaping 
 
 sword; 
 But I, who a seer am, have seen the whirling hand 
 Of the Washer of the Ford. 
 164 
 
The Washer of the Ford 
 
 A shadowy shape of cloud and mist, of gloom and 
 
 night, she stands. 
 
 The Washer of the Ford: 
 She laughs, at times, and strews the dust through the 
 
 hollow of her hands. 
 
 She counts the sins of all men there, and slays the 
 
 red-stained horde — 
 The ghosts of all the sins of men must know the 
 
 whirling sword 
 
 Of the Washer of the Ford. 
 
 She stoops and laughs when in the dust she sees a 
 
 writhing limb: 
 "Go back into the ford," she says, "and hither and 
 
 thither swim; 
 Then I shall wash you white as snow, and shall take 
 
 you by the hand, ■ 
 
 And slay you here in the silence with this my whirl- 
 ing brand. 
 And trample you into the dust of this white windless 
 sand" — 
 
 This is the laughing word 
 Of the Washer of the Ford 
 Along that silent strand. 
 
 There was silence for a time after Torcall 
 Dall sang that song. The oars took up the 
 moonshine and flung it hither and thither like 
 loose shining crystals. The foam at the prow 
 curled and leaped. 
 
 Suddenly one of the rowers broke into a 
 long, low chant — 
 
 165 
 
The Washer of the Ford 
 
 Yo, eily-a-ho, ayah-a-ko, eily-ayah-a-ho, 
 
 Singeth the Sword 
 Eily-a-ho, ayah-a-ho, eily-ayah-a-hc. 
 
 Of the Washer of the Ford! 
 
 And at that all ceased from rowing. Stand- 
 ing erect, they lifted up their oars against the 
 stars, and the wild voices of them flew out 
 upon the night — 
 
 Yo, eily-a-ho, ayah-a-ho, eily-ayah-a-ho, 
 
 Singeth the Sword 
 Eily-a-ho, ayah-a-ho, eily-ayah-a-ho. 
 
 Of the Washer of the Ford! 
 
 Torcall Dall laughed. Then he drew his 
 sword from his side and plunged it into the 
 sea. When he drew the blade out of the water 
 and whirled it on high, all the white shining 
 drops of it swirled about his head like a sleety 
 rain. 
 
 And at that the steersman let go the steer- 
 ing-oar and drew his sword, and clove a flow- 
 ing wave. But with the might of his blow 
 the sword spun him round, and the sword 
 sliced away the ear of the man who had the 
 sternmost oar. Then there was blood in the 
 eyes of all there. The man staggered, and 
 felt for his knife, and it was in the heart of 
 the steersman. 
 
 Then because these two men were leaders, 
 l66 
 
The Washer of the Ford 
 
 and had had a blood-feud, and because all 
 there, save Torcall, were of one or the other 
 side, swords and knives sang a song. 
 
 The rowers dropped their oars; and four 
 men fought against three. 
 
 Torcall laughed, and lay back in his place. 
 While out of the wandering wave the death 
 of each man clambered into the hollow of the 
 boat, and breathed its chill upon its man. Tor- 
 call the Blind took his harp. He sang this 
 song, with the swirling spray against his face, 
 and the smell of blood in his nostrils, and the 
 feet of him dabbling in the red tide that rose 
 there. 
 
 Oh 'tis a good thing the red blood, by Odin his word! 
 And a good thing it is to hear it bubbling deep. 
 And when we hear the laughter of the Sword, 
 Oh, the corbies croak, and the old wail, and the 
 
 women weep ! 
 And busy will she be there where she stands, 
 Washing the red out of the sins of all this slaying 
 
 horde ; 
 And trampling the bones of them into white powdery 
 
 sands. 
 And laughing low at the thirst of her thirsty 
 
 sword — 
 
 The Washer of the Ford! 
 
 When he had sung that song there was only 
 one man whose pulse still beat, and he was 
 at the bow. 
 
 167 
 
The Washer of the Ford 
 
 "A bitter black curse upon you, Torcall 
 Dall ! " he groaned out of the ooze of blood 
 that was in his mouth. 
 
 "And who will you be?" said the Blind 
 Harper. 
 
 " I am Fergus, the son of Art, the son of 
 Fergus of the Two Diins." 
 
 "Well, it is a song for your death I will 
 make, Fergus mac Art mhic Fheargus: and 
 because you are the last." 
 
 With that Torcall struck a sob out of his 
 harp, and he sang — 
 
 Oh, death of Fergus, that is Xy'vag in the boat here 
 Betwixt the man of the red hair and him of the 
 black beard, 
 Rise now, and out of your cold white eyes take out 
 the fear, 
 And let Fergus tnac Art mhic Fheargus see his 
 weird! 
 Sure, now, it's a blind man I am, but I'm thinking I 
 see 
 The shadow of you crawling across the dead : 
 Soon you will twine your arm around his shaking 
 knee, 
 And be whispering your silence into his listless 
 head. 
 And that is why, O Fergus 
 
 But here the man hurled his sword into the 
 sea. and with a choking cry fell forward ; and 
 i68 
 
The Washer of the Ford 
 
 upon the White Sands he was, beneath the 
 trampling feet of the Washer of the Ford. 
 
 II 
 
 It was a fair wind beneath the stars that 
 night. At dawn the mountains of Skye were 
 like turrets of a great Diin against the east. 
 
 But Torcall the blind Harper did not see 
 that thing. Sleep, too, was upon him. He 
 smiled in that sleep, for in his mind he saw 
 the dead men, that were of the alien people, 
 his foes, draw near the stream that was in a 
 far place. The shaking of them, poor tremu- 
 lous frostbit leaves they were, thin and sere, 
 made the only breath there was in that desert. 
 
 At the ford — this is what he saw in his 
 vision — ^they fell down like stricken deer with 
 the hounds upon them. 
 
 " What is this stream ? " they cried in the 
 thin voice of rain across the moors. 
 
 " The River of Blood," said a voice. 
 
 " And who are you that are in the silence ? " 
 
 " I am the Washer of the Ford." 
 
 And with that each red soul was seized and 
 thrown into the water of the ford ; and when 
 white as a sheep-bone on the hill, was taken 
 in one hand by the Washer of the Ford and 
 flung into the air, where no wind was and 
 169 
 
The Washer of the Ford 
 
 where sound was dead, and was then severed 
 this way and that, in four whirling blows of 
 the sword from the four quarters of the world. 
 Then it was that the Washer of the Ford 
 trampled upon what fell to the ground, till 
 under the feet of her was only a white sand, 
 white as powder, light as the dust of the yel- 
 low flowers that grow in the grass. 
 
 It was at that Torcall Dall smiled in his 
 sleep. He did not hear the washing of the 
 sea ; no, nor any idle plashing of the unoared 
 boat. Then he dreamed, and it was of the 
 woman he had left, seven .summer-sailings ago 
 in Lochlin, He thought her hand was in his, 
 and that her heart was against his. 
 
 "Ah, dear beautiful heart of woman," he 
 said, "and what is the pain that has put a 
 shadow upon you ? " 
 
 It was a sweet voice that he heard com- 
 ing out of sleep. 
 
 " Torcall, it is the weary love I have." 
 
 "Ah, heart o' me, dear! sure 'tis a bitter 
 pain I have had too, and I away from you all 
 these years." 
 
 " There's a man's pain, and there's a wom- 
 an's pain." 
 
 " By the blood of Balder, Hildyr, I would 
 have both upon me to take it off the dear 
 heart that is here." 
 
 170 
 
The Washer of the Ford 
 
 " Torcall ! " 
 
 " Yes, white one." 
 
 " We are not alone, we two in the dark." 
 
 And when she had said that thing, Torcall 
 felt two baby arms go round his neck, and 
 two leaves of a wild-rose press cool and sweet 
 against his lips. 
 
 " Ah ! what is this ? " he cried, with his 
 heart beating, and the blood in his body sing- 
 ing a glad song. 
 
 A low voice crooned in his ear: a bitter- 
 sweet song it was, passing-sweet, passing-bit- 
 ter. 
 
 " Ah, white one, white one," he moaned ; 
 "ah, the wee fawn o' me! Baby o' foam, 
 bonnie wee lass, put your sight upon me that 
 I may see the blue eyes that are mine too and 
 Hildyr's." 
 
 But the child only nestled closer. Like a 
 fledgling in a great nest she was. If God 
 heard her song. He was a glad God that 
 day. The blood that was in her body called 
 to the blood that was in his body. He could 
 say no word. The tears were in his blind 
 eyes. 
 
 Then Hildyr leaned into the dark, and took 
 his harp, and played upon it. It was of the 
 f onnsheen he had learned, far, far away, where 
 the isles are. ^ 
 
 171 
 
The Washer of the Ford 
 
 She sang: but he could not hear what she 
 sang. 
 
 Then the little lips, that were like a cool 
 wave upon the dry sand of his life, whispered 
 into a low song: and the wavering of it was 
 like this in his brain — 
 
 Where the winds' gather 
 
 The souls of the dead, 
 O Torcall, my father, 
 
 My soul is led! 
 
 In Hildyr-mead 
 
 I was thrown, I was sown : 
 Out of thy seed 
 
 I am sprung, I am blown! 
 
 But where is the way 
 
 For Hildyr and me. 
 By the hill-moss grey 
 
 Or the grey sea? 
 
 For a river is here. 
 
 And a whirling Sword — 
 And a Woman washing 
 
 By a Ford! 
 
 With that, Torcall Dall gave a wild cry, 
 and sheathed an arm about the wee white one, 
 and put out a hand to the bosom that loved 
 him. But there was no white breast there, 
 and no white babe : and what was against his 
 lips was his own hand red with blood. 
 172 
 
The Washer of the Ford 
 
 "O Hildyr!" he cried. 
 
 But only the splashing of the waves did 
 he hear. 
 
 " O white one ! " he cried. 
 
 But only the scream of a sea-mew, as it 
 hovered over that boat filled with dead men, 
 made answer. 
 
 Ill 
 
 All day the Blind Harper steered the galley 
 of the dead. There was a faint wind moving 
 out of the west. The boat went before it, 
 slow, and with a low, sighing wash. 
 
 Torcall saw the red gaping wounds of the 
 dead, and the glassy eyes of the nine men. 
 
 It is better not to be blind and to see the 
 dead," he muttered, " than to be blind and to 
 see the dead." 
 
 The man who had been steersman leaned 
 against him. He took him in his shuddering 
 grip and thrust him into the sea. 
 
 But when, an hour later, he put his hand 
 to the coolness of the water, he drew it back 
 with a cry, for it was on the cold, stiff face 
 of the dead man that it had fallen. The long 
 hair had caught in a cleft in the leather where 
 the withes had given. 
 
 For another hour Torcall sat with his chin 
 
 ^73 
 
The Washer of the Ford 
 
 in his right hand, and his unseeing eyes star- 
 ing upon the dead. He heard no sound at 
 all, save the lap of wave upon wave, and the 
 suss of spray against spray, and a bubbling 
 beneath the boat, and the low, steady swish of 
 the body that trailed alongside the steering oar. 
 
 At the second hour before sundown he 
 lifted his head. The sound he heard was the 
 sound of waves beating upon rocks. 
 
 At the hour before sundown he moved the 
 oar rapidly to and fro, and cut away the body 
 that trailed behind the boat. The noise of the 
 waves upon the rocks was now a loud song. 
 
 When the last sunfire burned upon his neck, 
 and made the long hair upon his shoulders 
 ashine, he smelt the green smell of grass. 
 Then it was too that he heard the muffled fall 
 of the sea, in a quiet haven, where shelves of 
 sand were. 
 
 He followed that sound, and while he 
 strained to hear any voice the boat grided 
 upon the sand, and drifted to one side. Tak- 
 ing his harp, Torcall drove an oar into the 
 sand, and leaped on to the shore. When he 
 was there, he listened. There was silence. 
 Far, far away he heard the falling of a moun- 
 tain-torrent, and the thin, faint cry of an 
 eagle, where the sun-flame dyed its eyrie as 
 with streaming blood. 
 
 174 
 
The Washer of the Ford 
 
 So he lifted his harp, and, harping low, 
 with an old broken song on his lips, moved 
 away from that place, and gave no more 
 thought to the dead. 
 
 It was deep gloaming when he came to a 
 wood. He felt the cold green breath of it. 
 
 " Come," said a voice, low and sweet. 
 
 " And who will you be ? " asked Torcall the 
 Harper, trembling because of the sudden voice 
 in the stillness. 
 
 " I am a child, and here is my hand, and 
 I will lead you, Torcall of Lochlin." 
 
 The blind man had fear upon him. 
 
 " Who are you that in a strange place are 
 for knowing who I am ? " 
 
 " Come." 
 
 " Ay, sure, it is coming I am, white one ; 
 but tell me who you are, and whence you 
 came, and whither we go." 
 
 Then a voice that he knew sang: 
 
 O where the winds gather 
 
 The souls of the dead, 
 O Torcall, my father. 
 
 My soul is led! 
 
 But a river is here, 
 
 And a whirling Sword — 
 And a Woman washing 
 
 By a Ford! 
 
 175 
 
The Washer of the Ford 
 
 Torcall Dall was as the last leaf on a tree 
 at that. 
 
 "Were you on the boat?" he whispered 
 hoarsely. 
 
 But it seemed to him that another voice an- 
 swered : " Yea, even so." 
 
 "Tell me, for I have blindness: Is it 
 peace ? " 
 
 " It is peace." 
 
 " Are you man, or child, or of the Hidden 
 People?" 
 
 " I am a shepherd." 
 
 " A shepherd ? Then, sure, you will guide 
 me through this wood? And what will be 
 beyond this wood ? " 
 
 " A river." 
 
 " And what river will that be ? " 
 
 " Deep and terrible. It runs through the 
 Valley of the Shadow." 
 
 " And is there no ford there ? " 
 
 "Ay, there is a ford." 
 
 "And who will guide me across that 
 ford?" 
 
 " She." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " The Washer of the Ford." 
 
 But hereat Torcall Dall gave a sore cry 
 and snatched his hand away, and fled sidelong 
 into an alley of the wood. 
 
 176 
 
The Washer of the Ford 
 
 It was moonshine when he lay down, 
 weary. The sound of flowing water filled his 
 ears. 
 
 " Come," said a voice. 
 
 So he rose and went. When the cold 
 breath of the water was upon his face, the 
 guide that led him put a fruit into his hand. 
 
 " Eat, Torcall Dall ! " 
 
 He ate. He was no more Torcall Dall. 
 He felt his sight coming upon him again. 
 Out of the blackness shadows came; out of 
 the shadows, the great boughs of trees ; from 
 the boughs, dark branches and dark clusters 
 of leaves; above the branches, white stars; 
 below the branches, white flowers; and be- 
 yond these, the moonshine on the grass and 
 the moonfire on the flowing of a river dark 
 and deep. 
 
 " Take your harp, O Harper, and sing the 
 song of what you see." 
 
 Torcall heard the voice, but saw no one. 
 No shadow moved. Then he walked out upon 
 the moonlit grass; and at the ford he saw a 
 woman stooping and washing shroud after 
 shroud of woven moonbeams: washing them 
 there in the flowing water, and singing low 
 a song that he did not hear. He did not see 
 her face. But she was young, and with long 
 177 
 
The Washer of the Ford 
 
 black hair that fell like the shadow of night 
 over a white rock. 
 
 So Torcall took his harp, and he sang: 
 
 Glory to the great Gods, it is no Sword I am seeing; 
 Nor do I see aught but the flowing of a river. 
 And I see shadows on the flow that are ever fleeing. 
 And I see a woman washing shrouds for ever and 
 ever. 
 
 Then he ceased, for he heard the woman 
 sing: 
 
 Glory to God on high, and to Mary, Mother of Jesus, 
 Here am I washing away the sins of the shriven, 
 O Torcall of Lochlin, throw off the red sins that ye 
 
 cherish 
 And I will be giving you the washen shroud that they 
 
 wear in Heaven. 
 
 Filled with a great awe, Torcall bowed his 
 head. Then once more he took his harp, 
 and he sang: 
 
 well it is I am seeing, Woman of the Shrouds, 
 That you have not for me any whirling of the Sword ; 
 
 1 have lost my gods, O woman, so what will the name 
 
 be 
 Of thee and thy gods, O woman that art Washer of 
 the Ford? 
 
 But the woman did not look up from the 
 dark water, nor did she cease from washing 
 the shrouds made of the woven moonbeams. 
 178 
 
The Washer of the Ford 
 
 The Harper heard this song above the sighing 
 of the water : 
 
 It is Mary Magdalene my name is, and I loved Christ. 
 And Christ is the Son of God and of Mary the Mother 
 
 of Heaven. 
 And this river is the river of death, and the shadows 
 Are the fleeing souls that are lost if they be not 
 
 shriven. 
 
 Then Torcall drew closer to the stream. A 
 melancholy wind was upon it. 
 
 " Where are all the dead of the world ? " 
 he said. 
 
 But the woman answered not. 
 
 " And what is the end, you that are called 
 Mary?" 
 
 Then the woman rose. 
 
 " Would you cross the Ford, O Torcall the 
 Harper?" 
 
 He made no word upon that. But he lis- 
 tened. He heard a woman singing faint and 
 low, far away in the dark. He drew more 
 near. 
 
 "Would you cross the Ford, O Torcall?" 
 
 He made no word upon that ; but once more 
 he listened. He heard a little child crying 
 in the night. 
 
 "Ah, lonely heart of the white one," he 
 sighed, and his tears fell. 
 179 
 
The Washer of the Ford 
 
 Mary Magdalene turned and looked upon 
 him. 
 
 It was the face of Sorrow she had. She 
 stooped and took up the tears. 
 
 "They are bells of joy," she said. And 
 he heard a faint, sweet ringing in his ears. 
 
 A prayer came out of his heart. A blind 
 prayer it was, but God gave it wings. It flew 
 to Mary, who took and kissed it, and gave it 
 song. 
 
 " It is the Song of Peace," she said. And 
 Torcall had peace. 
 
 "What is best, O Torcall?" she asked,— 
 rustling-sweet as rain among the trees her 
 voice was. "What is best? The sword, or 
 peace ? " 
 
 "Peace," he answered; and he was white 
 now, and was old. 
 
 " Take your harp," Mary said, " and go in 
 urito the Ford. But, lo, now I clothe you 
 with a white shroud. And if you fear the 
 drowning flood, follow the bells that were 
 your tears ; and if the dark affright you, fol- 
 low the song of the prayer that came out of 
 your heart." 
 
 So Torcall the Harper moved into the 
 whelming flood, and he played a new strange 
 air like the laughing of a child. 
 
 Deep silence there was. The moonshine lay 
 i8o 
 
The Washer of the Ford 
 
 upon the obscure wood, and the darkling river 
 flowed sighing through the soundless gloom. 
 The Washer of the Ford stooped once 
 more. Low and sweet, as of yore and for 
 ever, over the drowning souls she sang her 
 immemorial song. 
 
 i8i 
 
ST BRIDE OF THE ISLES 
 
 To the beautiful memory of 
 S. F. Alden. 
 
SLOINNEADH BRIGHDE, MUIME CHRIOSD 
 
 Brighde nighean Dughaill Duinn, 
 
 'Ic Aoidth, 'ic Arta, 'ic Cuinn. 
 
 Gach la is gach oidhche 
 
 Ni mi cuimhneachadh air sloinneadh Brighde. 
 
 Cha mharbbar mi, 
 
 Cha ghuinear mi, 
 
 Cha ghonar mi, 
 
 Cha mho dh' fhagas Criosd an dearmad mi ; 
 
 Cha loisg teine gniomb Shatain mi ; 
 
 'S cha bhath uisge no saile mi; 
 
 'S mi fo chomraig Naoimh Moire 
 
 'S mo chaomh mhuime, Brighde. 
 
 The Genealogy of St Brigii or St Bridg 
 Foster-Mother of Christ. 
 
 St Brigit, the daughter of Dughall Donn, 
 
 Son of Hugh, son of Art, son of Conn. 
 
 Each day and each night 
 
 I will meditate on the genealogy of St Brigit. 
 
 [Whereby] I will not be killed, 
 
 I will not be wounded, 
 
 I will not be bewitched ; 
 
 Neither will Christ forsake me ; 
 
 Satan's fire will not bum me ; 
 
 Neither water nor sea shall drown me; 
 
 For I am under the protection of the Virgin Mary, 
 
 And my gentle foster-mother St Brigit. . 
 
 184 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 Before ever St Colum came across the 
 Moyle to the island of lona, that was then by 
 strangers called Innis-nan-Dhruidhneach, the 
 Isle of the Druids, and by the natives loua, 
 there lived upon the south-east slope of Dun-I 
 a poor herdsman named Dtivach. Poor he 
 was, for sure, though it was not for this rea- 
 son that he could not win back to Ireland, 
 green Banba, as he called it: but because he 
 was an exile thence, and might never again 
 
 Note. — ^This legendary romance is based upon the 
 ancient and still current (though often hopelessly 
 contradictory) legends concerning Brighid, or Bride, 
 commonly known as "Muime Chriosd" — i.e., the 
 Poster-Mother of Christ. From the universal honour 
 and reverence in which she was and is held — second 
 only in this respect to the Virgin herself — she is also 
 called "Mary of the Gael." Another name, frequent 
 inthe West, is " Brighde-nam-Brat " — i.e. St Bride of 
 the Mantle, a name explained in the course of this 
 legendary story. Brigit the Christian saint should 
 not, however, be confused with a much earlier and 
 remoter Brigit, the ancient Celtic Muse of Song. 
 
 185 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 smell the heather blowing over Sliabh-Gortn 
 in what of old was the realm of Aoimag. 
 
 He was a prince in his own land, though 
 none on lona save the Arch-Druid knew what 
 his name was. The high priest, however, 
 knew that Duvach was the royal Dtighall, 
 called Diighall Donn, the son of Hugh the 
 King, the son of Art, the son of Conn. In 
 his youth he had been accused of having done 
 a wrong against a noble maiden of the blood. 
 When her child was born he was made to 
 swear across her dead body that he would be 
 true to the daughter for whom she had given 
 up her life, that he would rear her in a holy 
 place, but away from Eire, and that he would 
 never set foot within that land again. This 
 was a bitter thing for Diighall Donn to do: 
 the more so as, before the King, and the 
 priests, and the people, he swore by the Wind, 
 and by the Moon, and by the Sun, that he 
 was guiltless of the thing of which he was 
 accused. There were many there who be- 
 lieved him because of that sacred oath : others, 
 too, forasmuch as that Morna the Princess 
 had herself sworn to the same effect. More- 
 over, there was Aodh of the Golden Hair, a 
 poet and seer, who avowed that Morna had 
 given birth to an immortal, whose name would 
 one day be as a moon among the stars for 
 i86 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 glory. But the King would not be appeased, 
 though he spared the life of his youngest son. 
 So it was that, by the advice of Aodh of the 
 Druids, Dughall Donn went northwards 
 through the realm of Clanadon and so to the 
 sea-loch that was then called Loc Feobal. 
 There he took boat with some wayfarers 
 bound for Alba. But in the MOyle a tempest 
 arose, and the frail galley was driven north- 
 ward, and at sunrise was cast like a fish, spent 
 and dead, upon the south end of loua, that is 
 now lona. Only two lived: Dughall Donn 
 and the little child. This was at the place 
 where, on a day of the days in a year that 
 was not yet come, St Colum landed in his 
 coracle, and gave thanks on his bended knees. 
 
 When, warmed by the sun, they rose, they 
 found themselves in a waste place. Ill was 
 Diighall in his mind because of the portents, 
 and now to his fear and amaze the child Brid- 
 get knelt on the stones, and, with claspt hands, 
 small and pink as the sea-shells round about 
 her, sang a song of words which were un- 
 known to him. This was the more marvel- 
 lous, as she was yet so young, and could say 
 no word even of Erse, the only tongue she 
 had heard. 
 
 At this portent, he knew that Aodh had 
 spoken seeingly. Truly this child was not of 
 
 187 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 human parentage. So he, too, kneeled, and, 
 bowing before her, asked if she were of the 
 race of the Tuatha de Danann, or of the older 
 gods, and what her will was, that he might 
 be her servant. Then it was that the kneel- 
 ing babe looked at him, and- sang in a low 
 sweet voice in Erse: 
 
 I am but a little child, 
 Dughall, son of Hugh, son of Art, 
 But my garment shall be laid 
 On the lord of the world, 
 Yea, surely it shall be that He 
 The King of the Elements Himself 
 Shall lean against my bosom, 
 And I will give him peace, 
 And peace will I give to all who ask 
 Because of this mighty Prince, 
 And because of his Mother that is t&e Daughter 
 of Peace. 
 
 And while Dvighall Donn was still marvel- 
 ling at this thing, the Arch-Druid of lona 
 approached, with his white-robed priests. A 
 grave welcome was given to the stranger. 
 While the youngest of the servants of God 
 was entrusted with the child, the Arch-Druid 
 took Dtighall aside and questioned him. It 
 was not till the third day that the old man 
 gave his decision. Dughall Donn was to 
 abide on lona if he so willed: but the child 
 i88 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 was to stay. His life would be spared, nor 
 would he be a bondager of any kind, and a 
 little land to till would be given him, and all 
 that he might need. But of his past he was 
 to say no word. His name was to become as 
 nought, and he was to be known simply as 
 Duvach. The child, too, was to be named 
 Bride, for that was the way the name Brigit 
 was called in the Erse of the Isles. 
 
 To the question of Dvighall, that was 
 thenceforth Dtivach, as to why he laid so 
 great stress on the child, that was a girl, and 
 the reputed offspring of shame at that, Cathal 
 the Arch-Druid replied thus : " My kinsman 
 Aodh of the Golden Hair who sent you here, 
 was wiser than Hugh the King and all the 
 Druids of Aoimag. Truly, this child is an 
 Immortal. There is an ancient prophecy con- 
 cerning her: surely of her who is now here, 
 and no other. There shall be, it says, a spot- 
 less maid born of a virgin of the ancient im- 
 memorial race in Innisfail. And when for 
 the seventh time the sacred year has come, she 
 will hold Eternity in her lap as a white flower. 
 Her maiden breasts shall swell with milk for 
 the Prince of the World. She shall give suck 
 to the King of the Elements. So I say unto 
 you, Duvach, go in peace. Take unto thyself 
 a wife, and live upon the place I will give 
 189 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 thee on the east side of loua. Treat Bride 
 as though she were thy spirit, but leave her 
 much alone, and let her learn of the sun and 
 the wind. In the fulness of time the prophecy 
 shall be fulfilled." 
 
 So was it, from that day of the days. Dii- 
 vach took a wife unto himself, who weaned 
 the little Bride, who grew in beauty and 
 grace, so that all men marvelled. Year by 
 year for seven years the wife of Duvach bore 
 him a son, and these grew apace in strength, 
 so that by the beginning of the third year of 
 the seventh cycle of Bride's life there were 
 three stalwart youths to brother her, and three 
 comely and strong lads, and one young boy 
 fair to see. Nor did anyone, not even Bride 
 herself, saving Cathal the Arch-Druid, know 
 that Diivach the herdsman was Dughall 
 Donn, of a princely race in Innisfail. 
 
 In the end, too, Diivach came to think that 
 he had dreamed, or at the least that Cathal 
 had not interpreted the prophecy aright. For 
 though Bride was of exceeding beauty, and of 
 a strange piety that made the young Druids 
 bow before her as though she were a bandia, 
 yet the world went on as before, and the days 
 brought no change. Often, while she was. 
 still a child, he had questioned her about the 
 words she had said as a babe, but she had 
 190 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 no memory of them. Once, in her ninth 
 year, he came upon her on the hillside of 
 Dun-I singing these self-same words. Her 
 eyes dreamed far away. He bowed his head, 
 and, praying to the Giver of Light, hurried to 
 Cathal. The old man bade him speak no 
 more to the child concerning the mysteries. 
 
 Bride lived the hours of her days upon the 
 slopes of Dun-I, herding the sheep, or in fol- 
 lowing the kye upon the green hillocks and 
 grassy dunes of what then as now was called 
 the Machar. The beauty of the world was 
 her daily food. The spirit within her was 
 like sunlight behind a white flower. The bir- 
 deens in the green bushes sang for joy when 
 they saw her blue eyes. The tender prayers 
 that were in her heart for all the beasts and 
 birds, for helpless children, and tired women, 
 and for all who were old, were often seen fly- 
 ing above her head in the form of white doves 
 of sunshine. 
 
 But when the middle of the year came that 
 was, though Diivach had forgotten it, the year 
 of the prophecy, his eldest son, Conn, who was 
 now a man, murmured against the virginity 
 of Bride, because of her beauty and because 
 a chieftain of the mainland was eager to wed 
 her, " I shall wed Bride or raid loua," was 
 the message he had sent. 
 191 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 So one day, before the great fire of the 
 summer-festival, Conn and his brothers re- 
 proached Bride. 
 
 " Idle are these pure eyes, O Bride, not to 
 be as lamps at thy marriage-bed." 
 
 " Truly, it is not by the eyes that we live," 
 replied the maiden gently, while to their fear 
 and amazement she passed her hand before 
 her face and let them see that the sockets were 
 empty. 
 
 Trembling with awe at this portent, Du- 
 vach intervened. 
 
 " By the Sun I swear it, O Bride, that thou 
 shalt marry whomsoever thou wilt and none 
 other, and when thou wiliest, or not at all if 
 such be thy will." 
 
 And when he had spoken. Bride smiled, and 
 passed her hand before her face again, and 
 all there were abashed because of the blue 
 light as of morning that was in her shining 
 eyes. 
 
 II 
 
 The still weather had come, and all the isles 
 lay in beauty. Far south, beyond vision, 
 ranged the cpasts of Eire : westward, leagues 
 of quiet ocean dreamed into unsailed wastes 
 whose waves at last laved the shores of Tir- 
 192 
 
5"* Bride of the Isles 
 
 na'n-Og, the Land of Eternal Youth: north- 
 ward, the spell-bound waters sparkled in the 
 sunlight, broken here and there by purple 
 shadows, that were the isles of StaflFa and 
 Ulva, Lunga and the isles of the columns, 
 misty Coll, and Tiree that is the land beneath 
 the wave ; with, pale blue in the heat-haze, the 
 mountains of Rtim called Haleval, Haskeval, 
 and Oreval, and the sheer Scuir-na-Gillian and 
 the peaks of the CuchuUins in remote Skye. 
 
 All the sweet loveliness of a late spring 
 remained, to give a freshness to the .glory of 
 summer. The birds had song to them still. 
 
 It was while the dew was yet wet on the 
 grass that Bride came out of her father's 
 house, and went up the steep slope of Dun-I. 
 The crying of the ewes and lambs at the pas- 
 tures came plaintively against the dawn. The 
 lowing of the kye arose from the sandy hol- 
 lows by the shore, or from the meadows on 
 the lower slopes. Through the whole island 
 went a rapid trickling sound, most sweet to 
 hear: the myriad voices of twittering birds, 
 from the dotterel in the seaweed to the larks 
 climbing the blue spirals of heaven. 
 
 This was the morning of her birth, and she 
 was clad in white. About her waist was a 
 girdle of the sacred rowan, the feathery green 
 leaves of it flickering dusky shadows upon her 
 
 193 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 robe as she moved. The light upon her yellow 
 hair was as when morning wakes, laughing 
 low with joy amid the tall corn. As she went 
 she sang, soft as the crooning of a dove. If 
 any had been there to hear he would have 
 been abashed, for the words were not in Erse, 
 and the eyes of the. beautiful girl were as 
 those of one in a vision. 
 
 When, at last, a brief while before sunrise, 
 she reached the summit of the Scuir, that is 
 so small a hill and yet seems so big in lona 
 where it is the sole peak, she found three 
 young Druids there, ready to tend the sacred 
 fire the moment the sun-rays should kindle it. 
 Each was clad in a white robe, with fillets of 
 oak leaves; and each had a golden armlet. 
 They made a quiet obeisance as she ap- 
 proached. One stepped forward, with a flush 
 in his face because of her beauty, that was as 
 a sea- wave for grace, and a flower for purity, 
 and sunlight for joy, and moonlight for peace, 
 and the wind for fragrance. 
 
 " Thou mayst draw near if thou wilt. Bride, 
 daughter of Duvach," he said, with something 
 of reverence as well as of grave courtesy in 
 his voice : " for the holy Cathal hath said that 
 the Breath of the Source of All is upon thee. 
 It is not lawful for women to be here at this 
 moment, but thou hast the law shining upon 
 194 
 
■St Bride of the Isles 
 
 thy face and in thine eyes. Hast thou come 
 to pray ? " 
 
 But at that moment a low cry came from 
 one of his companions. He turned, and re- 
 joined his fellows. Then all three sank upon 
 their knees, and with outstretched arms hailed 
 the rising of God. 
 
 As the sun rose, a solemn chant swelled 
 from their lips, ascending as incense through 
 the silent air. The glory of the new day came 
 soundlessly. Peace was in the blue heaven, 
 on the blue-green sea, on the green land. 
 There was no wind, even where the currents 
 of the deep moved in shadowy purple. The 
 sea itself was silent, making no more than a 
 sighing slumber-breath round the white sands 
 of the isle, or a hushed whisper where the 
 tide lifted the long weed that clung to the 
 rocks. 
 
 In what strange, mysterious way. Bride did 
 not see; but as the three Druids held their 
 hands before the sacred fire there was a faint 
 crackling, then three thin spirals of blue 
 smoke rose, and soon dusky red and wan yel- 
 low tongues of flame moved to and fro. The 
 sacrifice of God was made. Out of the im- 
 OKaSarable heaven He had come, in His gold- 
 en chariot. Now, in the wonder and mystery 
 of His love, He was re-born upon the world, 
 
 195 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 re-born a little fugitive flame upon a low hill 
 in a remote isle. Great must be His love 
 that He could die thus daily in a thousand 
 places : so great His love that He could give 
 up His own body to daily death, and suffer 
 the holy flame that was in the embers He il- 
 lumined to be lighted and revered and then 
 scattered to the four quarters of the world. 
 
 Bride could bear no longer the mystery of 
 this great love. It moved her to an ecstasy. 
 What tenderness of divine love that could 
 thus redeem the world daily: what long-suf- 
 fering for all the evil and cruelty done hourly 
 upon the weeping earth: what patience with 
 the bitterness of the blind fates ! The beauty 
 of the worship of Be'al was upon her as a 
 golden glory. Her heart leaped to a song 
 that could not be sung. The inexhaustible 
 love and pity in her soul chanted a hymn 
 that was heard of no Druid or mortal any- 
 where, but was known of the white spirits of 
 Life. 
 
 Bowing her head, so that the glad tears fell 
 warm as thunder-rain upon her hands, she 
 rose and moved away. 
 
 Not far from the summit of Dun-I is a hid- 
 den pool, to this day called the Fountain of 
 Youth. Hitherward she went, as was her 
 wont when upon the hill at the break of day, 
 196 
 
Si Bride of the Isles 
 
 at noon, or at sundown. Close by the huge 
 boulder, which hides it from above, she heard 
 a pitiful bleating, and soon the healing of her 
 eyes was upon a lamb which had become fixed 
 in a crevice in the rock. On a crag above it 
 stood a falcon, with savage cries, lusting for 
 warm blood. With swift step Bride drew 
 near. There was no hurt to the lambkin as 
 she lifted it in her arms. Soft and warm was 
 it there, as a young babe against the bosom 
 that mothers it. Then with quiet eyes she 
 looked at the falcon, who hooded his cruel 
 gaze. 
 
 " There is no wrong in thee, Seobhag," she 
 said gently; "but the law of blood shall not 
 prevail for ever. Let there be peace this 
 morn." 
 
 And when she had spoken this word, the 
 wild hawk of the hills flew down upon her 
 shoulder, nor did the heart qf the lambkin 
 beat the quicker, while with drowsy eyes it 
 nestled as against its dam. When she stood 
 by the pool she laid the little woolly creature 
 among the fern. Already the bleating of it 
 was sweet against the forlorn heart of a 
 ewe. The falcon rose, circled above her 
 head, and with swift flight sped through 
 the blue air. For a time Bride watched its 
 travelling shadow: when it was itself no 
 197 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 more than a speck in the golden haze, she 
 turned, and stooped above the Fountain of 
 Youth. 
 
 Beyond it stood then, though for ages past 
 there has been no sign of either, two quicken- 
 trees. Now they were gold-green in the 
 morning light, and the brown-green berries 
 that had not yet reddened were still small. 
 Fair to see was the flickering of the long fin- 
 ger-shadows upon the granite rocks and boul- 
 ders. 
 
 Often had Bride dreamed through their 
 foliage; but now she stared in amaze. She 
 had put her lips to the water, and had started 
 back because she had seen, beyond her own 
 image, that of a woman so beautiful that her 
 soul was troubled within her, and had cried 
 its inaudible cry, worshipping. When, trem- 
 bling, she had glanced again, there was none 
 beside herself. Yet what had happened? 
 For, as she stared at the quicken-trees, she 
 saw that their boughs had interlaced, and 
 that they now became a green arch. What was 
 stranger still was that the rowan-clusters hung 
 in blood-red masses, although the late heats 
 were yet a long way off. 
 
 Bride rose, her body quivering because of 
 the cool sweet draught of the Fountain of 
 Youth, so that almost she imagined the water 
 198 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 was for her that day what it could be once 
 in each year to every person who came to it, 
 a breath of new Hfe and the strength and 
 joy of youth. With slow steps she advanced 
 toward the arch of the quickens. Her heart 
 beat as she saw that the branches at the sum- 
 mit had formed themselves into the shape of 
 a wreath or crown, and that the scarlet berries 
 dropped therefrom a steady rain of red drops 
 as of blood. A sigh of joy breathed from her 
 lips when, deep among the red and green, she 
 saw the white merle of which the ancient poets 
 sang, and heard the exceeding wonder of its 
 rapture, which was now the pain of joy and 
 now the joy of pain. 
 
 The song of the mystic bird grew wilder 
 and more sweet as she drew near. For a 
 brief while she hesitated. Then, as a white 
 dove drifted slow before her under and 
 through the quicken-boughs, a dove white as 
 snow but radiant with sunfire, she moved for- 
 ward to follow with a dream-smile upon her 
 face and her eyes full of the sheen of wonder 
 and mystery, as shadowy waters flooded with 
 moonshine. 
 
 And this was the passing of Bride, who 
 was not seen again of Dtivach or her foster- 
 brothers for the space of a year and a day. 
 Only Cathal, the aged Arch-Druid, who died 
 199 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 seven days thence, had a vision of her, and 
 wept for joy. 
 
 Ill 
 
 When the strain of the white merle ceased, 
 though it had seemed to her scarce longer 
 than the vanishing song of the swallow on 
 the wing, Bride saw that the evening was 
 come. Through the violet glooms of dusk 
 she moved soundlessly, save for the crispling 
 of her feet among the hot sands. Far as she 
 could see to right or left there were hollows 
 and ridges of sand; where, here and there, 
 trees or shrubs grew out of the parched soil, 
 they were strange to her. She had heard the 
 Druids speak of the sunlands in a remote, 
 nigh unreachable East, where there were trees 
 called palms, trees in a perpetual sunflood yet 
 that pei-ished not, also tall dark cypresses, 
 black-green as the holy yew. These were the 
 trees she now saw. Did she dream, she won- 
 dered? Far down in her mind was some 
 memory, some floating vision only, mayhap, 
 of a small green isle far among the northern 
 seas. Voices, words, faces, familiar yet un- 
 familiar when she strove to bring them near, 
 haunted her. 
 
 The heat brooded upon the land. The sigh 
 of the parched earth was " Water, water." 
 200 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 As she moved onward through the gioam- 
 ing she descried white walls beyond her: 
 white walls and square white buildings, loom- 
 ing ghostly through the dark, yet home-sweet 
 as the bells of the cows on the sea-pastures, 
 because of the yellow lights every here and 
 there agleam. 
 
 A tall figure moved toward her, clad in 
 white, even as those figures which haunted 
 her unremembering memory. When he drew 
 near she gave a low cry of joy. The face of 
 her father was sweet to her. 
 
 "Where will be the pitcher, Brigit?" he 
 said, though the words were not the words 
 that were near her when she was alone. 
 Nevertheless she knew them, and the same 
 manner of words was upon her lips. 
 
 "My pitcher, father?" 
 
 "Ah, dreamer, when will you be taking 
 heed ! It is leaving your pitcher you will be, 
 and by the Well of the Camels, no doubt: 
 though little matter will that be, since there 
 is now no water, and the drought is heavy 
 upon the land. But . . . Brigit . . ." 
 
 "Yes, my father?" 
 
 " Sure now, it is not safe for you to be 
 on the desert at night. Wild beasts come 
 out of the darkness, and there are robbers 
 and wild men who lurk in the shadow. 
 
 20I 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 Brigit . . . Brigit ... is it dreaming you 
 are still?" 
 
 " I was dreaming of a cool green isle in 
 northern seas, where . . ." 
 
 " Where you have never been, foolish lass, 
 and are never like to be. Sure, if any way- 
 farer were to come upon us you would scarce 
 be able to tell him that yonder village is Beth- 
 lehem, and that I am Diighall Donn the inn- 
 keeper, Dtighall, the son of Hugh, son of Art, 
 son of Conn. Well, well, I am growing old, 
 and they say that the old see wonders. But I 
 do not wish to see this wonder, that my daugh- 
 ter Brigit forgets her own town, and the 
 good inn that is there, and the strong sweet 
 ale that is cool against the thirst of the weary. 
 Sure, if the day of my days is near it is near. 
 " Green be the place of my rest," I cry, even 
 as Oisin the son of Fionn of the hero-line of 
 Trenmor cried in his old age ; though if Oisin 
 and the Fiann were here not a green place 
 would they find now, for the land is burned 
 dry as the heather after a hill-fire. But now, 
 Brigit, let us go back into Bethlehem, for 
 I have that for the saying which must be said 
 at once." 
 
 In silence the twain walked through the 
 gloaming that was already the mirk, till they 
 came to the white gate, where the asses and 
 202 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 camels breathed wearily in the sultry dark- 
 ness, with dry tongues moving round parched 
 mouths. Thence they fared through narrow 
 streets, where a few white-robed Hebrews and 
 sons of the desert moved silently, or sat in 
 niches. Finally, they came to a great yard, 
 where more than a score of camels lay hud- 
 dled and growling in their sleep. Beyond 
 this was the inn, which was known to all the 
 patrons and friends of Dvighall Donn as the 
 " Rest and Be Thankful," though formerly as 
 the Rest of Clan-Ailpean, for was he not him- 
 self through his mother MacAlpine of the 
 Isles, as well as blood-kin to the great Cormac 
 the Ard-Righ, to whom his father, Hugh, was 
 feudatory prince? 
 
 As Diighall and Bride walked along the 
 stone flags of a passage leading to the inner 
 rooms, he stopped and drew her attention to 
 the water-tanks. 
 
 " Look you, my lass," he said sorrowfully, 
 "of these tanks and barrels nearly all are 
 empty. Soon there will be no water what- 
 ever, which is an evil thing though I whisper 
 it in peace, to the Stones be it said. Now, 
 already the folk who come here murmur. No 
 man can drink ale all day long, and those 
 wayfarers who want to wash the dust of their 
 journey from their feet and hands complain 
 203 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 bitterly. And . . . what is that you will be 
 saying? The kye? Ay, sure, there is the 
 kye; but the poor beasts are o'ercome with 
 the heat, and there's not a CailUach on the 
 hills who could win a drop more of milk from 
 them than we squeeze out of their udders 
 now, and that only with rune after rune till 
 all the throats of the milking lassies are as 
 dry as the salt grass by the sea. 
 
 " Well, what I am saying is this : 'tis 
 months now since any rain will be falling, and 
 every crock of water has been for the treasur- 
 ing as though it had been the honey of Moy- 
 Mell itself. The moon has been full twice 
 since we had the good water brought from 
 the mountain-springs; and now they are for 
 drying up too. The seers say that the 
 drought will last. If that is a true word, and 
 there be no rain till the winter comes, there 
 will be no inn in Bethlehem called ' The Rest 
 and Be Thankful ' ; for already there is not 
 enough good water to give peace even to your 
 little thirst, my birdeen. As for the ale, it is 
 poor drink now for man or maid, and as for 
 the camels and asses, poor beasts, they don't 
 understand the drinking of it." 
 
 " That is true, father ; but what is to be 
 done?" 
 
 " That's what I will be telling you, my lin- 
 204 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 tie. Now, I have been told by an oganach 
 out of Jerusalem, that lives in another place 
 close by the great town, that there is a quench- 
 less well of pure water, cold as the sea with 
 a north wind in it, on a hill there called the 
 Mount of Olives. Now, it is to that hill I 
 will be going. I am for taking all the camels 
 and all the horses, and all the asses, and will 
 lade each with a burthen of water-skins, and 
 come back home again with water enough to 
 last us till the drought breaks." 
 
 That was all that was said that night. But 
 at the dawn the inn was busy, and all the folk 
 in Bethlehem were up to see the going abroad 
 of Dughall Donn and Ronald- Mclan, his 
 shepherd, and some Macleans and ^accallums 
 that were then in that place. It was a fair 
 sight to see as they went forth through the 
 white gate that is called the Gate of Nazareth. 
 A piper walked first, playing the Gathering of 
 the Swords: then came Diighall Donn on a 
 camel, and Mclan on a horse, and the herds- 
 men on asses, and then there were the collies 
 barking for joy. 
 
 Before he had gone, Diighall took Bride out 
 of the hearing of the others. There was only 
 a little stagnant water, he said ; and as for the 
 ale, there was no more than a flagon left of 
 what was good. This flagon and the one jar 
 205 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 of pure water he left with her. On no ac- 
 count was she to give a drop to any wayfarer, 
 no matter how urgent he might be; for he, 
 Diighall, could not say when he would get 
 back, and he did not want to find a dead 
 daughter to greet him on his return, let alone 
 there being no maid of the inn to attend to 
 customers. Over and above that, he made 
 her take an oath that she would give no one, 
 no, not even a stranger, accommodation at the 
 inn, during his absence. 
 
 Afternoon and night came, and dawn and 
 night again, and yet again. It was on the af- 
 ternoon of the third day, when even the 
 crickets were dying of thirst, that Bride heard 
 a clanging at the door of the inn. 
 
 When she went to the door she saw a weary 
 grey-haired man, dusty and tired. By his side 
 was an ass with drooping head,' and on the 
 ass was a woman, young, and of a beauty that 
 was as the cool shadow of green leaves and 
 the cold ripple of running waters. But beau- 
 tiful as she was it was not this that made 
 Bride start: no, nor the heavy womb that 
 showed the woman was with child. For she 
 remembered her of a dream — it was a dream, 
 sure — when she had looked into a pool on a 
 mountain-side, and seen, beyond her own 
 image, just this fair and beautiful face, the 
 206 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 most beautiful that ever man saw since Naois, 
 of the Sons of Usnach, beheld Deirdre in the 
 forest — ay, and lovelier far even than she, the 
 peerless among women. 
 
 " Gu'm beannaicheadh Dia an tigh," said 
 the grey-haired man in a weary voice, " the 
 blessing of God on this house." 
 
 " Soraidh leat," replied Bride gently, " and 
 upon you likewise." 
 
 " Can you give us food and drink, and, 
 after that, good rest at this inn? Sure it is 
 grateful we will be. This is my wife Mary, 
 upon whom is a mystery : and I am Joseph, a 
 carpenter in Arimathea." 
 
 ." Welcome, and to you, too, Mary : and 
 peace. But there is neither food nor drink 
 here, and my father has bidden me give shel- 
 ter to none who comes here against his re- 
 turn." 
 
 The carpenter sighed, but the fair woman 
 on the ass turned her shadowy eyes upon 
 Bride, so that the maiden trembled with joy 
 and fear. 
 
 " And is it forgetting me you will be, Brig- 
 hde-Alona," she murmured, in the good sweet 
 Gaelic of the Isles ; and the voice of her was 
 like the rustle of leaves when a soft rain is 
 falling in a wood. 
 
 " Sure, I remember," Bride whispered, filled 
 
 207 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 with deep awe. Then without a word she 
 turned, and beckoned them to follow : which, 
 having left the ass by the doorway, they did. 
 
 " Here is all the ale that I have," she said, 
 as she gave the flagon to Joseph : " and here, 
 Mary, is all the water that there is. Little 
 there is, but it is you that are welcome 
 to it." 
 
 Then, when they had quenched their thirst 
 she brought out oatcakes and scones and 
 brown bread, and would fain have added milk, 
 but there was none. 
 
 " Go to the byre, Brigit," said Mary, " and 
 the first of the kye shall give milk." 
 
 So Bride went, but returned saying that the 
 creature would not give milk without a sian 
 or song, and that her throat was too dry to 
 sing. 
 
 " Say this sian/' said Mary. 
 
 Give up thy milk to her who calls 
 Acawss the low green hills of Heaven 
 And stream-cool meads of Paradise! 
 
 And sure enough, when Bride did this, the 
 milk came: and she soothed her thirst, and 
 went back to her guests rejoicing. It was 
 sorrow to her not to let them stay where they 
 were, but she could not, because of her oath. 
 
 The man Joseph was weary, and said he 
 208 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 was too tired to seek far that night, and asked 
 if there was no empty byre or stable where 
 he and Mary could sleep till morning. At 
 that, Bride was glad : for she knew there was 
 a clean cool stable close to the byre where 
 her kye were: and thereto she led them, and 
 returned with peace at her heart. 
 
 When she was in the inn again, she was 
 afraid once more: for lo, though Mary and 
 Joseph had drunken deep of the jar and the 
 flagon, each was now full as it had been. Of 
 the food, too, none seemed to have been 
 taken, though she had herself seen them break 
 the scones and the oatcakes. 
 
 It was dusk when her reverie was broken 
 by the sound of the pipes. Soon thereafter 
 Dughall Donn and his following rode up to 
 the inn, and all were glad because of the 
 cool water, and the grapes, and the green 
 fruits of the earth, that they brought with 
 them. 
 
 While her father was eating and drinking, 
 merry because of the ale that was still in the 
 flagon. Bride told him of the wayfarers. 
 Even as she spoke, he made a sign of silence, 
 because of a strange, unwonted sound that he 
 heard. 
 
 " What will that be meaning? " he asked, in 
 a low, hushed voice. 
 
 209 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 " Sure it is the rain at last, father. That 
 is a glad thing. The earth will be green 
 again. The beasts will not perish. Hark, I 
 hear the noise of it coming down from the 
 hills as well." But Dvjghall sat brooding. 
 
 " Ay," he said at last, " is it not foretold 
 that the Prince of the World is to be born in 
 this land, during a heavy falling of rain, after 
 a long drought? And who is for knowing 
 that Bethlehem is not the place, and that this 
 is not the night of the day of the days? 
 Brigit, Brigit, the woman Mary musf be 
 the mother of the Prince, who is to save all 
 mankind out of evil and pain and death ! " 
 
 And with that he rose and beckoned to her 
 to follow. They took a lantern, and made 
 their way through the drowsing camels and 
 asses and horses, and past the byres where 
 the kye lowed gently, and so to the stable. 
 
 " Sure that is a bright light they are hav- 
 ing," Dughall muttered uneasily; for, truly, 
 it was as though the shed were a shell filled 
 with the fires of sunrise. 
 
 Lightly they pushed back the door. When 
 they saw what they saw they fell upon 
 their knees. Mary sat with her heavenly 
 beauty upon her like sunshine on a dusk 
 land: in her lap, a Babe, laughing sweet and 
 low. 
 
 2IO 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 Never had they seen a Child so fair. He 
 was as though wrought of light. 
 
 " Who is it ? " murmured Dughall Donn, of 
 Joseph, who stood near, with rapt eyes. 
 
 " It is the Prince of Peace." 
 
 And with that Mary smiled, and the Child 
 slept. 
 
 " Brigit, my sister dear " — and, as she 
 whispered this, Mary held the little one to 
 Bride. 
 
 The fair girl took the Babe in her arms, 
 and covered it with her mantle. Therefore 
 it is that she is known to this day as Brigde- 
 nam-Brat, St Bride of the Mantle. 
 
 And all through that night, while the 
 mother slept. Bride nursed the Child with ten- 
 der hands and croodling crooning songs. And 
 this was one of the songs that she sang: 
 
 Ah, Baby Christ, so dear to me, 
 
 Sang Brigit Bride: 
 How sweet thou art, 
 My baby dear, 
 Heart of my heart! 
 
 Heavy her body was with thee, 
 Mary, beloved of One in Three, 
 
 Sang Brigit Bride — 
 Mary, who bore thee, little lad: 
 But light her heart was, light and glad 
 With God's love clad. 
 211 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 Sit on my knee, 
 
 Sang Brigit Bride: 
 
 Sit here 
 O Baby dear, 
 
 Close to my heart, my heart: 
 For I thy foster-mother am, 
 My helpless lamb! 
 O have no fear, 
 
 Sang good St Bride. 
 
 None, none. 
 No fear have I : 
 So let me cling 
 Close to thy side 
 Whilst thou dost sing, 
 O Brigit Bride! 
 
 My Lord, my Prince I sing: 
 My baby dear, my King! 
 Sang Brigit Bride. 
 
 It was on this night that, far away in lona, 
 the Arch-Druid Cathal died. But before the 
 breath went from him he had his vision of 
 joy, and his last words were: 
 
 Brighde 'dol air a glun 
 
 Righ nan. dul a shuidh 'na h-uchd! 
 
 (Brigit Bride upon her knee. 
 
 The King of the Elements asleep on her breast!) 
 
 At the coming of dawn Mary awoke, and 
 took the Child. She kissed Bride upon the 
 brows, and said this thing to her : " Brigit, 
 
 212 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 my sister dear, thou shalt be known unto all 
 time as Muime Chriosd." 
 
 IV 
 
 No sooner had Mary spoken than Bride fell 
 into a deep sleep. So profound was this 
 slumber that when Dtighall Donn came to see 
 to the wayfarers, and to tell them that the 
 milk and the porridge were ready for the 
 breaking of their fast, he could get no word 
 of her at all. She lay in the clean, yellow 
 straw beneath the manger, where Mary had 
 laid the Child. Dughall stared in amaze. 
 There was no sign of the mother, nor of the 
 Babe that was the Prince of Peace, nor of the 
 douce, quiet man that was Joseph the carpen- 
 ter. As for Bride, she not only slept so sound 
 that no word of his fell against her ears, but 
 she gave him awe. For as he looked at her 
 he saw that she was surrounded by a glowing 
 light. Something in his heart shaped itself 
 into a prayer, and he knelt beside her, sobbing 
 low. When he rose, it was in peace. May- 
 hap an angel had comforted his soul in its 
 dark shadowy haunt of his body. 
 
 It was late when Bride awoke, though she 
 did not open her eyes, but lay dreaming. For 
 long she thought she was in Tir-Tairngire, 
 213 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 the Land of Promise, or wandering on the 
 honey-sweet plain of Magh-Mell ; for the wind 
 of dreamland brought exquisite odours to her, 
 and in her ears were confused songs of great 
 
 joy- 
 All round her there was a music of re- 
 joicing. Voices, lovelier than any she had 
 ever heard, resounded; glad voices full of 
 winged rapture. There was a pleasant tumult 
 of harps and trumpets, and as from across 
 blue hills and over calm water came the sound 
 of the bagpipes. She listened with tears. 
 Loud and glad were the pipes at times, full 
 of triumph, as when the heroes of old 
 marched with Cuchullin or went down to bat- 
 tle with Fionn: again, they were low and 
 sweet, like humming of bees when the heather 
 is heavy with the honey-ooze. The songs and 
 wild music of the angels lulled her into peace : 
 for a time no thought of the woman Mary 
 came to her, nor of the Child that was her 
 foster-child. 
 
 Suddenly it was in her mind as though the 
 pipes played the chant that is called the 
 " Aoibhneas a Shlighe," " the joy of his way," 
 a march played before a bridegroom going to 
 his bride. 
 
 Out of this glad music came a solitary voice, 
 like a child singing on the hillside. 
 214 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 " The way of wonder shall be thine, O 
 Brighde-Naomha ! " 
 
 This was what the child-voice sang. Then 
 it was as though all the harpers of the west 
 were playing " air clarsach " : and the song of 
 a multitude of voices was this : 
 
 " Blessed art thou, O Brigit, who nursed 
 the King of the Elements in thy bosom : bless- 
 ed thou, the Virgin Sister of the Virgin 
 Mother, for unto all time thou shalt be called 
 Muime Chriosd, the Foster-Mother of Jesus 
 that is the Christ." 
 
 With that, Bride remembered all, and 
 opened her eyes. Nought strange was there 
 to see, save that she lay in the stable. Then 
 as she noted that the gloaming had come, she 
 wondered at the soft light that prevailed in the 
 shed, though no lamp or candle burned there. 
 In her ears, too, still lingered a wild and 
 beautiful music. 
 
 It was strange. Was it all a dream, she 
 pondered. But even as she thought thus, she 
 saw half of her mantle lying upon the straw 
 in the manger. Much she marvelled at this, 
 but when she took the garment in her hand 
 she wondered more. For though it was no 
 more than a half of the poor mantle where- 
 with she had wrapped the Babe, it was all 
 wrought with mystic gold lines and with pre- 
 
 215 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 cious stones more glorious than ever Arch- 
 Druid or Island Prince had seen. The marvel 
 gave her awe at last, when, as she placed the 
 garment upon her shoulder, it covered her 
 completely. 
 
 She knew now that she had not dreamed, 
 and that a miracle was done. So with glad- 
 ness she went out of the stable, and into the 
 inn. Dtighall Donn was amazed when he saw 
 her, and then rejoiced exceedingly. 
 
 " Why are you so merry, my father," she 
 asked. 
 
 " Sure it is glad that I am. For now the 
 folk will be laughing the wrong way. This 
 very morning I was so pleased with the pleas- 
 ure, that while the pot was boiling on the 
 peats I went out and told every one I met that 
 the Prince of Peace was come, and had just 
 been born in the stable behind the ' Rest and 
 Be Thankful.' Well, that saying was just like 
 a weasel among the rabbits, only it was an old 
 toothless weasel: for all Bethlehem mocked 
 me, some with jeers, some with hard words, 
 and some with threats. Sure, I cursed them 
 right and left. No, not for all my cursing — 
 and by the blood of my fathers, I spared no 
 man among them, wishing them sword and 
 fire, the black plague and the grey death — 
 would they believe. So back it was that I 
 216 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 came, and going through the inn I am come to 
 the stable. ' Sorrow is on me like a grey mist,' 
 said Oisin, mourning for Oscur, and sure it 
 was a grey mist that was on me when not a 
 sign of man, woman, or child was to be seen, 
 and you so sound asleep that a March gale in 
 the Moyle wouldn't have roused you. Well, 
 I went back, and told this thing, and all the 
 people in Bethlehem mocked at me. And the 
 Elders of the People came at last, and put a 
 fine upon me : and condemned me to pay three 
 barrels of good ale, and a sack of meal, and 
 three thin chains of gold, each three yards 
 long : and this for causing a false rumour, and 
 still more for making a laughing-stock of the 
 good folk of Bethlehem. There was a man 
 called Murdoch-Dhu, who is the chief smith in 
 Nazareth, and it's him I'm thinking will have 
 laughed the Elders into doing this hard thing." 
 
 It was then that Bride was aware of a mar- 
 vel upon her, for she blew an incantation off 
 the palm of her hand, and by that frith she 
 knew where the dues were to be found. 
 
 " By what I see in the air that is blown off 
 the palm of my hand, father, I bid you go into 
 the cellar of the inn. There you will find 
 three barrels full of good ale, and beside them 
 a sack of meal, and the sack is tied with three 
 chains of gold, each three yards long." 
 217 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 But while Dughall Donn went away rejoic- 
 ing, and found that which Bride had foretold, 
 she pfissed out into the street. None saw her 
 in the gloaming, or as she went toward the 
 Gate of the East. When she passed by the 
 Lazar-house she took her mantle off her back 
 and laid it in the place of offerings. All the 
 jewels and fine gold passed into invisible birds 
 with healing wings : and these birds flew about 
 the heads of the sick all night, so that at dawn 
 every one arose, with no ill upon him, and 
 went on his way rejoicing. As each went out 
 of Bethlehem that morning of the mornings 
 he found a clean white robe and new sandals 
 at the first mile ; and, at the second, food and 
 cool water ; and, at the third, a gold piece and 
 a staff. 
 
 The guard that was at the Eastern Gate did 
 not hail Bride. All the gaze of him was upon 
 a company of strange men, shepherd-kings, 
 who said they had come out of the East led 
 by a star. They carried rare gifts with them 
 when they first came to Bethlehem: but no 
 man knew whence they came, what they 
 wanted, or whither they went. 
 
 For a time Bride walked along the road that 
 
 leads to Nazareth. There was fear in her 
 
 gentle heart when she heard the howling of 
 
 hyenas down in the dark hollows, and she w^is 
 
 2i8 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 glad when the moon came out and shone 
 quietly upon her. 
 
 In the moonlight she saw that there were 
 steps in the dew before her. She could see the 
 black print of feet in the silver sheen on the 
 wet grass, for it was on a grassy hill that she 
 now walked, though a day ago every leaf and 
 sheath there had lain brown and withered. 
 The footprints she followed were those of a 
 woman and of a child. 
 
 All night through she tracked those wan- 
 dering feet in the dew. They were always 
 fresh before her, and led her away from the 
 villages, and also where no wild beasts 
 prowled through the gloom. There was no 
 weariness upon her, though often she won- 
 dered when she should see the fair wondrous 
 face she sought. Behind her also were foot- 
 steps in the dew, though she knew nothing of 
 them. They were those of the Following 
 Love. And this was the Lorgadh-Brighde of 
 which men speak to this day : the Quest of the 
 holy St Bride. 
 
 All night she walked; now upon the high 
 slopes of a hill. Never once did she have a 
 glimpse of any figure in the moonlight, though 
 the steps in the dew before her were newly 
 made, and none lay in the glisten a short way 
 ahead. 
 
 219 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 Suddenly she stopped. There were no more 
 footprints. Eagerly she looked before her. 
 On a hill beyond the valley beneath her she 
 saw the gleaming of yellow stars. These were 
 the lights of a city. " Behold, it is Jerusalem," 
 she murmured, awe-struck, for she had never 
 seen the great town. 
 
 Sweet was the breath of the wind that 
 stirred among the olives on the mount where 
 she stood. It had the smell of heather, and 
 she could hear the rustle of it among the 
 bracken on a hill close by. 
 
 " Truly, this must be the Mount of Olives," 
 she whispered, " The Mount of which I have 
 heard my father speak, and that must be the 
 hill called Calvary." 
 
 But even as she gazed marvelling, she 
 sighed with ' new wonder ; for now she saw 
 that the yellow stars were as the twinkling of 
 the fires of the sun along the crest of a hill 
 that is set in the east. There was a living joy 
 in the dawntide. In her ears was a sweet 
 sound of the bleating of ewes and lambs. 
 From the hollows in the shadows came the 
 swift singing rush of the flowing tide. Faint 
 cries of the herring gulls filled the air ; from 
 the weedy boulders by the sea the skuas called 
 wailingly. 
 
 Bewildered, she stood intent. If only she 
 220 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 could see the footprmts again, she thought. 
 Whither should she turn, whither go? At 
 her feet was a yellow flower. She stooped and 
 plucked it. 
 
 " Tell me, O little sun-flower, which way 
 shall I be going ? " and as she spoke a small 
 golden bee flew up from the heart of it, and 
 up the hill to the left of her. So it is that 
 from that day the dandelion is called am- 
 Bearnan-Brighde. 
 
 Still she hesitated. Then a sea-bird flew by 
 her with a loud whistling cry. 
 
 " Tell me, O eisiretm," she called, " which 
 way shall I be going? " 
 
 And at this the eisireiin swerved in its 
 flight, and followed the golden bee, crying, 
 "This way, O Bride, Bride, Bride, Bride, 
 Bri-i-i-ide!" 
 
 So it is that from that day the oyster- 
 catcher has been called the Gille-Brighde, the 
 Servant of St Brigit. 
 
 Then it Vas that Bride said this sian : 
 
 Dia romham; 
 Mhoire am dheaghuidh; 
 'S am Mac a thug Righ nan Dull 
 Mis' air do shlios, a Dhia, 
 Is Dia ma'm luirg. 
 Mac' 'oire, a's Righ nan Dul, 
 A shoillseachadh gach ni dheth so, 
 Le a ghras, mu'm choirmeamh. 
 221 
 
5"^ Bride of the Isles 
 
 God before me ; 
 
 The Virgin Maty after me ; 
 
 And the Son sent by the King of the Elements. 
 
 I am to windward of thee, O God! 
 
 And God on my footsteps. 
 
 May th^ Son of Mary, King of the Elements, 
 
 Reveal the meaning of each of these things 
 
 Before ttie, through His grace. 
 
 And as she ended she saw before her two 
 quicken-trees, of which the bou^s were inter- 
 wrought so that they made an arch. Deep 
 in the greeh foliage was a white merle that 
 sang a wondrous sweet song. Above it the 
 small branches were twisted into the shape of 
 a wreath or crown, lovely with the sunlit 
 rowan-clusters, from whose scarlet berries red 
 dropis As of blood fell. 
 
 Before her flew a white dove, white as milk 
 become white fire. She followed, and passed 
 beneath the quicken arch. 
 
 Fading sweet was the song of the merle, 
 
 •that was then no more; sweet the green 
 
 shadow of the rowans, that now grew straight 
 
 as young pines. Sweet the far song in the 
 
 sky, where the white dove flew against the sun. 
 
 Bride looked, and her eyes were glad. 
 Homesweet the blooming of thie heather on the 
 slopes of Dun-I. lona lay greeh and gold, 
 isled in her blue waters. From the shelling 
 of Duvach, her father, rose a thin column of 
 
 222 
 
St Bride of the Isles 
 
 pale blue smoke. The collies, seeing her, 
 barked loudly with welcoming joy. 
 
 The bleating of the sheep, the lowing of 
 the kye, the breath of the salt wind from the 
 open sea beyond, the song of the flowing tide 
 in^the Sound beneath: dear the homing. 
 
 With a starry light in her eyes she moved 
 down through the heather and among the 
 green bracken : white, wonderful, fair to see. 
 
 223 
 
THE FISHER OF MEN 
 
' But now I have grown nothing, being all. 
 And the whole world weighs down upon my heart." 
 (Fergus and the Druid.) 
 
The Fisher of Men 
 
 When old Sheen nic Leoid came back to 
 the croft, after she had been to the burn at the 
 edge of the green airidh, where she had 
 washed the claar that was for the potatoes at 
 the peeHng, she sat down before the peats. 
 
 She was white with years. The mountain 
 wind was chill, too, for all that the sun had 
 shone throughout the midsummer day. It was 
 well to sit before the peat-fire. 
 
 The croft was on the slope of a mountain, 
 and had the south upon it. North, south, east, 
 and west, other great slopes reached upward 
 like hollow green waves frozen into silence 
 by the very wind that curved them so, and 
 freaked their crests into peaks and jagged pin- 
 nacles. Stillness was in that place for ever 
 and ever. What though the Gorromalt Water 
 foamed down Ben Nair, where the croft was, 
 and made a hoarse voice for aye surrendering 
 sound to silence? What though at times the 
 stones fell from the ridges of Ben Chaisteal 
 and Maolmor, and clattered down the barren 
 declivities till they were slung in the tangled 
 meshes of whin and juniper? What though 
 227 
 
The Fisher of Men 
 
 on stormy dawns the eagle screamed as he 
 fought against the wind that graved a thin line 
 upon the aged front of Ben Mulad, where his 
 eyrie was : or that the kestrel cried above the 
 rabbit-burrows in the strath : or that the hill- 
 fox barked, or that the curlew wailed, or that 
 the scattered sheep made an endless mournful 
 crying? What were these but the ministers 
 of silence? 
 
 There was no blue smoke in the strath ex- 
 cept from the one turf cot. In the hidden val- 
 ley beyond Ben Nair there was a hamlet, and 
 nigh upon three-score folk lived there; but 
 that was over three miles away. Sheen Mac- 
 leod was alone in that solitary place, save for 
 her son Alasdair Mor Og. " Young, Alas- 
 dair " he was still, though the grey feet of fifty 
 years had marked his hair. Alasdair Og he 
 was while Alasdair Ruadh mac Chalum mhic 
 Leoid, that was his father, lived. But when 
 Alasdair Ruadh changed, and Sheen was left 
 a mourning woman, he that was their son was 
 Alasdair 6g still. 
 
 She had sore weariness that day. For all 
 that, it was not the weight of the burden that 
 made her go in and out of the afternoon sun, 
 and sit by the red glow of the peats, brooding 
 deep. 
 
 When, nigh upon an hour later, Alasdair 
 228 
 
The Fisher of Men 
 
 came up the slope, and led the kye to the byre, 
 she did not hear him: nor had she sight of 
 him, when his shadow flickered in before him 
 and lay along the floor. 
 
 " Poor old woman," he said to himself, 
 bending his head because of the big height that 
 was his, and he there so heavy and strong, 
 and tender, too, for all the tangled black beard 
 and the wild hill-eyes that looked out under 
 bristling grey-black eyebrows. 
 
 " Poor old woman, and she with the tired 
 heart that she has. Ay, ay, for sure the weeks 
 lap up her shadow, as the sayin' is. She will 
 be thinkin' of him that is gone. Ay, or maybe 
 the old thoughts of her are goin' back on their 
 own steps, down this glen an' over that hill 
 an' away beyont that strath, an' this corrie an' 
 that moor. Well, well, it is a good love, that 
 of the mother. Sure a bitter pain it will be to 
 me when there's no old grey hair there to 
 stroke. It's quiet here, terrible quiet, God 
 knows, to Himself be the blessin' for this an' 
 for that ; but when she has the white sleep at 
 last, then it'll be a sore day for me, an' one 
 that I will not be able to bear to hear the 
 sheep callin', callin', callin' through the rain 
 on the hills here, and Gorromalt Water an' 
 no other voice to be with me on that day of 
 the days." 
 
 229 
 
The Fisher of Men 
 
 She heard a faint sigh, and stirred a mo- 
 ment, but did not look round. 
 
 " Muim'-a-ghraidh, is it tired you are, an' 
 this so fine a time, too ? " 
 
 With a quick gesture, the old woman 
 glanced at him. 
 
 " Ah, child, is that you indeed ? Well, I am 
 glad of that, for I have the trouble again." 
 
 " What trouble, Muim' ghaolaiche? " 
 
 But the old woman did not answer. Wear- 
 ily she turned her face to the peat-glow again. 
 
 Alasdair seated himself on the big wooden 
 chair to her right. For a time he stayed silent 
 thus, staring into the red heart of the peats. 
 What was the gloom upon the old heart that 
 he loved? What trouble was it? 
 
 At last he rose and put meal and water into 
 the iron pot, and stirred the porridge while it 
 seethed and sputtered. Then he poured boil- 
 ing water upon the tea in the brown jenny, 
 and put the new bread and the sweet-milk 
 scones on the rude deal board that was the 
 table. 
 
 " Come, dear tired old heart," he said, " and 
 let us give thanks to the Being." 
 
 " Blessings and thanks," she said, and 
 turned round. 
 
 Alasdair poured out the porridge, and 
 watched the steam rise. Then he sat down, 
 230 
 
The Fisher of Men 
 
 with a knife in one hand and the brown- white 
 loaf in the other. 
 
 " O God," he said, in the low voice he had 
 in the kirk when the Bread and Wine were 
 given — " O God, be giving us now thy bless- 
 ing, and have the thanks. And give us peace." 
 
 Peace there was in the sorrowful old eyes 
 of the mother. The two ate in silence. The 
 big clock that was by the bed tick-tacked, tick- 
 tacked. A faint sputtering came out of a peat 
 that had bog-gas in it. Shadows moved in the 
 silence, and met and whispered and moved 
 into deep, warm darkness. There was peace. 
 
 There was still a red flush above the hills 
 in the west when the mother and son sat in 
 the ingle again. 
 
 " What is it, mother-my-heart ? " Alasdair 
 asked at last, putting his great red hand upon 
 the woman's knee. 
 
 She looked at him for a moment. When 
 she spoke she turned away her gaze again. 
 
 " Foxes have holes, and the fowls of the air 
 have their places of rest, but the Son of Man 
 hath not where to lay his head." 
 
 " And what then, dear ? Sure, it is the deep 
 meaning you have in that grey old head that 
 I'm loving so." 
 
 " A, lennav-aghray, there is meaning to my 
 words. It is old I am, and the hour of my 
 231 
 
The Fisher of Men 
 
 hours is near. I heard a voice outside the 
 window last night. It is a voice I will not be 
 hearing, no, not for seventy years. It was 
 cradle-sweet, it was." 
 
 She paused, and there was silence for a 
 time. 
 
 " Well, dear," she began again, wearily, and 
 in a low, weak voice, " it is more tired and 
 more tired I am every day now this last 
 month. Two Sabbaths ago I woke, and there 
 were bells in the air: and you are for know- 
 ing well, Alasdair, that no kirk-bells ever 
 rang in Strath-Nair. At edge o' dark on 
 Friday, and by the same token the thirteenth 
 day it was, I fell asleep and dreamed the 
 mods were on my breast, and that the roots 
 of the white daisies were in the hollows where 
 the eyes were that loved you, Alasdair, my 
 son. 
 
 The man looked at her with troubled gaze. 
 No words would come. Of what avail to 
 speak when there is nothing to be said ? God 
 sends the gloom upon the cloud, and there is 
 rain : God sends the gloom upon the hill, and 
 there is mist: God sends the gloom upon the 
 sun, and there is winter. It is God, too, sends 
 the gloom upon the soul, and there is change. 
 The swallow knows when to lift up her wing 
 overagainst the shadow that creeps out of the 
 .232 
 
The Fisher of Men 
 
 north: the wild swan knows when the smell 
 of snow is behind the sun : the salmon, lone in 
 the brown pool among the hills, hears the deep 
 sea, and his tongue pants for salt, and his fins 
 quiver, and he knows that his time is come, 
 and that the sea calls. The doe knows when 
 the fawn hath not yet quaked in her belly : is 
 not the violet more deep in the shadowy dewy 
 eyes ? The woman knows when the babe hath 
 not yet stirred a little hand: is not the wild- 
 rose on her cheek more often seen, and are 
 not the shy tears moist on quiet hands in the 
 dusk? How, then, shall the soul not know 
 when the change is nigh at last? Is it a less 
 thing than a reed, which sees the yellow birch- 
 gold adrift on the lake, and the gown of the 
 heather grow russet when the purple has 
 passed into the sky, and the white bog-down 
 wave grey and tattered where the loneroid 
 grows dark and pungent — which sees, and 
 knows that the breath of the Death- Weaver 
 at the Pole is fast faring along the frozen nor- 
 land peaks. It is more than a reed, it is more 
 than a wild doe on the hills, it is more than a 
 swallow lifting her wing against the coming 
 of the shadow, it is more than a swan drunken 
 with the savour of the blue wine of the waves 
 when the green Arctic lawns are white and 
 still. It is more than these, which has the 
 
 233 
 
The Pisher of Men 
 
 Son of God for brother, and is clothed 
 with light. God doth not extinguish at the 
 dark tomb what he hath litten in the dark 
 womb. 
 
 Who shall say that the soul knows not when 
 the bird is aweary of the nest, and the nest is 
 aweary of the wind? Who shall say that all 
 portents are vain imaginings? A whirling 
 straw upon the road is but a whirling straw: 
 yet the wind is upon the cheek almost ere it is 
 gone. 
 
 It was not for Alasdair Og, then, to put a 
 word upon the saying of the woman that was 
 his mother, and was age-white, and could see 
 with the seeing of old wise eyes. 
 
 So all that was upon his lips was a sigh, 
 and the poor prayer that is only a breath out 
 of the heart. 
 
 " You will be telling me, grey sweetheart," 
 he said lovingly, at last — " you will be telling 
 me what was behind the word that you said: 
 that about the foxes that have holes for the 
 hiding, poor beasts, and the birdeens wi' their 
 nests, though the Son o' Man hath not where 
 to lay his head ? " 
 
 " Ay, Alasdair, my son that I bore long S3me 
 an' that I'm leaving soon, I will be for telling 
 you that thing, an' now too, for I am knowing 
 what is in the dark this night o' the nights." 
 
 234 
 
The Fisher of Men 
 
 Old Sheen put her head back wearily on the 
 chair, and let her hands lie, long and white, 
 palm-downward upon her knees. The peat- 
 glow warmed the dull grey that lurked under 
 her closed eyes and about her mouth, and in 
 the furrowed cheeks. Alasdair moved nearer 
 and took her right hand in his, where it lay 
 like a tired sheep between two scarped rocks. 
 Gently he smoothed her hand, and wondered 
 why so frail and slight a creature as this small 
 old wizened woman could have mothered a 
 great swarthy man like himself — he a man 
 now, with his twoscore and ten years, and yet 
 but a boy there at the dear side of her. 
 
 " It was this way, Alasdair-mochree," she 
 went on in her low thin voice — like a wind- 
 worn leaf, the man that was her son thought. 
 " It was this way. I went down to the burn 
 to wash the claar, and when I was there I saw 
 a wounded fawn in the bracken. The big sad 
 eyes of it were like those of Maisie, poor lass, 
 when she had the birthing that was her going- 
 call. I went through the bracken, and down 
 by the Gorromalt, and into the Glen of The 
 Willows. 
 
 " And when I was there, and standing by 
 the running water, I saw a man by the stream- 
 side. He was tall, but spare and weary : and 
 the clothes upon him were poor and worn. 
 
 235 
 
The Fisher of Men 
 
 He had sorrow. When he lifted his head at 
 me, I saw the tears. Dark, wonderful, sweet 
 eyes they were. His face was pale. It was 
 not the face of a man of the hills. There 
 was no red in it, and the eyes looked in upon 
 themselves. He was a fair man, with the 
 white hands that a woman has, a woman like 
 the Bantighearna of Glenchaisteal over yon- 
 der. His voice, too, was a voice like that : in 
 the softness, and the sweet, quiet sorrow, I 
 am meaning. , 
 
 " The word that I gave him was in the 
 English: for I thought he was like a man out 
 of Sasunn, or of the southlands somewhere. 
 But he answered me in the Gaelic : sweet, good 
 Gaelic like that of the Bioball over there, to 
 Himself be the praise. 
 
 " ' And is it the way down the Strath you 
 are seeking,' I asked : ' and will you not be 
 coming up to the house yonder, poor cot 
 though it is, and have a sup of milk, and a 
 rest if it's weary you are ? ' 
 
 " ' You are having my thanks for that,' he 
 said, ' and it is as though I had both the good 
 rest and the cool sweet drink. But I am fol- 
 lowing the flowing water here.' 
 
 " ' Is it for the fishing? ' I asked. 
 
 " ' I am a Fisher,' he said, and the voice of 
 him was low and sad. 
 
 236 
 
The Fisher of Men 
 
 " He had no hat on his head, and the light 
 that streamed through a rowan-tree was in his 
 long hair. He had the pity of the poor in 
 his sorrowful grey eyes. 
 
 " ' And will you not sleep with us ? ' I asked 
 again : ' that is, if you have no place to go to, 
 and are a stranger in this country, as I am 
 thinking you are ; for I have never had sight 
 of you in the home-straths before.' 
 
 " ' I am a stranger,' he said, ' and I have no 
 home, and my father's house is a great way 
 off.' 
 
 " ' Do not tell me, poor man,' I said gently, 
 for fear of the pain, ' do not tell me if you 
 would fain not ; but it is glad I will be if you 
 will give me the name you have.' 
 
 " ' My name is Mac-an-t'-Saoir,' he an- 
 swered with the quiet deep gaze that was his. 
 And with that he bowed his head, and went 
 on his way, brooding deep. 
 
 " Well, it was with a heavy heart I turned, 
 and went back through the bracken. A heavy 
 heart, for sure, and yet, oh peace too, cool 
 dews of peace. And the fawn was there: 
 healed, Alasdair, healed, and whinny-bleating 
 for its doe, that stood on a rock wi' lifted hoof 
 an' stared down the glen to where the Fisher 
 was. 
 
 "When I was at the burnside, a woman 
 
 237 
 
The Fisher of Men 
 
 came down the brae. She was fair to see, but 
 the tears were upon her. 
 
 " ' Oh,' she cried, ' have you seen a man 
 going this way ? ' 
 
 " ' Ay, for sure,' I answered, ' but what man 
 would he be ? ' 
 
 " ' He is called Mac-an-t'-Saoir.' 
 
 " ' Well, there are many men that are called 
 Son of the Carpenter. What will his own 
 name be ? ' 
 
 " ' losa,' she said. 
 
 " And when I looked at her, she was weav- 
 ing the wavy branches of a thorn near by, and 
 sobbing low, and it was like a wreath or crown 
 that she made. 
 
 " ' And who will you be, poor woman ? ' I 
 asked. 
 
 " ' O my Son, my Son,' she said, and put 
 her apron over her head and went down into 
 the Glen of the Willows, she weeping sore, 
 too, at that, poor woman. 
 
 " So now, Alasdair, my son, tell me what 
 thought you have about this thing that I have 
 told you. For I know well whom I met on 
 the brae there, and who the Fisher was. And 
 when I was at the peats here once more I sat 
 down, and my mind sank into myself. And it 
 is knowing the knowledge I am." 
 
 "Well, well, dear, it is sore tired you are. 
 238 
 
The Fisher of Men 
 
 Have rest now. But sure there are many men 
 called Macintyre." 
 
 " Ay, an' what Gael that you know will be 
 for giving you his surname like that." 
 
 Alasdair had no word for that. He rose to 
 put some more peats on the fire. When he 
 had done this, he gave a cry. 
 
 The whiteness that was on the mother's 
 hair was now in the face. There was no 
 blood there, or in the drawn lips. The light 
 in the old, dim eyes was like water after 
 frost. 
 
 He took her hand in his. Clay-cold it was. 
 He let it go, and it fell straight by the chair, 
 stiff as the cromak he carried when he was 
 with the sheep. 
 
 " Oh my God and my God," he whispered, 
 white with the awe, and the bitter cruel pain. 
 Then it was that he heard a knocking at the 
 door. 
 " Who is there ? " he cried hoarsely. 
 " Open, and let me in." It was a low, sweet 
 voice, but was that grey hour the time for a 
 welcome ? 
 
 " Go, but go in peace, whoever you are. 
 There is death here." 
 " Open, and let me in." 
 At that, Alasdair, shaking like a reed in the 
 wind, unclasped the latch. A tall fair man, 
 
 239 
 
The Fisher of Men 
 
 ill-clad and weary, pale, too, and with dream- 
 ing eyes, came in. 
 
 " Beannachd Dhe an Tigh," he said, 
 " God's blessing on this house, and on all 
 here." 
 
 " The same upon yourself,"" Alasdair said, 
 with the weary pain in his voice. " And who 
 will you be ? and forgive the asking." 
 
 " I am called Mac-an-t'-Saoir, and losa is 
 the name I bear — ^Jesus, the Son of the Car- 
 penter." 
 
 " It is a good name. And is it good you are 
 seeking this night ? " 
 
 " I am a Fisher." 
 
 "Well, that's here an' that's there. But 
 will you go to the Strath over the hill, and 
 tell the good man that is there, the minister, 
 Lachlan MacLachlan, that old Sheen nic 
 Leoid, wife of Alasdair Ruadh, is dead." 
 
 " I know that, Alasdair 6g." 
 
 "And how will you be knowing that, and 
 my name too, you that are called Macintyre ? " 
 
 " I met the white soul of Sheen as it went 
 down by the Glen of the Willows a brief while 
 ago. She was singing a glad song, she was. 
 She had green youth in her eyes. And a man 
 was holding her by the hand. It was Alasdair 
 Ruadh." 
 
 At that Alasdair fell on his knees. When 
 240 
 
The Fisher of Men 
 
 he looked up there was no one there. Through 
 the darkness outside the door, he saw a star 
 shining white, and leaping like a pulse. 
 
 It was three days after that day of shadow 
 that Sheen Macleod was put under the green 
 turf. 
 
 On each night, Alasdair Og walked in the 
 Glen of the Willows, and there he saw a man 
 fishing, though ever afar off. Stooping he was, 
 always, and like a shadow at times. But he 
 was the man that was called losa Mac-an-t'- 
 Saoir — ^Jesus, the Son of the Carpenter. 
 
 And on the night of the earthing he saw the 
 Fisher close by. 
 
 " Lord God," he said, with the hush on his 
 voice, and deep awe in his wondering eyes: 
 "Lord God!" 
 
 And the Man looked at him. 
 
 " Night and day, Alasdair MacAlasdair," he 
 said, " night and day I fish in the waters of 
 the world. And these waters are the waters 
 of grief, and the waters of sorrow, and the 
 waters of despair. And it is the souls of the 
 living I fish for. And lo, I say this thing unto 
 you, for you shall not see me again: Go in 
 peace. Go in peace, good soul of a poor man, 
 for thou hast seen the Fisher of Men." 
 
 241 
 
THE LAST SUPPER 
 
"... and there shall be 
 beautiful things made new, 
 
 (Hyperion.) 
 
 244 
 
The Last Supper 
 
 The last time that the Fisher of Men was 
 seen in Strath-Nair was not of Alasdair Mac- 
 leod but of the little child, Art Macarthur, him 
 that was born of the woman Mary Gilchrist, 
 that had known the sorrow of women. 
 
 He was a little child, indeed, when, because 
 of his loneliness and having lost his way, he 
 lay sobbing among the bracken by the stream- 
 side in the Shadowy Glen. 
 
 When he was a man, and had reached the 
 gloaming of his years, he was loved of men 
 and women, for his songs are many and sweet, 
 and his heart was true, and he was a good 
 man and had no evil against any one. 
 
 It is he who saw the Fisher of Men when 
 he was but a little lad: and some say that it 
 was on the eve of the day that Alasdair Og 
 died, though of this I know nothing. And 
 what he saw, and what he heard, was a moon- 
 beam that fell into the dark sea of his mind, 
 and sank therein, and filled it with light for 
 all the days of his life. A moonlit mind was 
 that of Art MacarthUr. He had music always 
 in his mind. I asked him once why he heard 
 
 245 
 
The Last Supper 
 
 what so few heard, but he smiled and said 
 only : " When the heart is full of love, cool 
 dews of peace rise from it and fall upon the 
 mind: and that is when the song of Joy is 
 heard." 
 
 It must have been because of this shining 
 of his soul that some who loved him thought 
 of him as one illumined. His mind was a 
 shell that held the haunting echo of the deep 
 seas: and to know him was to catch a breath 
 of the infinite ocean of wonder and mystery 
 and beauty of which he was the quiet oracle. 
 He has peace now, where he lies under the 
 heather upon a hillside far away: but the 
 Fisher of Men will send him hitherward 
 again, to put a light upon the wave and a 
 gleam upon the brown earth. 
 
 I will try to tell this sgeul much as Art Mac- 
 arthur told it to me, though, as he said him- 
 self, not all of it was what he dreamed as a 
 child, for there had come to it in the drift of 
 years new awakenings of memory, and new 
 interpretations, as colour and fragrance come 
 to a flower. 
 
 • • • • ■ 
 
 Often and often it is to me all as a dream 
 
 that comes unawares. Often and often have 
 
 I striven to see into the green glens of the 
 
 mind whence it comes, and whither, in a flash, 
 
 246 
 
The Last Supper 
 
 in a rainbow gleam, it vanishes. When I seek 
 to draw close to it, to know whether it is a 
 winged glory out of the soul, or was indeed a 
 thing that happened to me in my tender years, 
 lo — it is a dawn drowned in day, a star lost 
 in the sun, the falling of dew. 
 
 But I will not be forgetting : no, never : no, 
 not till the silence of the grass is over my 
 eyes : I will not be forgetting that gloaming. 
 
 Bitter tears are those that children have. 
 All that we say with vain words is said by 
 them in this welling spray of pain. I had the 
 sorrow that day. Strange hostilities lurked in 
 the familiar bracken. The soughing of the 
 wind among the trees, the wash of the brown 
 water by my side, that had been companion- 
 able, were voices of awe. The quiet light 
 upon the grass flamed. 
 
 The fierce people that lurked in shadow had 
 eyes for my helplessness. When the dark 
 came I thought I should be dead, devoured 
 of I knew not what wild creature. Would 
 mother never come, never come with saving 
 arms, with eyes like soft candles of home ? 
 
 Then my sobs grew still, for I heard a step. 
 With dread upon me, poor wee lad that I was, 
 I looked to see who came out of the wilder- 
 ness. It was a man, tall and thin and worn, 
 with long hair hanging adown his face. Pale 
 247 
 
The Last Supper 
 
 he was as a moonlit cot on the dark moor, and 
 his voice was low and sweet. When I saw his 
 eyes I had no fear upon me at all. I saw the 
 mother-look in the grey shadow of them.- 
 
 "And is that you, Art lennavan-mo ? " he 
 said, as he stooped and lifted me. 
 
 I had no fear. The wet was out of my 
 eyes. 
 
 "What is it you will be listening to now, 
 my little lad ? " he whispered, as he saw me 
 lean, intent, hearkening to I know not what. 
 
 " Sure," I said, " I am not for knowing : 
 but I thought I heard a music away down 
 there in the wood." 
 
 I heard it, for sure. It was a wondrous 
 sweet air as of one playing the feadan in 
 a dream. Galium Dall, the piper, could give 
 no rarer music than that was; and Galium 
 was a seventh son, and was born in the 
 moonshine. 
 
 " Will you come with me this night of the 
 nights, little Art ? " the man asked me, with 
 his lips touching my brow and giving me rest. 
 
 " That I will indeed and indeed," I said. 
 And then I fell asleep. 
 
 When I awoke we were in the huntsman's 
 booth, that is at the far end of the Shadowy 
 Glen. 
 
 There was a long rough-hewn table in it, 
 248 
 
The Last Supper 
 
 and I stared wherf I saw bowls and a great jug 
 of milk and a plate heaped with oat-cakes, and 
 beside it a brown loaf of rye-bread. 
 
 " Little Art," said he who carried me, " are 
 you for knowing now who I am ? " 
 
 " You are a prince, I'm thinking," was the 
 shy word that came to my mouth. 
 
 " Sure, lennav-aghray, that is so. It is 
 called the Prince of Peace I am." 
 
 " And who is to be eating all this ? " I asked. 
 
 " This is the last supper," the prince said, 
 so low that I could scarce hear ; and it seemed 
 to me that he whispered, " For I die daily, 
 and ever ere I die the Twelve break bread 
 with me." 
 
 It was then I saw that there were six bowls 
 of porridge on the one side and six on the 
 other. 
 
 " What is your name, O prince ? " 
 
 " losa." ^ 
 
 " And will you have no other name than 
 that?" 
 
 " I am called losa mac Dhe." 
 
 And is it living in this house you are ? " 
 
 " Ay. But Art, my little lad, I will kiss 
 your eyes, and you shall see who sup with me." 
 
 And with that the prince that was called 
 losa kissed me on the eyes, and I saw. 
 
 " You will never be quite blind again," he 
 
 249 
 
The Last Supper 
 
 whispered, and that is why all the long years 
 of my years I have been glad in my soul. 
 
 What I saw was a thing strange and won- 
 derful. Twelve men sat at that table, and all 
 had eyes of love upon losa. But they were 
 not like any men I had ever seen. Tall and 
 fair and terrible they were, like morning in a 
 desert place ; all save one, who was dark, and 
 had a shadow upon him and in his wild eyes. 
 
 It seemed to me that each was clad in ra- 
 diant mist. The eyes of them were as stars 
 through that mist. 
 
 And each, before he broke bread, or put 
 spoon to the porridge that was in the bowl 
 before him, laid down upon the table three 
 shuttles. 
 
 Long I looked upon that company, but losa 
 held me in his arms, and I had no fear. 
 
 " Who are these men? " he asked me. 
 
 " The Sons of God," I said, I not knowing 
 what I said, for it was but a child I was. 
 
 He smiled at that. " Behold," he spoke to 
 the twelve men who sat at the table, " behold 
 the little one is wiser than the wisest of ye." 
 At that all smiled with the gladness and the 
 joy, save one; him that was in the shadow. 
 He looked at me, and I remembered two black 
 lonely tarns upon the hillside, black with the 
 terror because of the kelpie and the drowner. 
 250 
 
The Last Supper 
 
 "Who are these men?" I whispered, with 
 the tremor on me that was come of the awe 
 I had. 
 
 "They are the Twelve Weavers, Art, my 
 little child." 
 
 " And what is their weaving? " 
 
 " They weave for my Father, whose web I 
 am. 
 
 At that I looked upon the prince, but I could 
 see no web. 
 
 " Are you not losa the Prince ? " 
 
 " I am the Web of Life, Art lennavan-mo." 
 
 " And what are the three shuttles that are 
 beside each Weaver ? " 
 
 I know now that when I turned my child's- 
 eyes upon these shuttles I saw that they were 
 alive and wonderful, and never the same to 
 the seeing. 
 
 " They are called Beauty and Wonder and 
 Mystery." 
 
 And with that losa mac Dhe sat down and 
 talked with the Twelve. All were passing 
 fair, save him who looked sidelong out of dark 
 eyes. I thought each, as I looked at him, 
 more beautiful than any of his fellows; but 
 most I loved to look at the twain who sat on 
 either side of losa. 
 
 " He will be a Dreamer among men," said 
 the prince ; " so tell him who ye are." 
 
 251 
 
The Last Supper 
 
 Then he who was on the right turned his 
 eyes upon me. I leaned to him, laughing low 
 with the glad pleasure I had because of his 
 eyes and shining hair, and the flame as of the 
 blue sky that was his robe. 
 
 " I am the Weaver of Joy," he said. And 
 with that he took his three shuttles that were 
 called Beauty and Wonder and Mystery, and 
 he wove an immortal shape, and it went forth 
 of the room and out into the green world, 
 singing a rapturous sweet song. 
 
 Then he that was upon the left of losa the 
 Life looked at me, and my heart leaped. He, 
 too, had shining hair, but I could not tell the 
 colour of his eyes for the glory that was in 
 them. " I am the Weaver of Love," he said, 
 " and I sit next the heart of losa." And with 
 that he took his three shuttles that were called 
 Beauty and Wonder and Mystery and he wove 
 an immortal shape, and it went forth of the 
 room and into the green world singing a rap- 
 turous sweet song. 
 
 Even then, child as I was, I wished to look 
 on no other. None could be so passing fair, 
 I thought, as the Weaver of Joy and the 
 Weaver of Love. 
 
 But a wondrous sweet voice sang in my 
 ears, and a cool, soft hand laid itself upon my 
 head, and the beautiful lordly one who had 
 252 
 
The Last Supper 
 
 spoken said, "I am the Weaver of Death," 
 and the lovely whispering one who had lulled 
 me with rest said, " I am the Weaver of 
 Sleep." And each wove with the shuttles of 
 Beauty and Wonder and Mystery, and I knew 
 not which was the more fair, and Death 
 seemed to me as Love, and in the eyes of 
 Dream I saw Joy. 
 
 My gaze was still upon the fair wonderful 
 shapes that went forth from these twain — 
 from the Weaver of Sleep, an immortal shape 
 of star-eyed Silence, and from' the Weaver of 
 Death a lovely Dusk with a heart of hidden 
 flame — when I heard the voice of two others 
 of the Twelve. They were like the laughter of 
 the wind in the corn, and like the golden fire 
 upon that corn. 'And the one said, " I am the 
 Weaver of Passion," and when he spoke I 
 thought that he was both Love and Joy, and 
 Death and Life, and I put out my hands. " It 
 is Strength I give," he said, and he took and 
 kissed me. Then, while losa took me again 
 upon his knee, I saw the Weaver of Passion 
 turn to the white glory beside him, him that 
 losa whispered to me was the secret of the 
 world, and that was called " The Weaver of 
 Youth." I know not whence nor how it came, 
 but there was a singing of skiey birds when 
 these twain took the shuttles of Beauty and 
 
 253 
 
The Last Supper 
 
 Wonder and Mystery, and wove each an im- 
 mortal shape, and bade it go forth out of the 
 room into the green world, to sing there for 
 ever and ever in the ears of man a rapturous 
 sweet song. 
 
 " O losa," I cried, " are these all thy breth- 
 ren? for each is fair as thee, and all have lit 
 their eyes at the white fire I see now in thy 
 heart." 
 
 But, before he spake, the room was filled 
 with music. I trembled with the joy, and in 
 my ears it has lingered ever, nor shall ever go. 
 Then I saw that it was the breathing of the 
 seventh and eighth, of the ninth and the tenth 
 of those star-eyed ministers pf losa whom he 
 called the Twelve: and the names of them 
 were the Weaver of Laughter, the Weaver of 
 Tears, the Weaver of Prayer, and the Weaver 
 of Peace. Each rose and kissed me there. 
 " We shall be with you to the end, little Art," 
 they said : and I took hold of the hand of one, 
 and cried, " O beautiful one, be likewise with 
 the woman my mother," and there came back 
 to me the whisper of the Weaver of Tears : " I 
 will, unto the end." 
 
 Then, wonderingly, I watched him likewise 
 take the shuttles that were ever the same and 
 yet never the same, and weave an immortal 
 shape. And when this Soul of Tears went 
 
 254 
 
The Last Supper 
 
 forth of the room, I thought it was my moth- 
 er's voice singing that rapturous sweet song, 
 and I cried out to it. 
 
 The fair immortal turned and waved to me. 
 " I shall never be far from thee, little Art," it 
 sighed, like summer rain falling on leaves: 
 " but I go now to my home in the heart of 
 women." 
 
 There were now but two out of the Twelve. 
 Oh the gladness and the joy when I looked 
 at him who had his eyes fixed on the face of 
 losa that was the Life! He lifted the three 
 shuttles of Beauty and Wonder and Mystery, 
 and he wove a Mist of Rainbows in that room ; 
 and in the glory I saw that even the dark 
 twelfth one lifted up his eyes and smiled. 
 
 " O what will the name of you be ? " I cried, 
 straining my arms to the beautiful lordly one. 
 But he did not hear, for he wrought Rainbow 
 after Rainbow out of the mist of glory that he 
 made, and sent each out into the green world, 
 to be for ever before the eyes of men. 
 
 " He is the Weaver of Hope," whispered 
 losa mac Dhe; "and he is the soul of each 
 that is here." 
 
 Then I turned to the twelfth, and said 
 " Who art thou, O lordly one with the shadow 
 in the eyes." 
 
 But he answered not, and there was silence 
 
 255 
 
The Last Supper 
 
 in the room. And all there, from the Weaver 
 of Joy to the Weaver of Peace, looked down, 
 and said nought. Only the Weaver of Hope 
 wrought a rainbow, and it drifted into the 
 heart of the lonely Weaver that was twelfth. 
 
 "And who will this man be, O losa mac 
 Dhe ? " I whispered. 
 
 " Answer the little child," said losa, and his 
 voice was sad. 
 
 Then the Weaver answered: 
 
 " I am the Weaver of Glory ," he be- 
 gan, but losa looked at him, and he said no 
 more. 
 
 "Art, little lad," said the Prince of Peace, 
 "he is the one who betrayeth me for ever. 
 He is Judas, the Weaver of Fear." 
 
 And at that the sorrowful shadow-eyed man 
 that was the twelfth took up the three shuttles 
 that were before him. 
 
 " And what are these, O Judas ? " I cried 
 eagerly, for I saw that they were black. 
 
 When he answered not, one of the Twelve 
 leaned forward and looked at him. It was 
 the Weaver of Death who did this thing. 
 
 "The three shuttles of Judas the Fear- 
 Weaver, O little Art," said the Weaver of 
 Death, " are called Mystery, and Despair, and 
 the Grave." 
 
 And with that Judas rose and left the room. 
 256 
 
The Last Supper 
 
 But the shape that he had woven went forth 
 with him as his shadow: and each fared out 
 into the dim world, and the Shadow entered 
 into the minds and into the hearts of men, 
 and betrayed losa that was the Prince of 
 Peace. 
 
 Thereupon, losa rose and took me by the 
 hand, and led me out of that room. When, 
 once, I looked back I saw none of the Twelve 
 save only the Weaver of Hope, and he sat 
 singing a wild sweet song that he had learned 
 of the Weaver of Joy, sat singing amid a mist 
 of rainbows and weaving a radiant glory that 
 was dazzling as the sun. 
 
 And at that I woke, and was against my 
 mother's heart, and she with the tears upon 
 me, and her lips moving in a prayer. 
 
 257 
 
THE DARK NAMELESS 
 ONE 
 
 \ \ 
 
The Dark Nameless 
 One 
 
 One day this summer I sailed with Padruig 
 Macrae and Ivor McLean, boatmen of lona, 
 along the south-western reach of the Ross of 
 Mull. 
 
 The whole coast of the Ross is indescribably 
 wild and desolate. From Feenafort (Fhionn^ 
 phort), opposite Balliemore of Icolmkill, to 
 the hamlet of Earraid Lighthouse, it were 
 hardly exaggeration to say that the whole tract 
 is uninhabited by man and unenlivened by any 
 green thing. It is the haunt of the cormorant 
 and the seal. 
 
 No one who has not visited this region can 
 realize its barrenness. Its one beauty is the 
 faint bloom which lies upon it in the sunlight 
 — a bloom which becomes as the glow of an 
 inner flame when the sun westers without 
 cloud or mist. This is from the ruddy hue 
 of the granite, of which all that wilderness is 
 wrought. 
 
 It is a land tortured by the sea, scourged by 
 the sea-wind. A myriad lochs, fiords, inlets, 
 261 
 
The Dark Nameless One 
 
 passages, serrate its broken frontiers. In- 
 numerable islets and reefs, fanged like raven- 
 ous wolves, sentinel every shallow, lurk in 
 every strait. He must be a skilled boat- 
 man who would take the Sound of Ear- 
 raid and penetrate the reaches of the 
 Ross. 
 
 There are many days in the months of 
 peace, as the islanders call the period from 
 Easter till the autumnal equinox, when Ear- 
 raid and the rest of Ross seem under a spell. 
 It is the spell of beauty. Then the yellow light 
 of the sun is upon the tumbled masses and 
 precipitous shelves and ledges, ruddy petals or 
 leaves of that vast Flower of Granite. Across 
 it the cloud shadows trail their purple phan- 
 toms, their scythe-sweep curves, and abrupt 
 evanishing floodings of warm dusk. From 
 wet boulder to boulder, from crag to shelly 
 crag, from fissure to fissure, the sea cease- 
 lessly weaves a girdle of foam. When the 
 wide luminous stretch of waters beyond — 
 green near the land, and farther out all of a 
 living blue, interspersed with wide alleys of 
 amethyst — is white with the sea-horses, there 
 is such a laughter of surge and splash all the 
 way from Slugan-dubh to the Rudha-nam- 
 Maol-Mora, or to the tide-swept promontory 
 of the Sgeireig-a'-Bhochdaidh, that, looking 
 262 
 
The Dark Nameless One 
 
 inland, one sees through a rainbow-shimmer- 
 ing veil of ever-flying spray. 
 
 But the sun spell is even more fugitive upon 
 the face of this wild land than the spell of 
 beauty upon a woman. So runs one of our 
 proverbs: as the falling of the wave, as the 
 fading of the leaf, so is the beauty of a wo- 
 man, unless — ah, that unless, and the indiscov- 
 erable fount of joy that can only be come 
 upon by hazard once in life, and thereafter 
 only in dreams, and the Land of the Rainbow 
 that is never reached, and the green sea-doors 
 of Tir-na-thonn, that open now no more to any 
 wandering wave !• 
 
 It was from Padruig, on that day, I heard 
 the strange tale of his kinsman Murdoch, the 
 tale of " The Judgment o' God " that I have 
 told elsewhere. It was Padruig, too, who told 
 me of the Sea-witch of Earraid. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " I have heard of the each- 
 •uisge (the sea-beast, ^ea-kelpie, or water- 
 horse), but I have never seen it with the eyes. 
 My father and my brother knew of it. But 
 this thing I know, and this what we call an- 
 cailleach-uisge (the siren or water- witch) ; the 
 cailliach, mind you, not the maighdeannmhara 
 (the mermaid), who means no harm. May 
 she hear my saying it! The cailliach is old 
 and clad in weeds, but her voice is young, and 
 263 
 
The Dark Nameless One 
 
 she always sits so that the light is in the eyes 
 of the beholder. She seems to him young 
 also, and fair. She has two familiars in the 
 form of seals, one black as the grave, and 
 the other white as the shroud that is in the 
 grave; and these sometimes upset a boat, if 
 the sailor laughs at the song of the water- 
 witch. 
 
 "A man netted one of those seals, more 
 than a hundred years ago, with his herring- 
 trawl, and dragged it into the boat; but the 
 other seal tore at the net so savagely, with its 
 head and paws over the bows, that it was 
 clear no net would long avail. The man heard 
 them crying and screaming, and then talking 
 low and muttering, like women in a frenzy. 
 In his fear he cast the nets adrift, all but a 
 small portion that was caught in the thwarts. 
 Afterwards, in this portion, he found a tress 
 of woman's hair. And that is just so: to the 
 Stones be it said. 
 
 " The grandson of this man, Tomais Mc- 
 Nair, is still living, a shepherd on Eilean- 
 Uamhain, beyond Lunga in the Cairnburg 
 Isles. A few years ago, off Callachan Point, 
 he saw the two seals, and heard, though he 
 did not see, the cailUach. And that which I 
 tell you — Christ's Cross before me — is a true 
 thing." 
 
 264 
 
The Dark Nameless One 
 
 All the time that P^druig was speaking, I 
 saw that Ivor McLean looked away : either as 
 though he heard nothing, or did not wish to 
 hear. There was dream in his eyes; I saw 
 that, so said nothing for a time. 
 
 " What is it, Ivor ? " I asked at last, in a low 
 voice. He started, and looked at me strangely. 
 
 " What will you be asking that for ? What 
 are you doing in my mind, that is secret ? " 
 
 " I see that you are brooding over some- 
 thing. Will you not tell me ? " 
 
 " Tell her," said Padruig quietly. 
 
 But Ivor kept silent. There was a look in 
 his eyes which I understood. Thereafter we 
 sailed on, with no word in the boat at all. 
 
 That night, a dark, rainy night it was, with 
 an uplift wind beating high overagainst the 
 hidden moon, I went to the cottage where Ivor 
 McLean lived with his old deaf mother, deaf 
 nigh upon twenty years, ever since the night 
 of the nights when she heard the women whis- 
 per that Galium, her husband, was among the 
 drowned, after a death-wind had blown. 
 
 When I entered, he was sitting before the 
 flaming coal-fire; for on lona now, by decree 
 of MacCailin Mor, there is no more peat 
 burned. 
 
 " You will tell me now, Ivor ? " was all I 
 said. 
 
 265 
 
The Dark Nameless One 
 
 " Yes ; I will be telling you now. And the 
 reason why I did not tell you before was be- 
 cause it is not a wise or a good thing to tell 
 ancient stories about the sea while still on 
 the running wave. Macrae should not have 
 done that thing. It may be we shall suifer 
 for it when next we go out with the nets. 
 We were to go to-night; but no, not I, no, 
 no, for sure, not for all the herring in the 
 Sound." 
 
 " Is it an ancient sgeul, Ivor ? " 
 
 " Ay. I am not for knowing the age of 
 these things. It may be as old as the days of 
 the Feinn for all I know. It has come down 
 to us. Alasdair MacAlasdair of Tiree, him 
 that used to boast of having all the stories of 
 Colum and Brighde, it was he told it to the 
 mother of my mother, and she to me." 
 
 "What is it called?" 
 
 " Well, this and that ; but there is no harm in 
 saying it is called the Dark Nameless One." 
 
 " The Dark Nameless One ! " 
 
 " It is this way. But will you ever have 
 been hearing of the MacOdrums of Uist ? " 
 
 " Ay : the Sliochd-nan-ron." 
 
 "That is so. God knows. The Sliochd- 
 nan-ron . . . the progeny of ,the Seal. . . . 
 Well, well, no man knows what moves in the 
 shadow of life. And now I will be telling you 
 266 
 
The Dark Nameless One 
 
 that old ancient tale, as it was given to me by 
 the mother of my mother. 
 
 On a day of the days, Colum was walking 
 alone by the sea-shore. The monks were at 
 the hoe or the spade, and some milking the 
 kye, and some at the fishing. They say it was 
 on the first day of the Faoilleach Geamhraidh, 
 the day that is called Am fheill Brighde. 
 
 The holy man had wandered on to where 
 the rocks are, opposite to Sga. He was pray- 
 ing and praying, and it is said that whenever 
 he prayed aloud, the barren egg in the nest 
 would quicken, and the blighted bud enfold, 
 and the butterfly cleave its shroud. 
 
 Of a sudden he came upon a great black seal, 
 lying silent on the rocks, with wicked eyes. 
 
 " My blessing upon you, O Ron," he said 
 with the good kind courteousness that was his. 
 
 " Droch spadadh ort," answered the seal, 
 "A bad end to you, Colum of the Gown." 
 
 " Sure, now," said Colum angrily, " I am 
 knowing by that curse that you are no friend 
 of Christ, but of the evil pagan faith out of 
 the north. For here I am known ever as 
 Colum the White, or as Colum the Saint; and 
 it is only the Picts and the wanton Normen 
 who deride me because of the holy white robe 
 I wear." 
 
 267 
 
The Dark Nameless One 
 
 " Well, well," replied the seal, speaking the 
 good Gaelic as though it were the tongue of 
 the deep sea, as God knows it may be for all 
 you, I, or the blind wind can say ; " Well, well, 
 let that thing be: it's a wave-way here or a 
 wave-way there. But now if it is a Druid 
 you are, whether of Fire or of Christ, be tell- 
 ing me where my woman is, and where my 
 little daughter." 
 
 At this, Colum looked at him for a long 
 while. Then he knew. 
 
 " It is a man you were once, O Ron ? " 
 
 " Maybe ay and maybe no." 
 
 " And with that thick Gaelic that you have, 
 it will be out of the north isles you come ? " 
 
 " That is a true thing." 
 
 " Now I am for knowing at last who and 
 what you are. You are one of the race of 
 Odrum the Pagan." 
 
 " Well, I am not denying it, Colum. And 
 what is more, I am Angus MacOdrum, 
 Aonghas mac Torcall mhic Odrum, and the 
 name I am known by is Black Angus." 
 
 " A fitting name too," said Colum the Holy, 
 " because of the black sin in your heart, and 
 the black end God has in store for you." 
 
 At that Black Angus laughed. 
 
 " Why is there laughter ujion you, Man- 
 Seal?" 
 
 268 
 
The Dark Nameless One 
 
 "Well, it is because of the good company 
 I'll be having. But, now, give me the word : 
 Are you for having seen or heard aught of a 
 woman called Kirsteen McVurich ? " 
 
 " Kirsteen — Kirsteen — that is the good 
 name of a nun it is, and no sea-wanton ! " 
 
 " Oh, a name here or a name there is soft 
 sand. And so you cannot be for telling me 
 where my woman is ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then a stake for your belly, and the nails 
 through your hands, thirst on your tongue, 
 and the corbies at your eyne ! " 
 
 And, with that. Black Angus louped into 
 the green water, and the hoarse wild laugh 
 of him sprang into the air and fell dead 
 against the cliff like a wind-spent mew. 
 
 Colum went slowly back to the brethren, 
 brooding deep. " God is good," he said in a 
 low voice, again and again; and each time 
 that he spoke there came a fair sweet daisy 
 into the grass, or a yellow bird rose up, with 
 song to it for the first time wonderful and 
 sweet to hear. 
 
 As he drew near to the House of God he 
 met Murtagh, an old monk of the ancient old 
 race of the isles. 
 
 "Who is Kirsteen McVurich, Murtagh?" 
 he asked. 
 
 269 
 
The Dark Nameless One 
 
 " She was a good servant of Christ, she 
 was, in the south isles, O Colum, till Black 
 Angus won her to the sea." 
 
 " And when was that ? " 
 
 " Nigh upon a thousand years ago." 
 
 At that Colum stared in amaze. But Mur- 
 tagh was a man of truth, nor did he speak in 
 allegories. " Ay, Colum, my father, nigh upon 
 a thousand years ago." 
 
 " But can mortal sin live as long as that ? " 
 
 "Ay, it endureth. Long, long ago, before 
 Oisin sang, before Fionn, before Cuchullin 
 was a glorious great prince, and in the days 
 when the Tuatha-De Danann were sole lords 
 in all green Banba, Black Angus made the 
 woman Kirsteen McVurich leave the place of 
 prayer and go down to the sea-shore, and 
 there he leaped upon her and made her his 
 prey, and she followed him into the sea." 
 
 " And is death above her now ? " 
 
 " No. She is the woman that weaves the 
 sea-spells at the wild place out yonder that is 
 known as Earraid : she that is called an-Caill- 
 each-uisge, the sea-witch." 
 
 " Then why was Black Angus for the seek- 
 ing her here and the seeking her there ? " 
 
 " It is the Doom. It is Adam's first wife 
 she is, that sea-witch over there, where the 
 foam is ever in the sharp fangs of the rocks." 
 270 
 
The Dark Nameless One 
 
 "And who will he be?" 
 
 " His body is the body of Angus the son 
 of Torcall of the race of Odrum, for all that 
 a seal he is to the seeming; but the soul of 
 him is Judas." 
 
 "Black Judas, Murtagh?" 
 
 "Ay, Black Judas, Colum." 
 
 But with that, Ivor McLean rose abruptly 
 from before the fire, saying that he would 
 speak no more that night. And truly 
 enough there was a wild, lone, desolate cry in 
 the wind, and a slapping of the waves one 
 upon the other with an eerie laughing sound, 
 and the screaming of a sea-mew that was like 
 a human thing. 
 
 So I touched the shawl of his mother, who 
 looked up with startled eyes and said, " God 
 be with us " ; and then I opened the door, and 
 the salt smell of the wrack was in my nostrils, 
 and the great drowning blackness of the 
 night. 
 
 271 
 
THE THREE MARVELS 
 OF HY 
 
 I. THE FESTIVAL OF THE BIRDS 
 II. THE SABBATH OF THE FISHES AND THE 
 
 FLIES 
 III. THE MOON-CHILD 
 
The Three Marvels 
 of Hy 
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF THE BIRDS 
 
 Before dawn, on the morning of the hun- 
 dredth Sabbath after Colum the White had 
 made glory to God in Hy, that was thereto- 
 fore called loua and thereafter I-shona and 
 is now lona, the Saint beheld his own Sleep 
 in a vision. 
 
 Much fasting and long pondering over the 
 missals, with their golden and azure and 
 sea-green initials and earth-brown branching 
 letters, had made Colum weary. He had 
 brooded much of late upon the mystery of 
 the living world that was not man's world. 
 
 On the eve of that hundredth Sabbath, 
 which was to be a holy festival in lona, he 
 had talked long with an ancient greybeard out 
 of a remote isle in the north, the wild Isle of 
 the Mountains, where Scathach the Queen 
 
 275 
 
The Threv Marvels of Hy 
 
 hanged the men of Lochlin by their yellow 
 hair. 
 
 This man's name was Ardan, and he was 
 of the ancient people. He had come to Hy 
 because of two things. Maolmor, the King 
 of the northern Picts, had sent him to learn 
 of Colum what was this god-teaching he had 
 brought out of Eire: and for himself he had 
 come, with his age upon him, to see what 
 manner of man this Colum was, who had 
 made loua, that was " Innis-nan-Dhruidh- 
 neach " — ^the Isle of the Druids — into a place 
 of new worship. 
 
 For three hours Ardan and Colum had 
 walked by the sea-shore. Each learned of 
 the other. Ardan bowed his head before the 
 wisdom. Colum knew in his heart that the 
 Druid saw mysteries. 
 
 In the first hour they talked of God. 
 Colum spake, and Ardan smiled in his 
 shadowy eyes. " It is for the knowing," he 
 said, when Colum ceased. 
 
 " Ay, sure," said the Saint : " and now, O 
 Ardan the wise, is my God thy God ? " 
 
 But at that Ardan smiled not. He turned 
 his eyes to the west. With his right hand 
 he pointed to the Sun that was like a great 
 golden flower. "Truly, He is thy God and 
 my God." Colum was silent. Then he said : 
 276 
 
The Three Marvels of Hy 
 
 "Thee and thinej O Ardan, from Maolmor 
 the Pictish king to the least of thy slaves, 
 shall have a long weariness in Hell. That 
 fiery globe yonder is but the Lamp of the 
 World: and sad is the case of the man who 
 knows not the torch from the torch-bearer." 
 
 And in the second hour they talked of 
 Man. Ardan spake, and Colum smiled in his 
 deep, grey eyes. 
 
 " It is for laughter that," he said, when 
 Ardan ceased. 
 
 " And why will that be, O Colum of 
 Eire ? " said Ardan. Then the smile went 
 out of Colum's grey eyes, and he turned and 
 looked about him. 
 
 He beheld, near, a crow, a horse, and a 
 hound. 
 
 " These are thy brethren," he said scorn- 
 fully. 
 
 But Ardan answered quietly, " Even so." 
 
 The third hour they talked about the beasts 
 of the earth and the fowls of the air. 
 
 At the last Ardan said : " The ancient wis- 
 dom hath it that these are the souls of men 
 . and women that have been, or are to be." 
 
 Whereat Colum answered : " The new wis- 
 dom, that is old as eternity, declareth that 
 God created all things in love. Therefore 
 are we at one, O Ardan, though we sail to 
 277 
 
The Three Marvels of Hy 
 
 the Isle of Truth from the West and the East. 
 Let there be peace between us." 
 
 " Peace," said Ardan. 
 
 That eve, Ardan of the Picts sat with the 
 monks of lona. Colum blessed him and said 
 a saying. Oran of the Songs sang a hymn of 
 beauty. Ardan rose, and put the wine of 
 guests to his lips, and chanted this rune : 
 
 O Colum and monks of Christ, 
 It is peace we are having this night: 
 Sure, peace is a good thing, 
 And I am glad with the gladness. 
 
 We worship one God, 
 Though ye call him Dd — 
 And I say not, O Dial 
 But cry Bea'uil ! 
 
 For it is one faith for man, 
 And one for the living world, 
 And no man is wiser than another — 
 And none knoweth much. 
 
 None knoweth a better thing than this: 
 The Sword, Love, Song, Honour, Sleep. 
 None knoweth a surer thing than this: 
 Birth, Sorrow, Pain, Weariness, Death. 
 
 Sure, peace is a good thing; 
 Let us be glad of Peace: 
 We are not men of the Sword, 
 But of the Rune and the Wisdom. 
 278 
 
The Three Marvels of Hy 
 
 I have learned a truth of Colum, 
 He too hath learned of me : 
 All ye on the morrow shall see 
 A wonder of the wonders. 
 
 The thought is on you, that the Cross 
 Is known only of you: 
 Lo, I tell you the birds know it 
 That are marked with the Sorrow. 
 
 Listen to the Birds of Sorrow, 
 They shall tell you a great Joy: 
 It is Peace you will be having. 
 With the Birds. 
 
 No more would Ardan say after that, 
 though all besought him. 
 
 Many pondered long that night. Oran 
 made a song of mystery. Colum brooded 
 through the dark; but before dawn he slept 
 upon the fern that strewed his cell. At 
 dawn, with waking eyes, and weary, he saw 
 his Sleep in a vision. 
 
 It stood grey and wan beside him. 
 
 "What art thou, O Spirit?" he said. 
 
 " I am thy Sleep, Colum." 
 
 "And is it peace?" 
 
 " It is peace." 
 
 "What wouldest thou?" 
 
 " I have wisdom. Thy heart and thy brain 
 were closed. I could not give you what I 
 brought. I brought wisdom." 
 
 " Give it." 
 
 279 
 
The Three Marvels of Hy 
 
 "Behold!" 
 
 And Colum, sitting upon the strewed fern 
 that was his bed, rubbed his eyes that were 
 heavy with weariness and fasting and long 
 prayer. He could not see his Sleep now. It 
 was gone as smoke that is licked up by the 
 wind. 
 
 But on the ledge of the hole that was in 
 the eastern wall of his cell he saw a bird. 
 He leaned his elbow upon the leabhar-aifrionn 
 that was by his side.^ Then he spoke. 
 
 " Is there song upon thee, O Bru-dhearg? " 
 
 Then the Red-breast sang, and the singing 
 was so sweet that tears came into the eyes 
 of Colum, and he thought the sunlight that 
 was streaming from the east was melted into 
 that lilting sweet song. It was a hymn that 
 the Bru-dhearg sang, and it was this: 
 
 Holy, Holy, Holy, 
 
 Christ upon the Cross: 
 My little nest was near. 
 
 Hidden in the moss.' 
 
 Holy, Holy, Holy. 
 
 Christ was pale and wan: 
 His eyes beheld me singing 
 Brpn, Bron, mo BronI ' 
 •The "leabhar-aifrionn" (pron. lyo-ur eff-runn) 
 is a missal: literally a mass-book, or chapel-book. 
 Bru-dhearg is literally red-breast. 
 ' "O my Grief, my Grief." 
 280 
 
The Three Marvels of Hy 
 
 Holy, Holy, Holy, 
 
 "Come near, O wee brown bird I" 
 Christ spake: and lo, I lighted 
 
 Upon the Living Word. 
 
 Holy, Holy, Holy, 
 
 I heard the mocking scorn! 
 
 But Holy, Holy, Holy 
 I sang against a thorn! 
 
 Holy, Holy, Holy, 
 
 Ah, his brow was bloody: 
 
 Holy, Holy, Holy, 
 
 All my breast was ruddy. 
 
 Holy, Holy, Holy, 
 
 Christ's-Bird shalt thou be: 
 
 Thus said Mary Virgin 
 There on Calvary. 
 
 Holy, Holy, Holy, 
 
 A wee brown bird am I: 
 But my breast is ruddy 
 
 For I saw Christ die. 
 
 Holy, Holy, Holy, 
 
 By this ruddy feather, 
 Colum, call thy monks, and 
 
 All the birds together. 
 
 And at that Colum rose. Awe was upon 
 him, and joy. 
 
 He went out and told all to the monks. 
 Then he said Mass out on the green sward. 
 281 
 
The Three Marvels of Hy 
 
 The yellow sunshine was warm upon his grey 
 hair. The love of God was warm in his 
 heart. 
 
 " Come, all ye birds ! " he cried. 
 
 And lo, all the birds of the air flew nigh. 
 The golden eagle soared from the Cuchullins 
 in far-off Skye, and the osprey from the wild 
 lochs of Mull; the gannet from above the 
 clouds, and the fulmar and petrel from the 
 green wave : the cormorant and the skua from 
 the weedy rock, and the plover and the kes- 
 trel from the machar: the corbie and the 
 raven from the moor, and the snipe and the 
 bittern and the heron: the cuckoo and cushat 
 from the woodland: the crane from the 
 swamp, the lark from the sky, and the mavis 
 and the merle from the green bushes : the yel- 
 lowyite, the shilfa, and the lintie, the gyalvonn 
 and the wren and the redbreast, one and all, 
 every creature of the wings, they came at the 
 bidding. 
 
 " Peace ! " cried Colum. 
 
 " Peace ! " cried all the Birds, and even the 
 Eagle, the Kestrel, the Corbie, and the Raven 
 cried Peace, Peace! 
 
 " I will say the Mass," said Colum the 
 White. 
 
 And with that he said the Mass. And he 
 blessed the birds. 
 
 282 
 
The Thre'e Marvels of Hy 
 
 When the last chant was sung, only the 
 Bru-dhearg remained. 
 
 " Come, O Ruddy-Breast," said Colum, 
 " and sing to us of the Christ." 
 
 Through a golden hour thereafter the Red- 
 breast sang. Sweet was the joy of it. 
 
 At the end Colum said, " Peace ! In the 
 name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy 
 Ghost." 
 
 Thereat Ardan the Pict bowed his head, 
 and in a loud voice repeated — 
 
 " Sith (shee) ! An ainm an Athar, 's an 
 Mhic, 's an Spioraid Naoimh!" 
 
 And to this day the song of the Birds of 
 Colum, as they are called in Hy, is Sith — 
 Sith — Sith — an — ainm — Chriosd 
 
 " Peace — Peace — Peace — in the name of 
 Christ!" 
 
 283 
 
II 
 
 THE SABBATH OF THE FISHES AND 
 THE FLIES 
 
 For three days Colum had fasted, save for 
 a mouthful of meal at dawn, a piece of rye- 
 bread at noon, and a mouthful of dulse and 
 spring-water at sundown. On the night of the 
 third day, Oran and Keir came to him in his 
 cell. Colum was on his knees, lost in prayer. 
 There was no sound there, save the faint 
 whispered muttering of his lips, and on 
 the plastered wall the weary buzzing of a 
 
 fly- 
 
 " Master ! " said Oran in a low voice, soft 
 with pity and awe, " Master ! " 
 
 But Colum took no notice. His lips still 
 moved, and the tangled hairs below his nether 
 lip shivered with his failing breath. 
 
 "Father!" said Keir, tender as a woman, 
 "Father!" 
 
 Colum did not turn his eyes from the wall. 
 The fly droned his drowsy hum upon the 
 rough plaster. It crawled wearily for a 
 284 
 
The Three Marvels of Hy 
 
 space, then stopped. The slow hot drone 
 filled the cell. 
 
 "Master," said Oran, "it is the will of 
 the brethren that you break your fast. You 
 are old, and God has your glory. Give us 
 peace." 
 
 " Father," urged Keir, seeing that Colum 
 kneeled unnoticingly, his lips still moving 
 above his grey beard, with the white hair of 
 him falling about his head like a snowdrift 
 slipping from a boulder. " Father, be pitiful ! 
 We hunger and thirst for your presence. We 
 can fast no kjnger, yet have we no heart to 
 break our fast if you are not with us. Come, 
 holy one, and be of our company, and eat of 
 the good broiled fish that awaiteth us. We 
 perish fof the benediction of thine eyes." 
 
 Then it was that Colum rose,, and walked 
 slowly toward the wall. 
 
 " Little black beast," he said to the fly that 
 droned its drowsy hum and moved not at all ; 
 " little black beast, sure it is well I am know- 
 ing what you are. You are thinking you are 
 going to get my blessing, you that have come 
 out of hell for the soul of me ! " 
 
 At that the fly flew heavily from the wall, 
 and slowly circled round and round the head 
 of Colum the White. 
 
 "What think you of that, brother Oran, 
 
 28s 
 
The Three Marvels of Hy 
 
 brother Keir?" he asked in a low voice, 
 hoarse because of his long fast and the wear- 
 iness that was upon him. 
 
 " It is a fiend," said Oran. 
 
 " It is an angel," said Keir. 
 
 Thereupon the fly settled upon the wall 
 again, and again droned his drowsy hot hum. 
 
 " Little black beast," said Colum, with the 
 frown coming down into his eyes, " is it for 
 peace you are here, or for sin? Answer, I 
 conjure you in the name of the Father, the 
 Son, and the Holy Ghost ! " 
 
 "An ainm an Athar, 's an Mhic, 's an Spio- 
 raid iVqomfe/' repeated Oran below his breath. 
 
 "An ainm an Athar, 's an Mhic, 's an 
 Spioraid Naoimh," repeated Keir below his 
 breath. 
 
 Then the fly that was upon the wall flew 
 up to the roof and circled to and fro. And 
 it sang a beautiful song, and its song was this : 
 
 Praise be to God, and a blessing too at that, and a 
 tlessing! 
 
 For Colum the White, Colum the Dove, hath wor- 
 shipped ; 
 
 Yea, he hath worshipped and made of a desert a 
 garden, 
 
 And out of the dung of men's souls hath made a sweet 
 savour of burning. 
 
 286 
 
The Three Marvels of Hy 
 
 A savour of burning, most sweet, a fire for the altar. 
 This he hath made in the desert; the hell-saved all 
 
 gladden. 
 Sure he hath put his benison, too, on milch-cow and 
 
 bullock, 
 On the fowls of the air, and the man-eyed seals, and 
 
 the otter. 
 
 But where in his D<in in the great blue mainland of 
 
 Heaven 
 God the All-Father broodeth, where the harpers are 
 
 harping his glory; 
 There where He sitteth, where a river of ale poureth 
 
 ever, 
 His great sword broken, His spear in the dust. He 
 
 broodeth. 
 
 And this is the thought that moves in his brain, as a 
 
 cloud filled with thunder 
 Moves through the vast hollow sky filled with the 
 
 dust of the stars : 
 What boots it the glory of Colum, since he maketh a 
 
 Sabbath to bless me. 
 And hath no thought of my sons in the deeps of the air 
 
 and the sea f 
 
 And with that the fly passed from their vis- 
 ion. In the cell was a most wondrous sweet 
 song, like the sound of far-off pipes over 
 water. 
 
 287 
 
The Three Marvels of Hy 
 
 Oran said in a low voice of awe, " O our 
 God!" 
 
 Keir whispered, white with fear, " O God, 
 my God!" 
 
 But Colum rose, and took a scourge from 
 where it hung on the wall. " It shall be for 
 peace, Oran," he said, with a grim smile flit- 
 ting like a bird above the nest of his black 
 beard; "it shall be for peace, Keir!" 
 
 And with that he laid the scourge heavily 
 upon the bent backs of Keir and Oran, nor 
 stayed his hand, nor let his three days' fast 
 weaken the deep piety that was in the might 
 of his arm, and because of the glory to God. 
 
 Then, when he was weary, peace came into 
 his heart, and he sighed " Amen! " 
 
 " Amen ! " said Oran the monk. 
 
 " Amen ! " said Keir the monk. 
 
 "And this thing hath been done," said 
 Colum, " because of the evil wish of you and 
 the brethren, that I should break my fast, and 
 eat of fish, till God willeth it. And lo, I have 
 learned a mystery. Ye shall all witness to it 
 on the morrow, which is the Sabbath." 
 
 That night the monks wondered much. 
 Only Oran and Keir cursed the fishes in the 
 deeps of the sea and the flies in the deeps of 
 the air. 
 
 On the morrow, when the sun was yellow 
 288 
 
The Three Marvels of Hy 
 
 on the brown sea-weed, and there was peace 
 on the isle and upon the waters, Colum and 
 the brotherhood went slowly toward the 
 sea. 
 
 At the meadows that are close to the sea, 
 the Saint stood still. All bowed their heads. 
 
 " O winged things of the air," cried Colum, 
 " draw near ! " 
 
 With that the air was full of the hum of 
 innumerous flies, midges, bees, wasps, moths, 
 and all winged insects. These settled upon 
 the monks, who moved not, but praised God 
 in silence. " Glory and praise to God," cried 
 Colum, "behold the Sabbath of the children 
 of God that inhabit the deeps of the air! 
 Blessing and peace be upon them." 
 
 " Peace 1 Peace ! " cried the monks, with 
 one voice. 
 
 " In the name of the Father, the Son, and 
 the Holy Ghost!" cried Colum the White, 
 glad because of the glory to God. 
 
 " An ainm an Athar, 's an Mhic, 's an Spio- 
 raid Naoimh" crie^ the monks, bowing rev- 
 erently, and Oran and Keir deepest of all, be- 
 cause they saw the fly that was of Colum's 
 cell leading the whole host, as though it were 
 their captain, and singing to them a marvel- 
 lous sweet song. 
 
 Oran and Keir testified to this thing, and 
 
 289 
 
The Three Marvels of Hy 
 
 all were full of awe and wonder, and Colum 
 praised God. 
 
 Then the Saints and the brotherhood moved 
 onward and went upon the rocks. When all 
 stood ankle-deep in the sea-weed that was 
 swaying in the tide, Colum cried : 
 
 "O finny creatures of the deep, draw 
 near ! " 
 
 And with that the whole sea shimmered as 
 with silver and gold. 
 
 All the fishes of the sea, and the great eels, 
 and the lobsters and the crabs, came in a 
 swift and terrible procession. Great was the 
 glory. 
 
 Then Colum cried, " O fishes of the Deep, 
 who is your king ? " 
 
 Whereupon the herring, the mackerel, and 
 the dog-fish swam forward, and each claimed 
 to be king. But the echo that ran from wave 
 to wave said. The Herring is King. 
 
 Then Colum said to the mackerel : " Sing 
 the song that is upon you ! " 
 
 And the mackerel sang the song of the wild 
 rovers of the sea, and the lust of pleasure. 
 
 Then Colum said, " But for God's mercy, 
 I would curse you, O false fish." 
 
 Then he spake likewise to the dog-fish: and 
 the dog-fish sang of slaughter and the chase, 
 and the joy of blood. 
 
 290 
 
The Three Marvels of Hy 
 
 And Colum said : " Hell shall be your por- 
 tion." 
 
 And there was peace. And the Herring 
 said: 
 
 " In the name of the Father, the Son, and 
 the Holy Ghost!" 
 
 Whereat all that mighty multitude, ere they 
 sank into the deep, waved their fins and their 
 claws, each after his kind, and repeated as 
 with one voice: 
 
 "An ainm an Athar, 's an Mhic, 's an Spio- 
 raid Naoimh!" 
 
 And the glory that was upon the Sound of 
 lona was as though God trailed a starry net 
 upon the waters, with a shining star in every 
 little hollow, and a flowing moon of gold on 
 every wave. 
 
 Then Colum the White put out both his 
 arms, and blessed the children of God that 
 are in the deeps of the sea and that are in 
 the deeps of the air. 
 
 That is how Sabbath came upon all living 
 things upon Hy that is called lona, and with- 
 in the air above Hy, and within the sea that 
 is around Hy. 
 
 And the glory is Colum'^. , 
 
 291 
 
Ill 
 
 THE MOON-CHILD 
 
 A year and a day before God bade Colum 
 arise to the Feast of Eternity, Pol the 
 Freckled, the youngest of the brethren, came 
 to him, on a night of the nights. 
 
 " The moon is among the stars, O Colum. 
 By his own will, and yours, old Murtagh 
 that is this day with God, is to be laid in 
 the deep dry sand at the east end of the 
 isle." 
 
 So the holy Saint rose from his bed of 
 weariness, and went and blessed the place 
 that Murtagh lay in, and bade neither the 
 creeping worm nor any other creature to 
 touch the sacred dead. " Let God only," he 
 said, " let God alone stripl that which he made 
 to grow." 
 
 But on his way back sleep passed from 
 him. The sweet salt smell of the sea was in 
 his nostrils: he heard the running of a wave 
 in all his blood. 
 
 At the cells he turned, and bade the breth- 
 292 
 
The Three Marvels of Hy 
 
 ren go in. " Peace be with you," he sighed 
 wearily. 
 
 Then he moved downwards toward the sea. 
 
 A great tenderness of late was upon Colum 
 the Bishop. Ever since he had blessed the 
 fishes and the flies, the least of the children 
 of God, his soul had glowed in a whiter flame. 
 There was deep compassion in his grey-blue 
 eyes. One night he had waked, because God 
 was there. 
 
 " O Christ," he cried, bowing low his old 
 grey head. " Sure, ah sure, the gladness 
 and the joy, because of the hour of the 
 hours." 
 
 But God said : " Not so, Colum, who keepest 
 me upon the Cross. It is Murtagh, Murtagh 
 the Druid that was, whose soul I am taking 
 to the glory." 
 
 With that Colum rose in awe and great 
 grief. There was no light in his cell. In the 
 deep darkness, his spirit quailed. But lo, the 
 beauty of his heart wrought a soft gleam 
 about him, and in that moonshine of good 
 deeds he rose and made his way to where 
 Murtagh lay. 
 
 The old monk slept indeed. It was a sweet 
 breath he drew — ^he, young and fair now, and 
 laughing with peace under the apples in Par- 
 adise. 
 
 293 
 
The Three Marvels of Hy 
 
 " O Murtagh," Colum cried, " and thee I 
 thought the least of the brethren, because that 
 thou wast a Druid, and loved not to see thy 
 pagan kindred put to the sword if they would 
 not repent. But, true, in my years I am be- 
 coming as a boy who learns, knowing noth- 
 ing. God wash the sin of pride out of my 
 life ! " 
 
 At that a soft white shining, as of one 
 winged and beautiful, stood beside the dead. 
 
 " Art thou Murtagh ? " whispered Colum, 
 in deep awe. 
 
 " No, I am not Murtagh," came as the 
 breath of vanishing song. 
 
 "What art thou?" 
 
 " I am Peace," said the glory. 
 
 Thereupon Colum sank to his knees, sob- 
 bing with joy, for the sorrow that had been 
 and was no more. 
 
 " Tell me, O White Peace," he murmured, 
 " can Murtagh hearken, there under the 
 apples where God is ? " 
 
 " God's love is a wind that blows hitherward 
 and hence. Speak, and thou shalt hear." 
 
 Colum spake. " O Murtagh my brother, 
 tell me in what way it is that I still keep God 
 crucified upon the Cross." 
 
 There was a sound in the cell as of the 
 morning-laughter of children, of the singing 
 294 
 
The Three Marvels of Hy 
 
 of birds, of the sunlight streaming through 
 the blue fields of Heaven. 
 
 Then Murtagh's voice came out of Para- 
 dise, sweet with the sweetness: honey-sweet 
 it was, and clothed with deep awe because of 
 the glory. 
 
 " Colum, servant of Christ, arise ! " 
 
 Colum rose, and was as a leaf there, a leaf 
 that is in the wind. 
 
 " Colum, thine hour is not yet come. I see 
 it, bathing in the white light which is the 
 Pool of Eternal Life, that is in the abyss 
 where deep-rooted are the Gates of Heaven." 
 
 " And my sin, O Murtagh, my sin ? " 
 
 " God is weary because thou hast not re- 
 pented." 
 
 " O my God and my God ! 3ure, Mur- 
 tagh, if that is so, it is so, but it is not for 
 knowledge to me. Sure, O God, it is a bless- 
 ing I have put on man and woman, on beast 
 and bird and fish, on creeping things and fly- 
 ing things, on the green grass and the brown 
 earth and the flowing wave, on the wind that 
 Cometh and goeth, and on the mystery of the 
 flame! Sure, O God, I have sorrowed for 
 all my sins : there is not one I have not fasted 
 and prayed for. Sorrow upon me ! — Is it ac- 
 cursed I am, or what is the evil that holdeth 
 me by the hand ? " 
 
 295 
 
The Three Marvels of Hy 
 
 Then Murtagh, calling through sweet 
 dreams and the rainbow-rain of happy tears 
 that make that place so wondrous and so fair, 
 spake once more: 
 
 " O Colum, blind art thou. Hast thou yet 
 repented because after that thou didst cap- 
 ture the great black seal, that is a man under 
 spells, thou, with thy monks, didst crucify 
 him upon the great rock at the place where, 
 long ago, thy coracle came ashore ? " 
 
 " O Murtagh, favoured of God, will you 
 not be explaining to Him that is King of the 
 Elements, that this was because the seal who 
 was called Black Angus wrought evil upon a 
 mortal woman, and that of the sea-seed was 
 sprung one who had no soul ? " 
 
 But no answer came to that, and when 
 Colum looked about him, behold there was 
 no soft shining, but only the body of Mur- 
 tagh the old monk. With a heavy heart, and 
 his soul like a sinking boat in a sea of pain, 
 he turned and went out into the night. 
 
 A fine, wonderful night it was. The moon 
 lay low above the sea, and all the flowing 
 gold and flashing silver of the rippling run- 
 ning water seemed to be a flood going that 
 way and falling into the shining hollow splen- 
 dour. 
 
 Through the sea-weed the old Saint moved, 
 296 
 
The Three Marvels of Hy 
 
 weary and sad. When he came to a sandy 
 place he stopped. There, on a rock, he saw 
 a little child. Naked she was, though clad 
 with soft white moonlight. In her hair were 
 brown weeds of the sea, gleaming golden be- 
 cause of the glow. In her hands was a great 
 shell, and at that shell was heir mouth. And 
 she was singing this song; passing sweet to 
 hear it was, with the sea-music that was in 
 it: 
 
 A little lonely child am I 
 ^hat have not any soul : 
 
 God made me but a homeless wave, 
 Without a goal. 
 
 A seal my father was, a seal 
 
 That once was man: 
 My mother loved him tho' he was 
 
 'Neath mortal ban. 
 
 He took a wave and drowned her, 
 She took a wave and lifted him: 
 
 And I was bom where shadows are 
 I' the sea-depths dim. 
 
 All through the sunny blue-sweet hours 
 I swim and glide in waters green ; 
 
 Never by day the moumfjil shores 
 By me are seen. 
 
 But when the gloom is on the wave 
 A shell unto the shore I bring: 
 
 And then upon the rocks I sit 
 And plaintive sing. 
 297 
 
The Thr^e Marvels of Hy 
 
 O what is this wild song I sing, 
 With meanings strange and dim ? 
 
 No soul am I, a wave am I, 
 And sing the Moon-Child's hymn. 
 
 Softly Colum drew nigh. 
 
 " Peace," he said. " Peace, Httle one. Ah 
 tender little heart, peace ! " 
 
 The child looked at him with wide sea- 
 dusky eyes. 
 
 " Is it Colum the Holy you will be ? " 
 
 " No, my fawn, my white dear babe : it is 
 not Colum the Holy I am, but Colum the poor 
 fool that knew not God ! " 
 
 " Is it you, O Colum, that put the sorrow 
 on my mother, who is the Sea-woman that 
 lives in the whirlpool over there ? " 
 
 " Ay, God forgive me ! " 
 
 " Is it you, O Colum, that crucified the 
 seal that was my father: him that was a 
 man once, and that was called Black An- 
 gus?" 
 
 " Ay, God forgive me ! " 
 
 " Is it you, O Colum, that bade the chil- 
 dren of Hy run away from me, because I was 
 a moon-child, and might win them by the sea- 
 spell into the green wave?" 
 
 " Ay, God forgive me ! " 
 
 " Sure, dear Colum, it was to the glory of 
 God, it was?" 
 
 298 
 
The Three Marvels of Hy 
 
 " Ay, He knoweth it, and can hear it, too, 
 from Murtagh, who died this night." 
 
 "Look!" 
 
 And at that Colum looked, and in a moon- 
 gold wave he saw Black Angus, the seal-man, 
 drifting dark, and the eyes in his round head 
 were the eyes of love. And beside the man- 
 seal swam a woman fair to see, and she looked 
 at him with joy, and with joy at the Moon- 
 Child that was her own, and at Colum with 
 
 joy- 
 Thereupon Colum fell upon his knees and 
 cried — 
 
 " Give me thy sorrow, wild woman of the 
 sea ! " 
 
 " Peace to you, Colum," she answered, and 
 sank into the shadow-thridden wave. 
 
 " Give me thy death and crucifixion, O 
 Angus-dhu ! " cried the Saint, shaking with 
 the sorrow. 
 
 " Peace to you, Colum," answered the man- 
 seal, and sank into the dusky quietudes of the 
 deep. 
 
 "Ah, bitter heart o' me! Teach me the 
 way to God, O little child," cried Colum the 
 old, turning to where the Moon-Child was ! 
 
 But lo, the glory and the wonder ! 
 
 It was a little naked child that looked at 
 him with healing eyes, but there were no sea- 
 299 
 
The Thre'e Marvels of Hy 
 
 weeds in her hair, and no shell in the little 
 wee hands of her. For now, it was a male 
 Child that was there, shining with a light from 
 within: and in his fair sunny hair was a 
 shadowy crown of thorns, and in his hand 
 was a pearl of great price. 
 
 "O Christ, my God," said Colum, with 
 failing voice. 
 
 " It is thine now, O Colum," said the Moon- 
 Child, holding out to him the shining pearl 
 of great price. 
 
 " What is it, O Lord my God?" whispered 
 the old servant of God that was now glad 
 with the gladness : " what is this, thy boon ? " 
 
 " Perfect Peace." 
 
 And that is all. 
 (To God be the Glory. Amen.) 
 
 300 
 
THE WOMAN WITH 
 THE NET 
 
The Woman With 
 
 the Net 
 
 When Artan had kissed the brow of every 
 white-robed brother on lona, and had been 
 thrice kissed by the aged Colum, his heart was 
 filled with gladness. 
 
 It was late summer. In the afternoon 
 light peace lay on the green waters of the 
 Sound, on the green grass of the dunes, on 
 the white and brown domed cells of the Cul- 
 dees over whom the holy Colum ruled, and 
 on the little rock-strewn hill which rose above 
 where stood Colum's wattled church of sun- 
 baked rtiud. 
 
 The abbot walked slowly by the side of the 
 young man. Colum was tall, with hair long 
 and heavy but white as the canna, and with a 
 beard that hung low on his breast, grey as the 
 moss on old firs. His blue eyes were tender. 
 The youth — for though he was a grown man 
 he seemed a youth beside Colum — had beauty. 
 He was tall and comely, with yellow curling 
 hair, and dark-blue eyes, and a skin so white 
 that it troubled some of the monks who 
 
 303 
 
The Woman with the Net 
 
 dreamed old dreams and washed them away 
 in tears and scourgings. 
 
 " You have the bitter fever of youth upon 
 you, Artan," said Colum, as they crossed the 
 dunes beyond Dun-I ; " but you have no fear, 
 and you will be a flame among these Pictish 
 idolaters, and you will be a lamp to show 
 them the way." 
 
 "And when I come again, there will be 
 clappings of hands, and hymns, and many re- 
 joicings ? " 
 
 " I do not think you will come again," said 
 Colum. " The wild folk of these northlands 
 will burn you, or crucify you, or put you 
 upon the crahslat, or give you thirst and hun- 
 ger till you die. It will be a great joy for 
 you to die like that, Artan, my son ? " 
 
 " Ay, a great joy," answered the young 
 monk, but with his eyes dreaming away from 
 his words. 
 
 There was silence between them as they 
 neared the cove where a large coracle lay, with 
 three men in it. 
 
 " Will God be coming to lona when I am 
 away ? " asked Artan. 
 
 Colum stared at him. 
 
 " Is it likely that God would come here in 
 a coracle ? " he asked, with scornful eyes. 
 
 The young man looked abashed. For sure, 
 
 304 
 
The Woman with the Net 
 
 God would not come in a coracle, just as he 
 himself might come. He knew by that how 
 Colum had reproved him. He would come 
 in a cloud of fire, and would be seen from far 
 and near. Artan wondered if the" place he 
 was going to was too far north for him to 
 see that greatness ; but he feared to ask. 
 
 " Give me a new name," he asked ; " give me 
 a new name, my Father." 
 
 " What name will you have ? " 
 
 " Servant of Mary." 
 
 " So be it, Artan Gille-Mhoire." 
 
 With that Colum kissed him and bade fare- 
 well, and Artan sat down in the coracle, and 
 covered his head with his mantle, and wept 
 and prayed. 
 
 The last word he heard was. Peace! 
 
 " That is a good word, and a good thing," 
 he said to himself ; " and because I am the 
 Servant of Mary, and the Brother of Jesu the 
 Son, I will take peace to the Cruitne, who 
 know nothing of that blessing of the bless- 
 ings." 
 
 When he unfolded his mantle, the coracle 
 'was already far from lona. The south wind 
 blew, and the tides swept northward, and the 
 boat moved swiftly across the water. The 
 sea was ashine with froth and small waves 
 leaping like lambs. 
 
 305 
 
The Woman with the Net 
 
 In the boat were Thorkeld, a helot of lona, 
 and two dark wild-eyed men of the north. 
 They were Picts, but could speak the tongue 
 of the Gael. Myrdu, the Pictish king of Skye, 
 had sent them to lona, to bring back from 
 Colum a Culdee who could show wonders. 
 
 "And tell the Chief Druid of the crossed 
 Tree," Myrdu had said, " that if his Culdee 
 does not show me good wonders, and make 
 me believe in his two gods and the woman, 
 I will put an ash-shaft through his body from 
 his hips and out at his mouth, and send him 
 back on the north-tide to the Isle of the 
 White-Robes." 
 
 The sun was lying among the outer isles 
 when the coracle passed near the Isle of the 
 Columns. A great noise was in the air: the 
 noise of the waves in the caverns, and the 
 noise of the tide, like sea-wolves growling, 
 and like bulls bellowing in a narrow pass of 
 the hills. 
 
 A sudden current caught the boat, and it 
 began to drift toward great reefs white with 
 ceaseless torn streams. 
 
 Thorkeld leaned from the helm, and 
 shouted to the two Picts. They did not stir, 
 but sat staring, idle with fear. 
 
 Artan knew now that it was as Colum had 
 said. God would give him glory soon. 
 306 
 
The Woman with the Net 
 
 So he took the little clarsach he had for 
 hymns, for he was the best harper on lona, 
 and struck the strings, and sang. But the 
 Latin words tangled in his throat, and he knew 
 too that the men in the boat would not under- 
 stand what he sang; also that the older gods 
 still came far south, and in the caves of the 
 Isle of Columns were demons. There was only 
 one tongue common to all; and since God 
 had wisdom beyond that of Colum himself, 
 He would know the song in Gaelic as well as 
 though it were sung in Latin. 
 
 So Artan let the wind take his broken 
 hymn, and he made a song of his own, and 
 sang — 
 
 O Heavenly Mary, Queen of the Elements, 
 And you, Brigit the fair, with the little harp, 
 And all the saints, and all the old gods. 
 Speak to the Father, that He may save us from 
 drowning. 
 
 Then, seeing that the boat drifted closer, 
 he sang again — 
 
 Save us from the rocks and the sea. Queen of 
 
 Heaven! 
 And remember that I am a culdee of lona. 
 And that Colum has sent me to the Cruitne 
 To sing them the song of peace lest they be damned 
 
 for ever! 
 
The Woman with the Ntt 
 
 Thorkeld laughed at that. 
 
 " Can the woman put swimming upon you ? " 
 he said roughly. " I would rather have the 
 good fin of a great fish now than any woman 
 in the skies." 
 
 " You will burn in hell for that," said Artan, 
 the holy zeal warm at his heart. 
 
 But Thorkeld answered nothing. His 
 hand was on the helm, his eyes on the foam- 
 ing rocks. Besides, what had he to do with 
 the culdee's hell or heaven? When he died, 
 he, who was a man of Lochlann, would go 
 to his own place. 
 
 One of the dark men stood, holding the 
 mast. His eyes shone. Thick words swung 
 from his lips, like seaweed thrown out- of a 
 hollow by an ebbing wave. 
 
 The coracle swerved, and the four men 
 were wet with the heavy spray. 
 
 Thorkeld put his oar in the water, and the 
 swaying craft righted. 
 
 " Glory to God ! " said Artan. 
 
 " There is no glory to your god in this," said 
 Thorkeld scornfully. " Did you not hear what 
 Necta sang? He sang to the woman in there 
 that drags men into the caves, and throws 
 their bones on the next tide. He put an in- 
 cantation upon her, and she shrank, and the 
 boat slid away from the rocks." 
 
 308 
 
The Woman with the Net 
 
 " That is a true thing," thought Artan. He 
 wondered if it was because he had not sung 
 his hymn in the holy Latin. 
 
 When the last flame died out of the west, 
 and the stars came like sheep gathering at the 
 call of the shepherd, Artan remembered that 
 he had not said the prayers nof sung the Ves- 
 per hymn. 
 
 He lay back and listened. There were no 
 bells calling across the water. He looked 
 into the depths. It was Manann's kingdom, 
 and he had never heard that God was there; 
 but he looked. Then he stared into the dark- 
 blue, star-strewn sky. 
 
 Suddenly he touched Thorkeld. 
 
 " Tell me," he said, " how far north has the 
 Cross of Christ come ? " 
 
 " By the sea-way it has not come here 
 yet. Murdoch the Freckled came with it 
 this way, but he was pulled into the sea, and 
 he died." 
 
 " Who pulled him into the sea ? " 
 
 Thorkeld stared into the running wave. He 
 had no words. 
 
 Artan lay still a long while. 
 
 "It will go ill with me," he thought, "if 
 Mary cannot see me so far away from lona, 
 and if God will not listen to me. Colum 
 should have known that, and given me a holy 
 
 309 
 
The Woman with the Net 
 
 leaf with the fair branching letters on it, 
 and the Latin words that are the words of 
 God." 
 
 Then he spoke to the man who had sung. 
 
 " Who is the. Woman with the Net," he said, 
 " of whom you sang? " 
 
 Necta turned his head away. 
 
 " I said it when I sang," he said sullenly. 
 
 " Tell me." 
 
 " She ? She is the Woman who stands on 
 the banks of the river." 
 
 " What river? " 
 
 " I do not know the name of the river." 
 
 "Is it north?" 
 
 " I do not know. It is the great river. 
 The banks have mist and shadow. She has 
 a great net. And when she nets men they 
 are dead. She takes them out of the net, and 
 some she throws into a caldron in the rocks, 
 filled with green flame, and some she puts be- 
 neath her feet and tramples into dust. That 
 is how the sand is made." 
 
 Artan shivered with the thought that leaped 
 in his mind. All those white sands of lona 
 . . . were they fair beautiful women trampled 
 into white sand by the feet of the Woman 
 with the Net? 
 
 " What of those in the caldron ? " he asked. 
 
 " They are thrown out on the wind. They 
 310 
 
The Woman with the Net 
 
 pass into trees and grass and reeds, and deer 
 and wolves, and men and women." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 The man stared idly. 
 
 "There are three there," he said, "who 
 watch the Woman with the Net. One sits on 
 a great stone and is blind ; one whirls a flam- 
 ing sword ; one stands and leans on a great 
 spear." 
 
 " Who are these three ? " asked Artan. 
 
 The man stared idly. 
 
 " There is fire on the ground below that 
 sword. There is blood on the ground below 
 that spear. The man with the sword puts it 
 into the blackness of the shadow that is about 
 the great stone, but he does not know what is 
 there. The man with the spear puts it into the 
 blackness about the great stone, but he does 
 not know what is there. The blind man on 
 the stone has his feet in the blackness of the 
 shadow, but he does not know what is there." 
 
 " It will be Mary," said Artan, brooding 
 deep ; " it will be Mary, and God, and the 
 Son, and the Spirit." 
 
 But Necta the Pict stared at him. 
 
 " What have these ancient ones to do with 
 your lona gods, White-Robe ? " 
 
 Artan frowned. 
 
 " The curse of the God of Peace upon you 
 
 311 
 
The Woman with the Net 
 
 for that," he said angrily : " do you not know 
 that you have hell for your dwelling-place if 
 you speak evil of God the Father, and the 
 Son, and the Mother of God?" 
 
 " How long have they been in lona, White- 
 Robe?" 
 
 The man spoke scornfully. Artan knew 
 they had not been there many years. He had 
 no words. 
 
 " My fathers worshipped the Sun on the 
 Holy Isle before ever your great Druid that 
 is called Colum crossed the Moyle. Were your 
 three gods in the coracle; with Colum? They 
 were not on the Holy Isle when he came." 
 
 " They were coming there," answered 
 Artan confusedly. " It is a long way from 
 . . . from . . . from the place they were sail- 
 ing from." 
 
 Necta listened sullenly. 
 
 " Let them stay on lona," he said : " gods 
 though they be, it would fare ill with them if 
 they came upon the Woman with the Net." 
 Then he turned on his side, and lay by the 
 man Darach, who was staring at the moon 
 and muttering words that neither Artan nor 
 Thorkeld knew. 
 
 For a time the Culdee and the helot spoke 
 in low voices. Thorkeld spoke of his gods. 
 Then he laughed when he spoke of the 
 312 
 
The Woman with the Net 
 
 women-haters, as he called the holy men of 
 lona. Artan said nothing. Why should he 
 hate women, he thought? They were very 
 fair, he remembered, and made the heart beat. 
 
 Thorkeld smiled. He spoke of women. 
 Artan heard a song in the sea. The stars 
 shone like fires in a haven. He put his hand 
 in the water, and put that water against his 
 dry lips. The salt stung him. 
 
 Thorkeld slept. A white calm had fallen. 
 The boat lay like a shell on a silent pool. 
 There was nothing between that dim wilder- 
 ness and the vast sweeping blackness filled 
 with quivering stars, but the coracle, that a 
 wave could crush. 
 
 Artan could not sleep ; it was easier to for- 
 get God, and the Son, and the Spirit, than 
 those white women of whom Thorkeld had 
 spoken. He felt hands touch him, white and 
 warm. A fever was in his blood. 
 
 Then he slept, and dreamed that he was on 
 a misty bank by a great river. The river was 
 salt, and moans and cries filled the lamentable 
 rushing noise. 
 
 A great fear came upon him. He drew 
 back, and something came out of the dark- 
 ness and swept past him. The cold air of it 
 made him stagger and shiver. He put his 
 hands to a bush, and they went through it, 
 
 313 
 
The Woman with the Net 
 
 and he fell. There was a spear on the 
 ground. He put his hand on it, and it was 
 dust. 
 Then he rose and cried — 
 
 O Mary, Mother of God, Queen of the Elements, 
 Have mercy upon Artdn the Culdee! 
 For it is a good deed I do coming here to the heathen. 
 And Colum will tell you that, Colum of lona ! 
 
 But something swept again out of the dark- 
 ness, and Artan was caught in a net, and was 
 swung across the river. And in that net 
 there were fish beyond count, and all were 
 men and women, and all were deady and were 
 calling upon many gods. 
 
 Then he saw a white face in the dusk. ' 
 Great stars shone in the hair about the brows ; 
 bats flew in the hollow caverns of the eyes; 
 and a hand, grey-white as clay, plucked at the 
 mass that was in the net. Some were thrown 
 out, and were trampled into dust, and a wind 
 blew the dust into the river, and the grains 
 were borne to the lips of all isles and shores, 
 and were idle sand thenceforth. And some 
 were plucked by the hand, and were thrown 
 into the great caldron of green fire. Artan 
 was of these. And as he swam hither and 
 thither in that immortal water that was as 
 green fire, he saw the Blind Man on the 
 
 314 
 
The Woman with the Net 
 
 Stone, and the Man who whirled a flaming 
 Sword, and the Man with the Spear. 
 
 The Man with the Sword cleaved him in 
 two parts, and Artan swam as two swim, but 
 knew not the one part from the other, or 
 which he was. Then the Man with the Spear 
 drove the spear through the two parts as they 
 swam, and they were made one. And Artan's 
 heart shook with wonder, for in that same 
 moment, as it seemed, he was in a dim wood, 
 and stood by a tree, and by another tree was 
 a woman, like a flame of pale green, and more 
 beautiful than his dreams. He heard the 
 wind in the grass, and saw a star among dark 
 branches, and in the moonshine a bird sang. 
 The woman threw a white flower at his feet, 
 and he gave a cry, and her breast warmed his 
 breast, and her breath was as flame, and all 
 his youth was upon him again, and Colum 
 was far away, and the Others were not there 
 in that place. 
 
 Then Artan woke, and saw the cold shine 
 of the stars, and heard the dawn-wind on the 
 sea. To the east, the mountain-peaks of Skye 
 rose dark, but pale light travelled along their 
 summits. It was day. 
 
 For three years Artan dwelt among the 
 Picts. He was called the Dart-Thrower be- 
 cause of his skill in war. He had to wife 
 
 315 
 
The Woman with the Net 
 
 Oona, the daughter of Myrdu the king, and 
 three women loved him and were held by 
 him. But Oona only he loved. He knew no 
 Latin words now; but once the sea-rovers 
 brought a coracle with three Culdees in it, and 
 he heard one singing the old words as he died 
 slowly on the tall tree where he was crucified. 
 For one was blinded and led naked into the 
 woods; and one was thrust through with an 
 ash-shaft, from the hips to the mouth, and 
 thrown upon the tide; and one was tied to a 
 sapling, and was crucified upon a tall tree. 
 
 " I have no Latin now," said Artan to the 
 monk, " but tell me this : Are God and the 
 Son and the Spirit still upon lona ? " 
 
 The monk cursed him and died. 
 
 That curse went out, and lay upon Oona, 
 and she withered, and lay down, and life went 
 from her. 
 
 Artan took a great galley that held a score 
 men. He set sail for lona. 
 
 But God was now come further north than 
 lona; for between the Holy Isle and the Isle 
 of the Columns the boat filled and sank. 
 
 Colum beheld this in a vision', and in a 
 hymn praised God. Artan alone did not 
 drown, but swam on a spar, and was washed 
 on to the sands at lona. 
 , The Culdees took him. 
 316 
 
The Woman with the Net 
 
 "In the name of God," said Colum, with 
 fierce anger in his eyes : " in the name of God, 
 put Artan, the servant of Mary, into the cell 
 below the ground ; and let him rest and pray 
 there through the night ; and at dawn we shall 
 take him out upon the shore, and shall drive 
 a stake through his breast, and the demon that 
 is within him shall go out of him, and he 
 himself shall go to God the Father. For he 
 has had the holy water on him^ and is of 
 those who dwell with the saints." 
 
 For Colum knew all that Artan had done. 
 
 So Artan the Culdee lay in darkness that 
 night. And before dawn he made this song — 
 
 It is but a little thing to sit here in the silence and 
 
 the dark; 
 For I remember the blazing noon when I saw Oona 
 
 . the White. 
 I remember the day when we sailed the Strait in our 
 
 skin-built bark, 
 And I remember Oona's lips on mine in the heart of 
 
 the night. 
 
 So it is a little thing to sit here, hearing nought, see- 
 ing nought ; 
 
 When the dawn breaks they will hurry me hence to 
 the new-dug grave: 
 
 It will be quiet there, if it be true what the good 
 Colum has taught. 
 
 And I shall hear Oona's voice as a sleeping seal hears 
 the moving wave. 
 
CATHAL OF THE WOODS 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 {The Annir Choille.^) 
 
 When Cathal mac Art, that was called 
 Cathal Gille-Mhoiee, Cathal the Servant of 
 Mary, walked by the sea, one night of the 
 nights in a green May, there was trouble in 
 his heart. 
 
 It was not long since he had left lona. 
 The good St Colum, in sending the youth to 
 the Isle of A-rinn, as it was then called, gave 
 him a writing for St Molios, the holy man 
 who lived in the sea-cave of the small Isle of 
 the Peak, that is in the eastward hollow at 
 the south end of Arran. A sorrow it was to 
 him to leave the fair isle in the west. He 
 had known glad years there — since, in one 
 of the remote isles to the north, he had seen 
 his father slain by a man of Lochlin, and his 
 mother carried away in a galley oared by 
 fierce yellow-haired men. No kith or kin had 
 he but the old priest, that was the brother of 
 
 • The English equivalent of Annir-Choille would 
 be the Wood-nymph. The word Annir is an ancient 
 compound Gaelic word for a maideln. 
 321 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 his father, Cathal Gille-Chriosd, Cathal the 
 Servant of Christ. 
 
 On lona he had learned the way of Christ. 
 He had a white robe; and could, with a 
 shaven stick and a thin tuft of seal-fur, or 
 with the feather-quill of a wild swan or a 
 solander, write the holy words upon strained 
 lambskin or parchment, and fill the big let- 
 ters, that were here and there, with earth- 
 brown and sky-blue and shining green, with 
 scarlet of blood and gold of sun-warm sands. 
 He could sing the long holy hymns, too, that 
 Colum loved to hear; and it was his voice 
 that had the sweetest clear-call of any on the 
 island. He was in the nineteenth year of his 
 years when a Prankish prince, who had come 
 to lona for the blessing of the Saint, wanted 
 him to go back with him to the Southlands. 
 He promised many things because of that 
 voice. Cathal dreamed often, in the hot 
 drowsy afternoons of the month that followed, 
 of the long white sword that would slay so 
 well; and of the white money that might be 
 his to buy fair apparel with, and a great black 
 stallion accoutred with trappings wrought with 
 gold, and a bed of down ; and of white hands, 
 and white breasts, and the white song of 
 youth. 
 
 He had not gone with the Prankish prince. 
 322 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 But he dreamed often. It was on a day of 
 dream that he lay on his back in the hot grass 
 upon a dune, near where the cells of the 
 monks were. The sun-glow bathed the isle 
 in a golden haze. The strait was a shimmer- 
 ing dazzle, and the blue wavelets that made 
 curves in the soft white sand seemed to spill 
 gold flakes and change them straightway into 
 little jets of foam or bubbles of rainbow- 
 spray. Cathal had made a song for his de- 
 light. His pain was less when he had made 
 it. Now, lying there, and dreaming at times 
 of the words of the Prankish prince, and re- 
 membering at times the stranger words of the 
 old pagan helot, Neis, who had come with him 
 out of the north, he felt fire burn in his veins ; 
 and he sang: 
 
 O where in the north, or where in the south, or 
 
 where in the east or west 
 Is she who hath the flower-white hands and the 
 
 swandown breast? 
 O, if she be west, or east she be, or in the north or 
 
 south, 
 A sword will leap, a horse will prance, ere I win to 
 
 Honey-Mouth. 
 
 She has great eyes, like the doe on the hill, and warm 
 and sweet she is, 
 
 O, come to me, Honey-Mouth, bend to me, Honey- 
 Mouth, give me thy kiss! 
 
 323 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 White Hands her name is, where she reigns amid the 
 
 princes fair: 
 White hands she moves like swimming swans 
 
 athrougli her dusk- wave hair: 
 White hands she puts about my heart, white hands 
 
 fan up my breath : 
 White hands take out the heart of me, and grant me 
 
 Hfe or death! 
 
 White hands make better songs than hymns, white 
 
 hands are young and sweet: 
 O, a sword for me, O Honey-Mouth, and a war-horse 
 
 fleet! 
 
 O wild sweet eyes! O glad wild eyes! O mouth, how 
 sweet it is! 
 
 O, come to me, Honey-Mouth! bend to me, Honey- 
 Mouth! give me thy kiss! 
 
 When he had ceased he saw a shadow fall 
 upon the white sand beyond the dune. He 
 looked up, and beheld Colum the Saint. 
 
 "Who taught you that song?" said the 
 white holy one, in a voice hard and stern. 
 
 " No one, O Colum." 
 
 " Then the Evil One is indeed here. 
 Cathal, I promised that you would be having 
 a holy name soon, but that name I will not 
 be giving you now. You must come to me 
 in sackcloth and with dust upon your head, 
 with pain upon you, and with deep grief in 
 your heart. Then only shall I bless you be- 
 
 324 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 fore the brothers and call you Cathal Gille- 
 Mhoiee, Cathal the Servant of Mary." 
 
 A bitter, sad waiting it was for him who 
 had fire in his young blood and was told to 
 weave frost there, and to put silence upon the 
 welling song in his heart. But at the end of 
 the week Cathal was a holy monk again, and 
 sang the hymns that Colum had taught 
 him. 
 
 It was on the eve of the day when Colum 
 blessed him before the brethren, and called 
 him Gille-Mhoiee, that he walked alone, 
 brooding upon the evil of women' and the 
 curse they brought, and praying to Mary to 
 save him fl-om the sins of which he scarce 
 knew the meaning. On his way back to his 
 cell he passed old Neis, the helot, who said 
 to him mockingly: 
 
 " It is a good thing that sorrow, Cathal 
 mac Art — and yet, sure, it is true that but for 
 the hot love the slain man your father had for 
 Foam that was your mother, you would not 
 be here to praise your God or serve the 
 woman whom the Arch-Druid yonder says is 
 the Mother of God." 
 
 Cathal bade the man eat silence, or it 
 would go ill with him. But the words 
 rankled. That night in his cell he woke, with 
 on his lips his own sinful words : 
 
 325 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 White hands make better songs than hymns, white 
 hands are young and sweet; 
 
 O, a sword for me, O Honey-Mouth, and a war- 
 horse fleet! 
 
 On the morrow he went to Colum and told 
 him that the Evil One would not give him 
 peace. That night the Saint bade him make 
 ready to go east to the Isle of Arran — ^the 
 sole isle, then, where the Pictish folk would 
 let the white robes of the Culdees go scathe- 
 less. To the holy Molios he was to go, him 
 that dwelled in the sea-cave of the Isle of the 
 Peak, that men already called the Holy Isle 
 because of the preaching and the miracles of 
 Molios. 
 
 " He is a wise man," said Colum to him- 
 self, " and he was a pagan Cruithne once, and 
 a prince at that, and he knows the sweetness 
 of sin, and will keep Cathal away from the 
 snares that are set. With fasting, and much 
 peril by day and weariness by night, the blood 
 of the youth will forget the songs the Evil 
 One has put into his mind and it will sing 
 holy hymns. Great will be the glory Cathal 
 Gille-Mhoiee will be a holy man while he has 
 yet his youth upon him; and he will be a 
 martyr to the flesh by day and by night and 
 by night and by day, till the heathen put him 
 to death because of the faith that is his." 
 326 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 Thus it was that Cathal was blessed by 
 Colum, and sent east among the wild Picts. 
 
 It was with joy that he served Molios. For 
 four months he gave him all he had to give. 
 The old saint passed word to Colum that 
 Cathal was a saint and was assured of the 
 crown of martyrdom, and lovingly he urged 
 that the youth should be sent to the Isle of 
 Mist in the north, the great isle that was ruled 
 by Scathach the Queen. There, at the last 
 Summer-sailing, the pagans had flayed a 
 monk alive. A fair happy end : and Cathal 
 was now worthy — and withal might triumph, 
 and might even convert the heathen queen. 
 " She is wondrous fair to see," he added, 
 "and Cathal is a comely youth." 
 
 But Colum had answered that the young 
 monk was to bide where he was, and to seek 
 to win souls in the pagan Isle of Arran, where 
 the Cross was still feared. 
 
 But with the coming of May and golden 
 weather, the blood of Cathal grew warm. At 
 times, even, he dreamed of the Prankish 
 prince and the evil sweet words he had said. 
 
 Then a day of the days came. Molios and 
 Cathal went to a hill-dun where the Pict 
 chieftain lived, and converted him and all the 
 people in the dun and all in the rath that was 
 beyond the dun. That eve the daughter of 
 
 327 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 the warrior came upon Cathal walking in a 
 solitary place, among the green pines beyond 
 the rath. She was most sweet to look upon : 
 tall and fair, with eyes like the sea in a cloud- 
 less noon, and hair like westward wheat 
 turned back upon itself. 
 
 " What is' the name men call you by, young 
 Druid ? " she said. " I am Ardanna, the 
 daughter of Ecta." 
 
 " Your beauty is sweet to look upon, Ar- 
 danna. I am Cathal the son of Art the son 
 of Aodh of the race of Alpein, from the isles 
 of the sea. But I am not a Druid. I am a 
 priest of Christ, a servant of Mary the Mother 
 of God, and a son of God." 
 
 Ardanna looked at him. A flush came into 
 his face. In his eyes the same light flamed 
 that was there when the Prankish prince told 
 him of the delights of the world. 
 
 " Is it true, O Cathal, that the Druids— that 
 the priests of Christ and the two other gods, 
 the white-robed men whom we call Culdees, 
 and of whom you are one, is it true that they 
 will have nought to do with women ? " 
 
 Cathal looked upon the woman no more, but 
 on the ground at his feet. 
 
 " It is true, Ardanna." 
 
 The girl laughed. It was a low, sweet, 
 mocking laugh, but it went along Cathal's 
 
 328 
 
/ / / / / 
 
 Cathal of the Woods 
 
 blood like cloud-fire along the sky. It was to 
 him as though somewhat he had not seen was 
 revealed. 
 
 " And is it a true thing that you holy men 
 look at women askance, and as snares of peril 
 and evil ? " 
 
 " It is true, Ardanna ; but not so upon those 
 who are sisters of Christ, and whose eyes are 
 upon heavenly things." 
 
 " But what of those who are not sisters of 
 your god, and are only women, fair to look 
 upon, fair to woo, fair to love ? " 
 
 Cathal again flushed. His eyes were still 
 upon the ground. He made no answer. 
 
 Ardanna laughed low. 
 
 " Cathal ! " 
 
 "Yes, fair daughter of Ecta?" 
 
 " Is it never longing for love you are ? " 
 
 " There is but one love for us who have 
 taken the vows of chastity." 
 
 "What is chastity?" 
 
 Cathal raised his eyes and glanced at Ar- 
 danna. Her dark-blue eyes looked at him 
 pure and sweet, though a smile was upon her 
 mouth. He sighed. 
 
 " It is the sanctity of the body, Ardanna." 
 
 "I do not understand/' she said simply. 
 " But tell me this, poor Cathal " 
 
 " Why do you call me poor Cathal ? " 
 
 329 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 " Because you have put your manhood from 
 you — and you so young, and strong, and 
 comely — and are not a warrior, and care 
 neither for the sword, nor the chase, nor the 
 harp, nor for women." 
 
 Cathal was troubled. He looked again and 
 again at Ardanna. The sunset light was in 
 her yellow hair, which was about her as a 
 glory. He had seen the moon as wondrous 
 pale as her beautiful face. Like lilies her 
 white hands were. He had dreamed of that 
 flamelight in the eyes. 
 
 " I care," he said. 
 
 She drew nearer, and leaned a little for- 
 ward, and looked at him. 
 
 " You are good to look upon, Cathal — ^the 
 comeliest youth I have ever seen." 
 
 The monk flushed. This was the devil- 
 tongue of which Colum had warned him. But 
 how sweet the words were: like a harp that 
 low voice. Sure, sweeter is a waking dream 
 than a dream in sleep. 
 
 "I care," he repeated dully. 
 
 " Look, Cathal." 
 
 Slowly he raised his eyes. As his gaze 
 moved upward it rested on the white breast 
 which was like sea-foam swelling out of 
 brown sea-weed, for she had a tanned fawn- 
 skin belted and gold-claspt over the white 
 
 330 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 robe she wore, and that had disparted for the 
 • warm air to play upon her bosom. 
 
 It troubled him. He let his eyes fall again. 
 The red was on his face. 
 
 " Cathal ! " 
 
 "Yes, Ardanna." 
 
 " And you will never put your kiss upon a 
 woman's lips? Never put your heart upon 
 a woman's heart? Is it of cold sea water you 
 are made — for even the running water in the 
 streams is warmed by the sun? Tell me, 
 Cathal, would you leave Molios the Culdee, 
 —if " 
 
 The monk of Christ suddenly flashed his , 
 eyes upon the woman. 
 
 " If what, Ardanna ? " he asked abruptly ; 
 " if what, Ardanna that is so witching fair ? " 
 
 " If / loved you, Cathal? If I, the daugh- 
 ter of Ecta the chief, loved you, and took you 
 to be my man, and you took me to be your 
 woman, would you be content so ? " 
 
 He stared at her as one in a dream. Then 
 suddenly all the foolish madness that had 
 been put upon him by Colum fell away. 
 What did these old men, Colum and Molios, 
 know? It is only the young who know what 
 life is. They were old, and their blood was 
 gelid. 
 
 He put up his arms, as though in prayer. 
 
 331 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 Then he smiled. Ardanna saw a Hght in his 
 eyes that sprang into her heart and sang a 
 song there that whirled in her ears and daz- 
 zled her eyes and made her feel as though 
 she had fallen over a great height and were 
 still falling. 
 
 Cathal was no longer pale. A red flame 
 burned in either cheek. The sunset-light be- 
 hind him filled his hair with fire. His eyes 
 were beacons. 
 
 " Cathal, Cathal ! " 
 
 " Come, Ardanna ! " 
 
 That was all. What need to say more. 
 She was in his arms, and her heart throbbing 
 against his that leapt in his body like a wolf 
 fallen in a snare. 
 
 He stooped and kissed her. She lifted her 
 eyes, and his brain swung. She kissed him, 
 and he kissed her till she gave a low cry and 
 gently thrust him back. He laughed. 
 
 "Why do you laugh, Cathal?" 
 
 " I ? It is I who laugh now. The old men 
 put a spell upon me. I am no more Cathal 
 Gille-Mhoiee, but Cathal mac Art. Nay, I 
 am Cathal Gille-Ardanna." 
 
 With that he plucked the branch of a rowan 
 that grew near. He stripped it of its leaves, 
 and threw them from him north, south, east, 
 and west. 
 
 332 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 "Why do you that, Cathal-aluinn ? " Ar- 
 danna asked, looking at him with eyes of love, 
 and she like a summer morning there, because 
 of the sunshine in her hair, and the wild 
 roses on her face, and the hill-tarn blue of 
 her eyes. 
 
 " These are all the hymns that Colum 
 taught me. I give them back, I am know- 
 ing them no more. They are idle, foolish 
 songs." 
 
 Then the monk took the branch and broke 
 it, and threw the pieces upon the ground and 
 trampled upon them. 
 
 " Why do you that, Cathal-aluinn ? " asked 
 Ardanna, wondering at him with her home- 
 call eyes. 
 
 "That is the branch of all the wisdom 
 Colum taught me. Old Neis, the helot, was 
 wise. It is a madness, all that. See, it is 
 gone; it is beneath my feet. I am a man 
 now." 
 
 " But O Cathal, Cathal ! this very day of 
 the days, Ecta, my father, has become a man 
 of the Christ-faith, him and his ; and he would 
 do what Molios asked now. And Molios 
 would ask your death." 
 
 " Death is a dream." 
 
 With that Cathal leaned forward and kissed 
 Ardanna upon the lips twice. "A kiss for 
 
 333 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 life that," he said; "and that a kiss for 
 death." 
 
 Ardanna laughed a low laugh. " The 
 monk can kiss," she whispered ; " can the 
 monk love ? " 
 
 He put his arm about her, and they went 
 into the dim dark greenness. 
 
 The moon rose slowly, a globe of pale gold- 
 en fire which spilled unceasingly a yellow 
 flame upon the suspended billows of the for- 
 est. Star after star emerged. Deep silence 
 was in the woods, save for the strange, pas- 
 sionate churring of a night-jar, where he 
 leaned low from a pine branch and called to 
 his mate, whose heart throbbed a flight-away 
 amid the dewy shadows. 
 
 The wind was still. The white rays of the 
 stars wandered over the moveless, over the 
 shadowless and breathless green lawns of the 
 tree-tops. 
 
 " What is that sound ? " said Ardanna, a 
 dim shape in the darkness, where she lay in 
 the arms of Cathal. 
 
 " 1 know not," said the youth ; for the 
 fevered blood in his veins sang a song against 
 his ears. 
 
 " Listen ! " 
 
 Cathal listened. He heard nothing. His 
 eyes dreamed again into the silence. 
 
 334 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 " What is that sound ? " she whispered 
 against his heart once again. " It is not from 
 the sea, nor is it of the woods." 
 
 " It is the moan of Heaven," answered 
 Cathal wearily ; " an acain Paras." 
 
 II 
 
 They found them there in the twilight of 
 the dawn. For long Ecta looked at them 
 and pondered. Then he glanced at Molios. 
 There were tears in the heart of the holy man, 
 but in his eyes a deep anger. 
 
 " Bind him," said Ecta. 
 
 Cathal woke with the thongs. His gaze 
 fell upon Molios. He made no sign, and 
 spake never a word; but he smiled. 
 
 "What now, O Molios?" asked Ecta. 
 
 " Take the woman away. Do with her as 
 you will — spare or slay. It matters not. She 
 is but a woman, and she hath wrought evil 
 upon this man. To slay were well." 
 
 " She is my daughter." 
 
 "Spare, then, if you will; but take her 
 away. Give her to a man. She shall never 
 see this renegade again." 
 
 With that, two men led Ardanna away. 
 She gave a glance at Cathal, who smiled. No 
 
 335 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 tears were in her eyes; but a proud fire was 
 there, and she brooked no man's hand upon 
 her, and walked free. 
 
 When she was gone, Molios spake. 
 
 " Cathal, that was called Cathal Gille- 
 Mhoiee, why haye you done this thing ? " 
 
 " Because I was weary of vain imaginings, 
 and I am young ; and Ardanna is fair, and we 
 loved." 
 
 " Such love is death." 
 
 " So be it, Molios. Such death is sweet as 
 love." 
 
 " No ordinary death shalt thou have, blas- 
 phemer. Yet even now I would be merciiul if 
 I could. Dost thou call upon God ? " 
 
 " I call upon the gods of my fathers." 
 
 " Fool, they shall not save you." 
 
 " Nevertheless, I call. I have nought to do 
 with thy three gods, O Christian." 
 
 " Hast thou no fear of hell? " 
 
 " I am a warrior, and the son of my father, 
 and of a race of heroes. Why should I fear ? " 
 
 Molios brooded a while. 
 
 " Take him," he said at last, " and bury him 
 alive where his gods perchance will hear his 
 cries and come and save him ! Find me a hol- 
 low tree." 
 
 " There is a great oak near here," said Ecta, 
 wondering, " a great hollow oak whose belly 
 
 336 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 would hold five men, each standing upon the 
 other." 
 
 With that he led them to an ancient tree. 
 
 " Dost thou repent, Cathal ? " Molios asked. 
 
 "Ay," the young man answered grimly; 
 " I repent. I repent that I wasted the 
 good days serving you and your three false 
 gods." 
 
 " Blaspheme no more. Thou knowest that 
 these three are one God." 
 
 Cathal laughed mockingly. 
 
 " Hearken to him, Ecta," he cried ; " this old 
 Druid would have you believe that two men 
 and a woman make one person ! Believe that 
 if you will ! As for me, I laugh." 
 
 But with that, at a sign from Molios, they 
 lifted and slung him amid the branches of the 
 oak, and let him slide feet foremost into the 
 deep hollow heart of the tree. 
 
 When the law was done, Molios bade all 
 near kneel in a circle round the oak. Then 
 he prayed for the soul of the doomed man. 
 As he ended this prayer, a laugh flew up 
 among the high wind-swayed leaves. It was 
 as though an invisible bird were there, mock- 
 ing like a jay. 
 
 One by one, with bowed heads, Molios and 
 Ecta and those with him withdrew, all save 
 two young men who were bidden to stay. 
 
 337 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 Upon these was bond laid, that they would 
 not stir from that place for three days. They 
 were to let none draw nigh : and no food was 
 to be given to the victim: and if he cried to 
 them, they were to take no heed, — nay, not 
 though he called upon God or the Mother of 
 God or upon the White Christ. 
 
 All that day there was no sound from the 
 hollow tree. At the setting of the sun a black- 
 bird lit upon a small branch that drooped over 
 the aperture, and sang a brave lilt. Then the 
 dark came, and the moon rose, and the stars 
 glimmered through the dew. 
 
 At midnight the moon was overhead. A 
 flood of pale gold rays lit up the branches of 
 the oak, and turned the leaves into a lustrous 
 bronze. The watchers heard a voice singing 
 in the silence of the night — a voice muffled 
 and obscure, as from one in a pit, or as that 
 of a shepherd straying in a narrow corrie. 
 Words they caught, though not all ; and this 
 was what they heard : ^ 
 
 O yellow lamp of loua that is having a cold pale flame 
 
 there, 
 Put thy honey-sheen upon me who am close-cavemed 
 
 with Death: 
 
 ' loua was one of the early Celtic names of the 
 moon. The allusion (in the fourth line) to the sun, 
 in the feminine, is in accordance with ancient usage. 
 
 338 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 Sure it is nought I see now who have seen too much 
 and too little : 
 
 moon, thy breast is softer and whiter than hers 
 
 who bumeth the day. 
 
 Put thy white light on the grave where the dead man 
 
 my father is, 
 
 ' And waken him, waken him, wake! 
 And put thy soft shining on the breast of the woman 
 
 my mother. 
 So that she stir in her sleep and say to the Viking 
 
 beside her, 
 "Take up thy sword, and let it lap blood, for it thirsts 
 
 with long thirst." 
 
 And O loua, be as the sea-calm upon the hot heart of 
 
 Ardanna, the girl: 
 Tell her that Cathal loves her, and that memory is 
 
 sweeter than life. 
 
 1 list her heart beating here in the dark and the 
 
 silence. 
 And it is not lonely I am, because of that, and re- 
 membrance. 
 
 O yellow flame of loua, be a spilling of blood out of 
 
 the heart of Ecta, 
 So that he fall dead, inglorious, slain from within, as 
 
 a grey-beard ; 
 And light a fire in the brain of Molios, so that he shall 
 
 go moonstruck. 
 And men will jeer at him, and he will die at the last, 
 
 idly laughing. 
 
 For lo, I worship thee, loua; and if you can give my 
 message to Neis, — 
 
 339 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 Neis the helot out of Aoidii, who is in lona, bond- 
 man to Colum, — 
 
 Tell him I hail you as Bandia, as god-queen and 
 mighty, 
 
 And that he had the wisdom and I was a fool with 
 trickling ears of moss. 
 
 But grant me this, O goddess, a bitter moon-drink- 
 ing for Colum! 
 
 May he have the moonsong in his brain, and in his 
 heart the moonfire: 
 
 Flame bum him in heart of flame, and may he wane 
 as wax at the furnace. 
 
 And his soul drown in tears, and his body be a 
 nothingness upon the sands! 
 
 The watchers looked at each other, but said 
 no word. On the pale face of each was fear 
 and awe. What if this new god-teaching 
 were false, and if Cathal was right, and the 
 old gods were the lords of life and death? 
 The moonlight fell upon them, and they saw 
 doubt in the eyes of each other. Neither 
 looked at the white fire. Out of the radiance, 
 cold eyes might stare upon them: when at 
 that, sure they would leap to the woods, laugh- 
 ing wild, and be as the beasts of the forest. 
 
 While it was still dark, an hour before the 
 dawn, one of the twain awoke from a brief 
 slumber. His gaze wandered from vague 
 tree to tree. Thrice he thought he saw dim 
 shapes glide from bole to bole or from thicket 
 
 340 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 to thicket. Suddenly he discerned a tall figure, 
 silent as a shadow, standing at the verge of 
 the glade. 
 
 His low cry aroused his companion. 
 
 " What is it, Murta ? " the young man asked 
 in a whisper. 
 
 " A woman." 
 
 When they looked again she was gone. 
 
 " It was one of the Hidden People," said 
 Murta, with restless eyes roaming from dusk 
 to dusk. 
 
 " How are you for knowing that, Murta ? " 
 
 " She was all in green, just like a green 
 shadow she was, and I saw the green fire in 
 her eyes." 
 
 " Have you not thought of one that it might 
 be?" 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " Ardanna." 
 
 With that the young man rose and ran 
 swiftly to the place where he had seen the fig- 
 ure. But he could see no one. Looking at the 
 ground he was troubled : for in the moonshine- 
 dew he descried the imprint of small feet. 
 
 Thereafter they saw or heard nought, save 
 the sights and sounds of the woodland. 
 
 At sunrise the two youths rose. Miirta 
 lifted up his arms, then sank upon his knees 
 with bowed head. 
 
 341 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 "Why do you do that forbidden thing?" 
 said Diarmid, that was his companion. " Have 
 you forgotten Cathal the monk that is up there 
 alone with death ? If Molios the holy one saw 
 you worshipping the Light he would do unto 
 you as he has done unto Cathal." 
 
 But before Murta answered they heard the 
 voice of Cathal once more — ^hoarse and dry 
 it was, but scarce weaker than when it thrilled 
 them at the rising of the moon. 
 
 This was what he chanted in his muffled 
 voice out of his grave there in the hollow oak : 
 
 O hot yellow fire that streams out of the sky, sword- 
 white and golden, 
 
 Be a flame upon the monks who are praying in their 
 cells in loua! 
 
 Be a fire in the veins of Colum, and the hell that he 
 preacheth be his. 
 
 And be a torch to the men of Lochlin that they 
 discover the isle and destroy it! 
 
 For I see this thing, that the old gods are the gods 
 
 that die not : 
 All else is a seeming, a dream, a madness, a tide ever 
 
 ebbing. 
 Glory to thee, O Grian, lord of life, first of the gods 
 
 Allfather, 
 Swords and spears are thy beams, thy breath a fire 
 
 that consumeth. 
 
 And upon this isle of A-rinn send sorrow and death 
 and disaster, 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 Upon one and all save Ardanna, who gave me her 
 
 bosom, 
 Upon one and all send death, the curse of a death 
 
 slow and swordless, 
 From Molios of the Cave to Miirta and Diarmid my 
 
 doomsmenf 
 
 At that Murta moved close to the oak. 
 
 " Hail, O Cathal ! " he cried. There was 
 silence. 
 
 " Art thou a living man still, or is it the 
 death of thee that is singing there in the hol- 
 low oak ? " 
 
 " My limbs perish, but I die not yet," an- 
 swered the muffled voice that had greeted the 
 sun. 
 
 " I am Murta mac Murta mac Neisa, and 
 my heart is sore for thee, Cathal ! " 
 
 There was no word to this. A thrush upon 
 a branch overhead lifted its wings, sang a wild 
 sweet note, and swooped arrowly through the 
 greengloom of the leaves. 
 
 " Cathal, that wert a monk, which is the 
 true thing? Is it Christ, or the gods of our 
 fathers?" 
 
 Silence. Three oaks away a woodpecker 
 thrust its beak into the soft bark, tap-tapping, 
 tap-tapping. 
 
 " Cathal, is it death you are having, there in 
 the dark and the silence? " 
 
 343 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 Murta strained his ears, but he could hear 
 no sound. Over the woodlands a voice floated, 
 drowsy-warm and breast-white — ^the voice of 
 a cuckoo calling a love-note from cool green 
 shadow to shadow across a league of windless 
 blaze. 
 
 Then Murta that was a singer, went to 
 where the bulrushes grew by a little tarn that 
 was in the moss an arrow-flight away. He 
 plucked a last-year reed, straight and brown, 
 and with his knife cut seven holes in it. With 
 a thinner reed he scooped the hollow clean. 
 
 Thereupon he returned to the oak. Diar- 
 mid, who had begun to eat of the food that had 
 been left with them, sat stil|, with his eyes upon 
 him. 
 
 Murta put his hollow reed to his lips, and 
 he played. It was a forlorn, sweet air that 
 he had heard from a shepherding woman upon 
 the hills. Then he played a burying-song of 
 the islanders, wherein the wash of the sea and 
 the rippling of the waves upon the shore was 
 heard. Then he played the song of love, and 
 the beating of hearts was heard, and sighs, and 
 a voice like a distant bird-song rose and fell. 
 
 When he ceased, a voice came out of the 
 hollow oak — 
 
 " Play me a death-song, Mijrta mac Murta 
 mac Neisa." 
 
 .344 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 Murta smiled, and he played again the song 
 of love. 
 
 After that there was silence for a brief 
 while. Then Murta played upon his reed for 
 the time it takes a heron to mount her seventh 
 spiral. Then he ceased, and threw away the 
 reed, and stood erect, staring into the green- 
 ness. In his eyes was a strange shine. He 
 sang: 
 
 Out of the wild hills I am hearing a voice, O Cathal! 
 And I am thinking it is the voice of a bleeding sword. 
 Whose is that sword ? I know it well : it is the sword 
 
 of the Slayer — 
 Him that is called Death, and the song that it sings 
 
 I know : — 
 
 where is Cathal mac Art, that is the cup for the thirst 
 
 of my lips? 
 
 Out of the cold greytiess of the sea I am hearing, O 
 Cathal, 
 
 1 am hearing a wave-muffled voice, as of one who 
 
 drowns in the depths : 
 Whose is that voice ? I know it well : it is the voice 
 
 of the Shadow — 
 Her that is called the Grave, and the song that she 
 
 sings I know: — 
 
 where is Cathal mac Art, he has warmth for the chill 
 
 that I havef 
 
 Out of the hot greenness of the wood I am hearing, 
 O Cathal, 
 
 1 am hearing a rustling step, as of one stumbHng 
 
 blind. 
 
 345 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 Whose is that rustling step? I know it well: the 
 
 rustling walk of the Blind One — 
 She that is called Silence, and the song that she sings 
 
 I know: — 
 O where is Cathal mac Art, that has tears to water my 
 
 stillnesst 
 
 After that there was silence. Murta moved 
 away. When he sat by Diarmid and ate, there 
 was no word spoken. Diarmid did not look 
 at him, for he had sung a song of death, and 
 the shadow was upon him. He kept his gaze , 
 upon the moss : if he raised his eyes might he 
 not see the Slayer, or the Shadow, or the Blind 
 One? 
 
 Noon came. None drew nigh: not a face 
 was seen shadowily afar off. Sometimes the 
 hoofs of the deer rustled among the bracken. 
 The snarling of young foxes in an oak-root 
 hollow was like a red pulse in the heat. At 
 times, in the sheer abyss of blue sky to the 
 north, a hawk suspended: in the white-blaze 
 southerly a blotch like swirled foam appeared 
 for a moment at long intervals, as a gannet 
 swung from invisible pinnacles of air to the 
 invisible sea. 
 
 The afternoon drowsed through the sun- 
 flood. The green leaves grew golden, satu- 
 rated with light. At sundown a flight of wild 
 doves rose out of the pines, wheeled against 
 
 346 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 the shine of the west and flashed out of sight, 
 flames of purple and rose, of foam-white and 
 pink. 
 
 The gloaming came, silverly. The dew glis- 
 tened on the fronds of the ferns, in the cups 
 of the moss. From glade to glade the cuckoos 
 called. The stars emerged delicately, as the 
 eyes of fawns shining through the greengloom 
 of the forest. Once more the moon snowed the 
 caster frondage of the pines and oaks. 
 
 No one came nigh. Not a sound had sighed 
 from the oak since Miirta had sung at the gold- 
 ening of the day. At sunset Murta had risen, 
 to lean, intent, against the vast bole. His keen 
 ears caught the jar of a beetle burrowing 
 beneath the bark. There was no other 
 sound. 
 
 At the fall of dark the watchers heard the 
 confused far noise of a festival. It waned as 
 a lost wind. Dim veils of cloud obscured the 
 moon; a low rainy darkness suspended over 
 the earth. 
 
 Thus went the second day and the second 
 night. 
 
 When, after the weary vigil of the hours, 
 dawn came at last, Miirta rose and struck the 
 oak with a stone. 
 
 " Cathal ! " he cried, " Cathal ! " 
 
 There was no sound : not a stir, not a sigh. 
 
 347 
 
Cathal of the Wocds 
 
 "Cathal! Cathal!" 
 
 Murta looked at Diarmid. Then, seeing his 
 own thought in the eyes of his friend, he re- 
 turned to his side. 
 
 " The Blind One has been here," said Diar- 
 mid in a low voice. 
 
 At noon there was thunder, and great heat. 
 The noise of rustling wings filled the under- 
 wood. 
 
 Diarmid fell into a deep sleep. When the 
 thunder had travelled into the hills, and a soft 
 rain fell, Murta climbed into the branches of 
 the oak. He stared down into the hollow, but 
 could see nothing save a green dusk that be- 
 came brown shadow, and brown shadow that 
 grew into a blackness. 
 
 " Cathal! " he whispered. 
 
 Not a breath of sound ascended like smoke. 
 
 "Cathal! Cathal!" 
 
 The slow drip of the rain slipped and pat- 
 tered among the leaves. The cry of a sea- 
 bird flying inland came mournfully across the 
 woods. A distant clang, as of a stricken anvil, 
 iterated from the barren mountain beyond the 
 forest. 
 
 "Cathal! Cathal!" 
 
 Murta broke a straight branch, stripped it of 
 the leaves, arid, forcing the thicker end down- 
 ward, let it fall sheer. 
 
 348 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 It struck with a dull, soft thud. He lis- 
 tened : there was not a sound. 
 
 " A quiet sleep to you, monk," he whispered, 
 and slipped down through the boughs, and 
 was beside Diarmid again. 
 
 At dusk the rain ceased. A cool green 
 freshness came into the air. The stars were 
 as wind-whirled fruit blown upward from the 
 tree-tops. The moon, full-orbed and with a 
 pulse of flame, led a tide of soft light across 
 the brown shores of the world. 
 
 The vigils of the watchers were over. 
 Murta and Diarmid rose. Without a word 
 they moved across the glade: the faint rustle 
 of their feet stirred the bracken : then they left 
 the undergrowth, and were among the pines. 
 Their shadows lapsed into the obscure wilder- 
 ness. A doe, heavy with fawn, lay down 
 among the dewy fern, and was at peace there. 
 
 Ill 
 
 At midnight, when the whole isle lay in the 
 full flood of the moon, Cathal stirred. 
 
 For three days and three nights he had been 
 in that dark hollow, erect, wedged as a spear 
 imbedded in the jaws of a dead beast. He 
 had died thrice : with hunger, with thirst, with 
 
 .349 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 weariness. Then when hunger was slain in its 
 own pain, and thirst perished of its own 
 agony, and weariness could no more endure, 
 he stirred with the death-throe. 
 
 " I die," he moaned. 
 
 " Die not, O white one," came a floating 
 whisper, he knew not whence, though it was 
 to him as though the crushing walls of oak 
 breathed the sound. 
 
 " I die," he gasped, and the froth bubbled 
 upon his nether lip. With that his last 
 strength went. No more could he hold his 
 head above his shoulder, nor would his feet 
 sustain him. Like a stricken deer he sank. So 
 thin was he, so worn, that he slipt into a nar- 
 row crevice where dead leaves had been, and 
 lay there, drowning in the dark. 
 
 Was that death, or a cold air about his feet, 
 he wondered? With a dull pain he moved 
 them: they came against no tree-wood — ^the 
 coolness about them was of dewy moss. A 
 wild hope flashed into his mind. With feeble 
 hands he strove to sink farther into the crevice. 
 
 " I die," he gasped, " I die now, at the last." 
 
 " Die not, O white one," breathed the same 
 low sweet whisper, like leaves stirred by a nest- 
 ing bird. 
 
 " Save, O save," muttered the monk, hoarse 
 with the death-dew. 
 
 350 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 Then a blackness came down upon him from 
 a great height, and he swung in that blank 
 gulf as a feather swirled this way and that in 
 the void of an abyss. 
 
 When the darkness lifted again, Cathal was 
 on his back, and breathing slow, but without 
 pain. A sweet wonderful coolness and ease, 
 that he knew now ! Where was he ? he won- 
 dered. Was he in that Paras that Colum and 
 Molios had spoken of ? Was he in Hy Brasil, 
 of which he had heard Aodh the Harper sing? 
 Was he in Tir-na'n-Og, where all men and 
 women are young for evermore, and there is 
 joy in the heart and peace in the mind and 
 gladness by day and by night ? 
 
 Why was his mouth so cool, that had burned 
 dry as ash? Why were his lips moist, with a 
 bitter-sweet flavour, as though the juice of 
 fruit was there still? 
 
 He pondered, with closed eyes. At last he 
 opened them, and stared upward. The pro- 
 found black-blue dome of the sky held group 
 after group of stars that he knew: was not 
 that sword and belt yonder the sword-gear of 
 Fionn? Yon shimmering cluster, were they 
 not the dust of the feet of Alldai ? That leap- 
 ing green and blue planet, what could it be but 
 the harp of Brigit, where she sang to the 
 gods? 
 
 351 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 A shadow croesed his vision. The next 
 moment a cool hand was upon his eyes. It 
 brought rest, and healing. He felt the blood 
 move in his veins : his heart beat : a throbbing 
 was in his throat. 
 
 Then he knew that he had strength to rise. 
 With a great effort he put his weariness from 
 off him, and staggered to his feet. 
 
 Cathal gave a low sob. A fair beautiful 
 woman stood by him. 
 
 " Ardanna ! " he cried, though even as the 
 word leaped from his lips he knew that he 
 looked upon no Pictish woman. 
 
 She smiled. All his heart was glad because 
 of that. The light in her eyes was like the 
 fire of the moon, bright and wonderful. The 
 delicate body of her was pale green, and lumi- 
 nous as a leaf, with soft earth-brown hair fall- 
 ing down her shoulders and over the swelling 
 breast; even as the small green mounds over 
 the dead the two breasts were. She was clad 
 only. in her own loveliness, though the moon- 
 shine was about her as a garment. 
 
 " Like a green leaf : like a green leaf," Cathal 
 muttered over and over below his breath. 
 
 " Are you a dream ? " he asked simply, hav- 
 ing no words for his wonder. 
 
 " No, Cathal, I am no dream. I am a wom- 
 an." 
 
 352 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 "A woman? But . . . but . . . you have 
 no body as other women have : and I see the 
 moonbeam that is on your breast shining upon 
 the moss behind you ! " 
 
 " Is it thinking you are, poor Cathal, that 
 there are no women and no men in the world 
 except those who are in thick flesh, and move 
 about in the suntide ? " 
 
 Cathal stared wonderingly. 
 
 " I am of the green people, Cathal. We are 
 of the woods. I am a woman of the woods." 
 
 " Hast thou a name, fair woman ? " 
 
 " I am called Deoin." ^ 
 
 " That is well. Truly ' Green Breath ' is a 
 good name for thee. Are there others of thy 
 kin in this place ? " 
 
 " Look ! " and at that she stooped, lifted the 
 dew of a white flower in the moonshine, and 
 put it upon his eyes. 
 
 Cathal looked about him. Everywhere he 
 saw tall, fair pale-green lives moving to and 
 fro : some passing out of trees, swift and silent 
 as rain out of a cloud ; some passing into trees, 
 silent and swift as shadows. All were fair to 
 look upon: tall, lithe, graceful, moving this 
 way and that in the moonshine, pale green as 
 the leaves of the lime, soft shining, with radiant 
 eyes, and delicate earth-brown hair. 
 ' Deo-uaine. 
 
 353 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 " Who are these, Deoin ? " Cathal asked in a 
 low whisper of awe. 
 
 " They are my people : the folk of the 
 woods : the green people." 
 
 " But they come out of trees : they come and 
 they go like bees in and out of a hive." 
 
 " Trees ? That is your name for us of the 
 woods. We are the trees." 
 
 " You the trees, D^oin ! How can that be ? " 
 
 " There is life in your body. Where does 
 it go when the body sleeps, or when the sap 
 rises no more to heart or brain, and there is 
 chill in the blood, and it is like frozen water? 
 Is there a life in your body ? " ' 
 
 " Ay, so. I -know it." 
 
 The flesh is your body; the tree is my 
 body." 
 
 " Then you are the green life of a ttee ? " 
 
 " I am the green life of a tree." 
 
 "And these?" 
 
 " They are as I am." 
 
 " I see those that are men and those that 
 are women and their offspring too I see." 
 
 " They are as I am." 
 
 " And some are crowned with pale flowers." 
 
 " They love." 
 
 " And hast thou no crown, Deoin, who art 
 so fair?" 
 
 " Neither hast thou, Cathal, though thy face 
 
 354 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 is fair. Thy body I cannot see, because thou 
 hast a husk about thee." 
 
 With a low laugh Cathal removed his rai- 
 ment from him. The whiteness of his body 
 was like a flower there in the moonshine. 
 
 " That shall not be against me," he said. 
 " Truly, I am a man no longer, if thee and 
 thine will have me as one of the wood-folk." 
 
 At that Deoin called. Many green phan- 
 toms glided out of the trees, and others, hand- 
 in-hand, flower-crowned, crossed the glade. 
 
 " Look, green lives," Deoin cried in her 
 sweet leaf-whisper, rising now like a wind- 
 song among birchen boughs ; " look, here is 
 a human. His life is mine, for I saved him. 
 I have put the moonshine dew upon his eyes. 
 He sees as we see. He would be one of us, 
 for all that he has no tree for his body, but 
 flesh, white over red." 
 
 One who had moved thitherward out of an 
 ancient oak looked at Cathal. 
 
 " Wouldst thou be of the wood- folk, man ? " 
 
 " Ay, fain am I ; for sure, for sure, O Druid 
 of the trees." 
 
 "Wilt thou learn and abide by our laws, 
 the first of which is that none may stir from 
 his tree until the dusk has come, nor linger 
 away from it when the dawn opens grey lips 
 and drinks up the shadows ? " 
 
 355 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 " I have no law now but the law of green 
 life." 
 
 " Good. Thou shalt live with us. Thy 
 home shall be the hollow oak where thy kin 
 left thee to die. Why did they do that evil 
 deed?" 
 
 " Because I did not believe in the new 
 gods." 
 
 " Who are thy gods, man whom this green 
 one here calls Cathal ? " 
 
 " They are the Sun, and the Moon, and the 
 Wind, and others that I will tell you of." 
 
 "Hast thou heard of Keithoir?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " He is the god of the green world. He 
 dreams, and his dreams are Springtide and 
 Summertide and Appletide. When he sleeps 
 without dream there is winter." 
 
 " Have you no other god but this eartK- 
 god?" 
 
 " Keithoir is our god. We know no other." 
 
 " If he is thy god, he is my god." 
 
 " I see in the eyes of Deoin that she loves 
 thee, Cathal the human. Wilt thou have her 
 love?" 
 
 Cathal looked at the girl. His heart swam 
 in light. 
 
 "Ay, if Deoin will give me her love, my 
 love shall be hers." 
 
 3S6 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 The Annir-Coille moved forward and 
 brushed softly against him as a green branch. 
 
 He put his arms around her. She had a 
 cool, sweet body to feel. He was glad she 
 was no moonshine phantom. The beating of 
 her heart against his made a music that filled 
 his ears. 
 
 Deoin stooped and plucked white, dewy 
 flowers. Of these she wove a wreath for 
 Cathal. He, likewise, plucked the white 
 blooms, and made a coronal of foam for the 
 brown wave of her hair. 
 
 Then, hand in hand, they fared slowly forth 
 across the moonlit glade. None crossed their 
 path, though everywhere delicate green lives 
 flitted from tree to tree. They heard a won- 
 derful sweet singing, aerial, with a ripple as of 
 leaves lipping a windy shore of light. A green 
 glamour was in the eyes of Cathal. The green 
 fire of life flamed in his veins. 
 
 IV 
 
 Molios, the saint of Christ, that lived in the 
 sea-cave of the Isle of the Peak, so that even 
 in his own day it was called the Holy Isle, 
 endured to a great age. 
 
 Some say of him that before his hair was 
 
 357 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 bleached white as the bog-cotton, he was slain 
 by the heathen Picts, or by the fierce summer- 
 sailors out of Lochlin. But that is an idle 
 tale. His end was not thus. A Culdee, who 
 had the soul of a bat, feared the truth, though 
 that gave glory to God, and wrote both in^ og- 
 ham and lambskin the truthless tale that 
 Molios went forth with the cross and was slain 
 in a north isle. 
 
 On a day of the' days every year, Molios 
 fared to the Hollow Oak that was in the hill- 
 forest beyond the rath of Ecta MacEcta. 
 There he spake long upon the youth that had 
 been his friend, and upon how the Evil One 
 had prevailed with Cathal, and how the islander 
 had been done to death there in the oak. Then 
 he and all his company sang the hymns of 
 peace, and great joy there was over the doom 
 of Cathal the monk, and many would have 
 cleft the great tree or burned it, so that the 
 dust of the sinner might be scattered to the 
 four winds : only this was banned by Molios. 
 
 It was well for Cathal, who slept there 
 through the hours of light! Deep slumber 
 was his, for never once did he hear the noon- 
 tide voices, nor ever in his ears was the long 
 rise and fall of the holy hymns. 
 
 But when, in the twentieth year after Cathal 
 had been thrust into the hollow oak, Molios 
 
 358 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 came at sundown, being weary with the heat, 
 the saint heard a low, faint laughter issuing 
 from the tree, like fragrance from a flower. 
 
 None other heard it. He saw that with 
 gladness. Quietly he went with the islanders. 
 
 When the moon was over the pines, and 
 all in the rath slept, Molios arose and went 
 silently back into the forest. 
 
 When he came to the Doom-Tree he listened 
 long, with his ear against the bark. There 
 was no sound. 
 
 His voice was old and quavering, but fresh 
 and young in the courts of heaven, when it 
 reached there like a fluttering' bird tired from 
 long flight. He sang a holy hymn. 
 
 He listened. There was no laughter. He 
 was glad at that. All had been a dream, for 
 sure. 
 
 Then it was that he heard once again the 
 low, mocking laughter. He started back, 
 trembling. 
 
 " Cathal ! " he cried, with his voice like a 
 wuthering wind. 
 
 " I am here, O Molios," said a voice behind 
 him. 
 
 The old Culdee turned, as though arrow- 
 nipped. Before him, white in the moonshine, 
 stood a man, naked. 
 
 At first, Molios knew him not. He was so 
 
 359 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 tall and strong, so fair and wonderful. Long 
 locks of ruddy hair hung upon his white 
 shoulders : his eyes were lustrous, and had the 
 lovely, soft light of the deer. When he moved, 
 it was swiftly and silently. No stag upon the 
 hills was more fair to see. 
 
 Then, slowly, Cathal the monk swam into 
 Cathal of the Woods. Molios saw him whom 
 he knew of old, as a blue flame is visible within 
 the flame of yellow. 
 
 " I am here, O Molios." 
 
 Strange was the voice: faint and far the 
 tone of it : yet it was that of a living man. 
 
 " Is it a spirit you are, Cathal ? " 
 
 " I am no spirit. I am Cathal the monk 
 that was, Cathal the man now." 
 
 " How came you out of hell, you that are 
 dead, and the dust of whose crumbling bones 
 is in the hollow of this oak ? " 
 
 " There is no hell, Culdee." 
 
 " No hell ! " Molios the Saint stared at the 
 woodman in blank amaze. 
 
 " No hell," he said again ; " and is there no 
 heaven ? " 
 
 " A hell there is, and a heaven there is : but 
 not what Colum taught, and you taught." 
 
 "Doth Christ live?" 
 
 " I know not." 
 
 "And Mary?" 
 
 360 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 " I know not." 
 
 "And God the Father?" 
 
 " I know not." 
 
 " It is a lie that you have upon your lips. 
 Sure, Cathal, you shall be dead indeed soon, 
 to the glory of God. For I shall have thy 
 dust scattered to the four winds, and thy bones 
 consumed in flame, and a stake be driven 
 through the place where thou wast." 
 
 Once more Cathal laughed. 
 
 " Go back to thy sea-cave, Molios. Thou 
 hast much to learn. Brood there upon the 
 ways of thy God before thou judgest if He 
 knoweth no more than thou dost. And see, I 
 will show you a wonder. Only, first, tell me 
 this one thing. What of Ardanna whom I 
 loved?" 
 
 " She was accursed. She would not believe. 
 When Ecta took the child from her, that was 
 born in sin, to have the water put upon it with 
 the sign of the Cross, she went north beyond 
 the Hill of the Pinnacles. There she saw the 
 young king of the Picts of Argyll, and he loved 
 her, and she went to his diin. He took her 
 to his rath in the north, and she was his queen. 
 He, and she, and the two sons she bore to him 
 are all under the hill-moss now: and their 
 souls are in hell." 
 
 Cathal laughed, low and mocking, 
 
 361 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 " It is a good hell that, I am thinking, 
 Molios. But come ... I will show you a won- 
 der." 
 
 With that he stooped, and took the moon- 
 shine dew out of a white flower, and put it 
 upon the eyes of the old man. 
 
 Then Molios saw. 
 
 And what he saw was a strangeness and 
 a terror to him. For everywhere were green 
 lives, fair and comely, gentle-eyed, lovely, of 
 a Soft shining. From tree to tree they flitted, 
 or passed to and fro from the tree-boles, as 
 wUd bees from their hives. 
 
 Beside Cathal stood a woman. Beautiful 
 she was, with eyes like stars in the gloaming. 
 All of green flame she seemed, though the old 
 monk saw her breast rise and fall, and the light 
 lift of her earth-brown hair by a wind-breath 
 eddying there, and the hand of her clasped 
 in that of Cathal. Beyond her were fair and 
 beautiful beings, lovely shapes like unto men 
 and women, but soulless, though loving life 
 and hating death, which, of a truth, is all that 
 the vain human clan does. 
 
 " Who is this woman, Cathal ? " asked the 
 saint, trembling. 
 
 "It is Deoin, whom I love, and who has 
 given me life." 
 
 " And these . . . that are neither green 
 362 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 phantoms out of trees, nor yet men as we 
 are?" 
 
 " These are the offspring of our love." 
 
 Molios drew back in horror. 
 
 But Cathal threw up his arms, and with glad 
 eyes cried : 
 
 " O green flame of life, pulse of the world ! 
 O Love ! O Youth ! O Dream of Dreams ! " 
 
 "O bitter grief," Molios cried, "O bitter 
 grief, that I did not slay thee utterly on that 
 day of the days ! Flame to thy flesh, and a 
 stake through thy belly — that is the doom thou 
 shouldst have had ! My ban upon thee, Cathal, 
 that was a monk, and now art a wild man of 
 the woods: upon thee, and thy Annir-Coille, 
 and all thy brood, I put the ban of fear and 
 dread and sorrow, a curse by day and a curse 
 by night! " 
 
 But with that a great dizziness swam into the 
 brain of the saint, and he fell forward, and lay 
 his length upon the moss, and there was no 
 sight to his eyes, or hearing to his ears, or 
 knowledge upon him at all until the rising of 
 the sun. 
 
 When the yellow light was upon his face he 
 rose. There was no face to see anywhere. 
 Looking in the dew for the myriad feet that 
 had been there, he saw none. 
 
 The old man knelt and prayed. 
 
 363 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 At the first praying God filled his heart with 
 peace. At the second praying God filled his 
 heart with wonder. At the third praying 
 God whispered mysteriously, and he knew. 
 Humble in his new knowledge, he rose. The 
 tears were in his old eyes. He went up to the 
 Hollow Oak, and blessed it, and the wild man 
 that slept within it, and the Annir-Coille that 
 Cathal loved, and the offspring of their love. 
 He took the curse away, and he blessed all that 
 God had made. 
 
 All the long weary way to the shore he went 
 as one in a dream. Wonder and mystery were 
 in his eyes. 
 
 At the shore he entered the little coracle 
 that brought him daily from the Holy Isle, a 
 triple arrow-flight seaward. 
 
 A child sat in it, playing with pebbles. It 
 was Ardan, the son of Ardanna. 
 
 " Ardan mac Cathal," began the saint, weary 
 now, but glad with a strange new gladness. 
 
 " Who is Cathal? " said the boy. 
 
 " He that was thy father. Tell me, Ardan, 
 hast thou ever seen aught moving in the woods 
 — green lives out of the trees ? " 
 
 " I have seen a green shine come out of the 
 trees." 
 
 Molios bowed his head. 
 
 " Thou shalt be as my son, Ardan ; and when 
 
 364 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 thou art a man thou shalt choose thy own way, 
 and let no man hinder thee." 
 
 That night Molios could not sleep. Hear- 
 ing the loud wash of the sea, he went to the 
 mouth of the cave. For a long while he 
 watched the seals splashing in the silver radi- 
 ance of the moonshine. Then he called them. 
 
 " O seals of the sea, come hither ! " 
 
 At that all the furred swimmers drew near. 
 
 " Is it for the curse you give us every year 
 of the years, O holy Molios ? " moaned a great 
 black seal. 
 
 " O Ron dubh, it is no curse I have for thee 
 or thine, but a blessing, and peace. I have 
 learned a wonder of God, because of an Annir- 
 Coille in the forest that is upon the hill. But 
 now I will be telling you the white story of 
 Christ." 
 
 So there, in the moonshine, with the flowing 
 tide stealing from his feet to his knees, the 
 old saint preached the gospel of love. The 
 seals crouched upon the rocks, with their great 
 brown eyes filled with glad tears. 
 
 When Molios ceased, each slipped again into 
 the shadowy sea. All that night, while he 
 brooded upon the mystery of Cathal and the 
 Annir-Coille, with deep knowledge of hidden 
 things, and a heart filled with the wonder and 
 mystery of the world, he heard them splash- 
 
 365 
 
Cathal of the Woods 
 
 ing to and fro in the moon-dazzle, and calling, 
 one to the other, " We, too, are the sons of 
 God." 
 
 At dawn a shadow came into the cave. A 
 white frost grew upon the face of Molios. 
 Still was he, and cold, when Ardan, the child, 
 awoke. Only the white lips moved. A ray of 
 the sun slanted across the sea, from the great 
 disc of whirling golden flame new risen. It 
 fell softly upon the moving lips. They were 
 still then, and Ardan kissed them because of 
 the smile that was there. 
 
 366 
 
SEANACHAS 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SWORD 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF THE CULDEES 
 
 MIRCATH 
 
 THE SAD QUEEN 
 
 THE LAUGHTER OF SCATHACH THE QUEEN 
 
 AHEZ THE PALE 
 
 THE KING OF YS AND DAHUT THE RED 
 
Seanachas 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SWORD 
 
 These are of the Seanachas ^ told me by Ian 
 Mor, before the flaming peats, at a hill-sheal- 
 ing, in a season when the premature snows 
 found the bracken still golden, and the ptar- 
 migan with their autumn browns no more than 
 flecked and mottled with grey. 
 
 He has himself now a quieter sleep than the 
 sound of that falling snow, and it is three 
 years since his face became as white and as 
 cold. 
 
 He had pleasure in telling sguel after sguel 
 of the ancient days. Far more readily at all 
 times would he repeat stories of this dim past 
 he loved so well than the more intimate tales 
 which had his own pulse beating in them, that 
 I have given elsewhere. Often he would look 
 up from where he held his face in his hands as 
 he brooded into the dull, steadfast flame that 
 consumed the core of the peats ; and without 
 
 •The word "Seanachas" means either tradition- 
 ary lore or the "telling of tales of olden time," and 
 it is in this sense that it is used here. 
 369 
 
Seanachas 
 
 preamble, and with words in no apparent way 
 linked to those last spoken, would narrate 
 some brief episode, and always as one who 
 had witnessed the event. Sometimes, indeed, 
 these brief tales were like waves; one saw 
 them rise, congregate, and expand in a dark 
 billow — and the next moment there was a 
 vanishing puff of spray, and the billow had 
 lapsed. 
 
 I cannot recall many of these fugitive tales 
 — seanachas, as he spoke of them collectively, 
 for each sgeul was of the past, and had its 
 roots in legendary lore — but of those that re- 
 mained with me, here are four. All came upon 
 me as birds flying in the dark: I knew not 
 whence they came, or upon what wind they had 
 steered their mysterious course. They were 
 there, that was all. Ancient things come 
 again in lan's brain, or recovered out of the 
 dim days, and seen anew through the wonder- 
 lens of his imagination. 
 
 It was in a white June, as they call it, in 
 the third year after the pirates of Lochlin had 
 fed the corbies of the Hebrid Isles, that the 
 summer-sailors once more came down the 
 Minch of Skye. 
 
 An east wind blew fresh from the moun- 
 tains, though between dawn and sunrise it 
 
 370 
 
Seanachas 
 
 veered till it chilled itself upon the granite 
 peaks of the Cuchullins,'and then leaped north- 
 westward with the white foam of its feet 
 caught from behind by the sun-glint. 
 
 The vikings on board the Svart-Alf laughed 
 at that. The spray flew from the curved black 
 prow of the great galley, and the wake danced 
 in the dazzle — the sea-cream that they loved 
 to see. 
 
 Tall men they were, and comely. Their 
 locks of yellow or golden or ruddy hair, some- 
 times braided, sometimes all acurl like a chest- 
 nut tree bud-breaking in April, sometimes 
 tangled like sea- wrack caught in a whirl of 
 wind and tide, streamed upon their shoulders. 
 In their bide eyes was a shining as though 
 there were torches of white flame behind them, 
 and that shining was mild or fierce as home 
 or blood filled their brain. 
 
 The Svart-Alf was the storm-bird of a fleet 
 of thirty galleys which had set forth from 
 Lochlin under the raven-banner of Olaus the 
 White. The vikings had joyed in a good far- 
 ing. Singing south winds had blown them to 
 the Faroe Isles, where from Magnus Cleft- 
 Hand they had good cheer, and the hire of 
 three men who knew the Western Isles, and 
 had been with the sea-kings who had harried 
 them here and there again and again. 
 
Seanachas 
 
 From Magnus-stead they went forth swelled 
 with mead and ale and cow-beef; and they 
 laughed because of what they would give in 
 payment on their way back with golden 
 torques and bracelets and other treasure, young 
 slaves, women dark and fair, and the jewel- 
 hilted weapons of the island-lords. 
 
 Cold black winds out of the north-east drove 
 them straight upon the Ord of Sutherland. 
 They sang with joy the noon when they 
 rounded Cape Wrath and came under the 
 shadow of the hills. The dawn that followed 
 was red not only in the sky but on the sheen 
 of the sword-blades. It was the Song of the 
 Sword that day, and there is no song like that 
 for the flaming of the blood. The dark men 
 of Torridon were caught unawares. For 
 seven days thereafter the corbies and ravens 
 glutted themselves drinking at red pools be- 
 side the stripped bodies which lay stark and 
 stiff upon the heather. The firing of a score 
 of homesteads smouldered till the rains came, 
 a day and two nights after the old women who 
 had been driven to the moors stole back wail- 
 ing. The maids and wives were carried off in 
 the galleys : and for nine days, at a haven in 
 the lone coast opposite the Summer Isles, their 
 tears, their laughter, their sullen anger, their 
 wild gaiety, their passionate despair gave joy 
 372 
 
Seanachas 
 
 to the yellow-haired men. On the ninth day 
 they were carried southward on the summer- 
 sailing. At a place called Craig-Feeach, 
 Raven's Crag, in the north of Skye, where a 
 Norse Erl had a great dun that he had taken 
 from the son of a king from Eireann whose 
 sea-nest it had been, Olaus the White rested 
 awhile. The women were left there as a free 
 spoil ; save three who were so fair that Olaus 
 kept one, and Haco and Sweno, his chief cap- 
 tains, took the others. 
 
 Then, on an evening when the wind was 
 from the north, Olaus and ten galleys went 
 down the Sound. Sweno the Hammerer was 
 to strike across the west for the great island 
 that is called the Lews ; Haco the Laugher was 
 to steer for the island that is called Harris; 
 and Olaus himself was to reach the haven 
 called Ljotr-wick in the Isle of the Thousand 
 Waters that is Benbecula. 
 
 On the eve of the day following that sail- 
 ing a wild wind sprang up, blowing straight 
 against the north. All of the south-faring gal- 
 leys save one made for haven, though it was a 
 savage coast which lay along the south of Skye. 
 In the darkness of the storm Olaus thought 
 that the other nine wavesteeds were following 
 him, and he drove before the gale with his men 
 crouching under the lee of the bulwarks, and 
 
 373 
 
Seanachas 
 
 with Finnleikr the Harper singing a wild song 
 of sea-foam and flowing blood and the whirl- 
 ing of swords. 
 
 The gale was nigh spent three hours after 
 dawn; but the green seas were like snow- 
 crowned hillocks that roll in earth-drunken- 
 ness when the flames surge from shaken 
 mountains. Olaus knew that no boat could 
 live in that sea except it went before the wind. 
 So, though not a galley was in sight, he fared 
 steadily north-westward. 
 
 By sundown the wind had swung out of 
 the south into the east; and by midnight the 
 stars were shining clear. In the blue^dark 
 could be seen the white wings of the fulmars, 
 seaward-drifting once again from the rocks 
 whither they had fled. 
 
 Then came the dawn, when the sun-rain 
 streamed gladly, and a fresh east wind blew 
 across the Minch, and the Svart-Alf, that had 
 been driven far northward, came leaping 
 south-westwardly, with laughter and fierce 
 shining of sky-blue eyes, where the vikings 
 toiled at the oars, or burnished their brine- 
 stained swords and javelins. 
 
 All day they fared joyously thus. Behind 
 them they could see the blue line of the main- 
 land and the dark-blue mountain crests of 
 Skye ; southward was a long green |ilm, where 
 
 374 
 
Seanachas 
 
 Coll caught the waves ere they drove upon 
 Tiree ; south-eastward, the grey-blue peaks of 
 Halival and Haskival rose out of the Isle of 
 Terror, as Rum was then called. Before them, 
 as far as they could see to north or south, the 
 purple-grey lines that rose out of the west 
 were the contours of the Hebrides. 
 
 " Dost thou see yonder blue splatch, 
 Morna ? " cried Olaus the White to the woman 
 who lay indolently by his side, and watched the 
 sun-gold redden the mass of ruddy hair which 
 she had sprayed upon the boards, a net wherein 
 to mesh the eyes of the vikings : " Do you see 
 that blue splatch ? I know what it is. It is the 
 headland that Olaf the Furious called Skip- 
 ness. Behind it is a long fjord in two forks. 
 At the end of the south fork is a place of the 
 white-robes whom the islanders call Culdees. 
 Midway on the eastern bend of the north fork 
 is a town of a hundred families. Over both 
 rules Maoliosa, a warrior-priest; and under 
 him, at the town, is a greybeard called Ramon 
 mac Coag. All this I have learned from Anlaf 
 the Swarthy, who came with us out of Faroe." 
 
 Morna glanced at him under her drooped 
 eyelids. Sure, he was fair to see, for all that 
 his long hair was white. White it had gone 
 with the terror of a night on an ice-floe, where- 
 on a man who hated the young Erl had set him 
 
 375 
 
Seanachas 
 
 adrift with seven wolves. He had slain three, 
 and drowned three, and one had leaped into 
 the sea ; and then he had lain on the ice, with 
 snow for a pillow, and in the dawn his hair 
 was the same as the snow. This was but ten 
 years ago, when he was a youth. 
 
 She looked at him, and when she spoke it 
 was in the slow, lazy speech that in his ears 
 was drowsy-sweet as the hum of the hives in 
 the steading where his home was. 
 
 " It will be a red sleep the men of that 
 town will be having soon, I am thinking, 
 Olaus. And the women will not be carding 
 wool when the moon rises to-morrow night. 
 And " 
 
 The fair woman stopped suddenly. Olaus 
 saw her eyes darken. 
 
 "Olaus!" 
 
 " I listen." 
 
 " If there is a woman there that you desire 
 more than me I will give her a gift." 
 
 Olaus laughed. 
 
 " Keep your knife in your girdle, Morna. 
 Who knows but you may need it soon to save 
 yourself from a Culdee ! " 
 
 " Bah I These white-robed men-women 
 have nought to do with us. I fear no man, 
 Olaus ; but I have a blade for any woman that 
 will dazzle your eyes," 
 
 376 
 
Seanachas 
 
 " Have no fear, white wolf. The sea-wolf 
 knows his mate when he has found her." 
 
 An hour after sun-setting a mist came up. 
 The wind freshened. Olaus made silence 
 throughout the war-galley. The vikings had 
 muffled their oars, for the noise of the waves 
 on the shore could now be heard. Hour after 
 hour went by. When at last the moonlight 
 tore a rift in the haar, and suddenly the vapour 
 was licked up by a wind moving out of the 
 north, they saw that they were close upon the 
 land, and right eastward of the headland of 
 Skipness. 
 
 Anlaf the Swarthy went to the prow. 
 Blackly he loomed in the moonlight as he stood 
 there, poising his long spear, and sounding the 
 depths while the vessel slowly forged shore- 
 ward. By the time a haven was found, and the 
 vikings stood silent upon the rocks, the night 
 was yellow with moonshine, and the brown 
 earth overlaid with a soft white sheen wherein 
 the long shadows lay palely blue. 
 
 There was deep peace in the island-town. 
 The kye were in the sea-pastures near, and 
 even the dogs slept. There had been no ill for 
 long, and Ramon mac Coag was an old man, 
 and dreamed overmuch about his soul. This 
 was because of the teaching of the Culdees. 
 Before he had known he had a soul he was a 
 
 377 
 
Seanachas 
 
 man, and would not have been taken unawares, 
 and he over-lord of a sea-town like Bail'- 
 tiorail. 
 
 Olaus the White made a wide circuit with 
 his men. Then, slowly, the circle narrowed. 
 
 A bull lowed, where it stood among the sea- 
 grass, stamping uneasily, and ever and again 
 sniffing the air. Suddenly one heifer, then an- 
 other, then all the kye, began a strange lowing. 
 The dogs rose, with bristling felts, and crawled 
 sidelong, snarling, with red eyes gleaming 
 savagely. 
 
 Bethoc, the young third wife of Ramon, was 
 awake, dreaming of a man out of Eireann who 
 had that day given her a strange pleasure with 
 his harp and his dusky eyes. She knew that 
 lowing. It was the langanaich an aghaidh am 
 allamharach, the continued lowing against the 
 stranger. She rose lightly, and unfastened 
 the leather flap, and looked down from the 
 Grianan where she was. A man stood there 
 in the shadow. She thought it was the harper. 
 With a low sigh she leaned downward to kiss 
 him, and to whisper a word in his ear. 
 
 Her long hair fell over her eyes and face 
 and blinded her. She felt it grasped, and put 
 out her hand. It was seized, and before she 
 knew what was come upon her she was 
 dragged prone upon the man. 
 
 378 
 
Seanachas 
 
 Then, in a flash, she saw he had yellow hair, 
 and was clad as a Norseman. She gasped. 
 If the sea-rovers were come, it was death for 
 all there. The man whispered something in a 
 tongue that was strange to her. She under- 
 stood better when he put his arm about her, 
 and placed a hand upon her mouth. 
 
 Bethoc stood silent. Why did no one hear 
 that lowing of the kine, that snarling of the 
 dogs which had now grown into a loud contin- 
 uous baying? The man by her side thought 
 she was cowed, or had accepted the change of 
 fate. He left her^ and put his foot on a cleft ; 
 then, sword under his chin, he began to climb 
 stealthily. 
 
 He had thrown his spear upon the ground. 
 Soundlessly Bethoc stepped forward, lifted it, 
 and moved forward like a shadow. 
 
 A wild cry rang through the night. There 
 was a gurgling and spurting sound as of 
 dammed water adrip. Ramon sprang from his 
 couch and stared out of the aperture. Beneath 
 he saw a man, speared through the back, and 
 pinned to the soft wood. His hands claspt the 
 frayed deerskins, and his head lay upon his 
 shoulder. He was laughing horribly. A bub- 
 bling of foam frothed continuously out of his 
 mouth. 
 
 The next moment Ramon saw Bethoc. He 
 
 .379 
 
Seanachas 
 
 had not time to call to her before a man slipped 
 out of the shadow, and plunged a sword 
 through her till the point dripped red drops 
 upon the grass beyond where she stood. She 
 gave no cry, but fell as a gannet falls. A black 
 shadow darted across the gloom. A crash, a 
 scream, and Ramon sank inert, with an arrow 
 fixed midway in his head through the brows. 
 
 Then there was a fierce tumult everywhere. 
 From the pastures the kye ran lowing and 
 bellowing in a wild stampede. The neighing 
 of horses broke, into screams. Here and there 
 red flames burst forth, and leaped from hut 
 to hut. Soon the whole rath was aflame. 
 Round the diin of Ramon a wall of swords 
 flashed. 
 
 All had taken refuge in the diin, all who 
 had escaped the first slaying. If any leaped 
 forth, it was upon a viking spear, or if the face 
 of any was seen it was the targe for a swift- 
 sure arrow. 
 
 A long, penetrating wail went up. The Cul- 
 dees on the farther loch heard it, and ran from 
 their cells. The loud laughter of the sea- 
 rovers was more dreadful to them than the 
 whirling flames and the wild screaming lament 
 of the dying and the doomed. 
 
 None came forth alive out of that dun, save 
 three men, and seven women that were young. 
 380 
 
Seanachas 
 
 Two of the men were made to tell all that 
 Olaus the White wanted to know. Then they 
 were blinded, and put into a boat, and set in 
 the tide-eddy that would take them to where 
 the Culdees were. And for the Culdees they 
 had a message from Olaus. 
 
 Of the seven women none were so fair that 
 Morna had any heed. But seven men had 
 them as spoil. Their wild keening had died 
 away into a silence of blank despair long before 
 the dawn. When the light came, they were 
 huddled in a white group near the ashes of 
 their homes. Everywhere the dead sprawled. 
 
 At sunrise the vikings held an ale-feast. 
 When Olaus the White had drunken and eaten, 
 he left his men and went down to the shore to 
 look upon the fortified place where Maoliosa 
 the Culdee and his white-robes lived. As he 
 fared thither through what had been Bail'-tio- 
 rail, there was not a male left alive, save the 
 one prisoner -who had been kept, Aongas the 
 Bowmaker, as he was called ; none save Aon- 
 gas, and a strayed child among the salt grasses 
 near the shore, a little boy, naked, and with 
 blue eyes and laughing sunny smile. 
 
 381 
 
THE FLIGHT OF THE CULDEES 
 
 On the wane of noon, on the day following 
 the ruin of Bail'-tiorail, sails were descried far 
 east of Skipness. 
 
 Olaus called his men together. The boats 
 coming before the wind were doubtless the gal- 
 leys of his own fleet which he had lost sight of 
 when the south-gale had blown them against 
 Skye : but no man can know when and how the 
 gods may smile grimly, and let the swords that 
 whirl to be broken, or the spears that are flat 
 become a hedge of death. 
 
 An hour later, a startled word went from 
 viking to viking. The galleys in the offing 
 were the fleet of Sweno the Hammerer. Why 
 had he come so far southward, and why were 
 oars so swift and with the sails strained to the 
 utmost before the wind? 
 
 They were soon to know. 
 
 Sweno himself was the first to land. A 
 great man he was, broad and burly, with a 
 sword-slash across his face that brought his 
 brows together in a frown which made a per- 
 
 382, 
 
Seanachas 
 
 petual shadow above his savage blood-shot 
 eyes. 
 
 In a few words he told how he had met a 
 galley, with only half its crew, and of these 
 many who were wounded. It was the last of 
 the fleet of Haco the Laugher. A fleet of fif- 
 teen war-birlinns had set out from the Long 
 Island, and had given battle. Haco had gone 
 into the strife, laughing loud as was his wont, 
 and he and all his men had the berserk 
 rage, and fought with joy and foam at the 
 mouth. Never had the Sword sung a sweeter 
 song. 
 
 "Well," said Olaus the White, grimly, 
 " well, how did the Raven fly ? " 
 
 " When Haco laughed for the last time, with 
 waving sword out of the death wherein he 
 sank, there was only one galley left. Of all 
 that company of vikings there were no more 
 than nine to tell the tale. These nine we took 
 out of their boat, which was below waves soon. 
 Haco and his men are all fighting the sea- 
 shadows by now." 
 
 A loud snariing went from man to man. 
 This became a wild cry of rage. Then savage 
 shouts filled the air. Swords were lifted up 
 against the sky, and the fierce glitter of the 
 blue eyes and the bristling of the tawny beards 
 were fair to see, thought the captive women, 
 
 383 
 
Seanachas 
 
 though their hearts beat against their ribs like 
 eaglets against the bars of a cage. 
 
 Sweno the Hammerer frowned a deep frown 
 when he heard that Olaus was there with only 
 the Svart-Alf out of the galleys which had 
 gone the southward way. 
 
 " If the islanders come upon us now with 
 their birlinns we shall have to make a running 
 fight," he said. 
 
 Olaus laughed. 
 
 " Ay, but the running shall be after the bir- 
 linns, Sweno." 
 
 " I hear that there are fifty and nine men 
 of these Culdees yonder under the sword- 
 priest,' Maoliosa ? " 
 
 " It is a true word. But to-night, after the 
 moon is up, there shall be none." 
 
 At that, all who heard laughed, and were 
 less heavy in their hearts because of the slay- 
 ing and drowning of Haco the Laugher and 
 all his crew. 
 
 " Where is the woman Brenda that you 
 took ? " Olaus asked, as he stared at Sweno's 
 boat and saw no woman there. 
 
 " She is in the sea." 
 
 Olaus the White looked. It was his eyes 
 that asked. 
 
 " I flung her into the sea because she laughed 
 when she heard of how the birlinns of Som- 
 
 384 
 
Seanachas 
 
 hairle the Renegade drove in upon our ships, 
 and how Haco laughed no more, and how the 
 sea was red with Lochlin blood." 
 
 " She was a woman, Sweno — and none 
 more fair in the isles, after Morna that is 
 mine." 
 
 " Woman or no woman, I flung her into the 
 sea. The Gael call us the Gall: then I will let 
 no Gael laugh at the Gall. It is enough. She 
 is drowned. There are always women: one 
 here, one there — it is but a wave blown this 
 way or that." 
 
 At this moment a viking came running 
 across the ruined town with tidings. Maoliosa 
 and his Culdees were crowding into a great 
 birlinn. Perhaps they were coming to give 
 battle: mayhap they were for sailing away 
 from that place. 
 
 Olaus and Sweno stared across the fjord. 
 At first they knew not what to think. If 
 Maoliosa thought of battle surely he would not 
 choose that hour and place. Or was it that 
 he knew the Gael were coming in force, and 
 that the vikings were caught in a trap ? 
 
 At last it was clear. Sweno gave a great 
 laugh. 
 
 " By the blood of Odin," he cried, " they 
 come to sue for peace ! " 
 
 Slowly across the loch the birlinn, filled with 
 
 385 
 
Seanachas 
 
 white-robed Culdees, drew near. At the prow 
 stood a tall old man, with streaming hair and 
 beard, white as sea-foam. In his right hand he 
 grasped a great Cross, whereon was Christ cru- 
 cified. 
 
 The vikings drew close one to the other. 
 
 " Hail them in their own tongue, Sweno," 
 said Olaus. 
 
 The Hammerer moved to the water-edge, as 
 the birlinn stopped, a short arrow-flight away. 
 
 " Ho, there, druids of the Christ-faith ! " 
 
 " What would you, viking-lord ? " It was 
 Maoliosa himself that spoke. 
 
 " Why do you come over here to us, you 
 that are Maoliosa ? " 
 
 " To win you and yours to God, Pagan." 
 
 " Is it madness that is upon you, old man ? 
 We have swords and spears here, if we lack 
 hymns and prayers." 
 
 All this time Olaus kept a wary watch in- 
 land and seaward, for he feared that Maoliosa 
 came because of an ambush. 
 
 Truly the old monk was mad. He had 
 told his Culdees that God would prevair, and 
 that the Pagans would melt away before the 
 Cross. 
 
 The ebb-tide was running swift. Even 
 while Sweno spoke, the birlinn touched a low 
 sea-hidden ledge of rock. 
 386 
 
Seanachas 
 
 A cry of consternation came from the white- 
 robes. Loud laughter went up from the vik- 
 ings. 
 
 " Arrows ! " cried Olaus. 
 
 With that, three-score men took their bows. 
 There was a hail of death-shafts. Many fell 
 into the water, but some were in the brains 
 and hearts of the Culdees. 
 
 Maoliosa himself stood in death, transfixed 
 to the mast. 
 
 With a despairing cry the monks swept their 
 oars backward. Then they leaped to their 
 feet, and changed their place, and rowed for 
 life or death. 
 
 The summer-sailors sprang into their galley 
 that they had pulled through the narrow strait. 
 Sweno the Hammerer was at the bow. The 
 foam curled and hissed. 
 
 The birlinn grided upon the opposite shore 
 at the self-same moment when Sweno brought 
 down his battle-axe upon the monk who 
 steered. The man was cleft to the shoulder. 
 Sweno swayed with the blow, stumbled, and 
 fell headlong into the sea. A Culdee thrust 
 at him with an oar, and pinned him among 
 the sea-tangle. Thus died Sweno the Ham- 
 merer. 
 
 Then all the white-robes leaped upon the 
 shore. Yet Olaus was quicker than they. 
 
 387 
 
Seanachas 
 
 With a score of vikings he raced to the Church 
 of the Cells, and gained the sanctuai-y. The 
 monks uttered a cry of despair, and, turning, 
 fled across the moor. Olaus counted them. 
 There were now forty in all. 
 
 " Let forty men follow," he cried. 
 
 Like white birds, the monks fled this way 
 and that. Olaus, and those who watched, 
 laughed at them as they stumbled, because of 
 their robes. One by one fell, sword-cleft or 
 spear-thrust. 
 
 At the last there were less than a score — 
 twelve only^-ten! 
 
 " Bring them back ! " Olaus shouted. 
 
 When the ten fugitives were captured and 
 brought back, Olaus took the crucifix that 
 Maoliosa had raised, and held it before each 
 in turn. 
 
 " Smite," he said to the first monk. But 
 the man would not. 
 
 " Smite ! " he said to the second ; but he 
 would not. And so it was to the tenth. 
 
 " Good," said Olaus the White, " they shall 
 witness to their god." 
 
 With that he bade his vikings break up the 
 birlinn, and drive the planks into the ground, 
 and shore them up with logs. 
 
 When this was done he crucified each Cul- 
 dee. With nails and with ropes he did unto 
 
 388 
 
Seanachas 
 
 each what their god had suflfered. Then all 
 were left there by the water-side. 
 
 That night, when Olaus the White and the 
 laughing Morna left the great bonfire where 
 the vikings sang and drank horn after horn 
 of strong ale, they stood and looked across 
 the loch. In the moonlight, upon the dim 
 verge of the farther shore, they could discern 
 ten crosses. On each was a motionless white 
 splatch. 
 
 389 
 
MIRCATH ^ 
 
 When Haco the Laugher saw the islanders 
 coming out of the west in their birlinns, he 
 called to his vikings, " Now of a truth we shall 
 hear the Song of the Sword ! " 
 
 The ten galleys of the summer-sailors 
 spread out into two lines of five boats, each 
 boat an arrow-flight from that on either side. 
 
 The birlinns came on against the noon. In 
 the sun-dazzle they loomed black as a shoal 
 of pollack. There were fifteen in all, and 
 from the largest, midway among them, flew 
 a banner. On this banner was a disc of 
 gold. 
 
 " It is the Banner of the Sunbeam ! " shouted 
 Olaf the Red, who with Torquil the One- 
 Armed was hero-man to Haco. " I know it 
 well. The Gael who fight under that are war- 
 riors indeed." 
 
 " Is there a saga-man here ? " cried Haco. 
 At that a great shout went up from the vikings : 
 " Harald the Smith ! " 
 
 ' The Mire Chath -was the name given to the war- 
 frenzy that often preceded and accompanied battle. 
 
Seanachas 
 
 A man rose among the bow-men in Olaf's 
 boat. It was Harald. He took a small square 
 harp, and he struck the strings. This was the 
 song he sang: 
 
 Let loose the hounds of war, 
 
 The whirling swords! 
 Send them leaping afar. 
 Red in their thirst for war; 
 Odin laughs in his car 
 
 At the screaming of the swords! 
 
 Far let the white ones fly. 
 
 The whirling swords! 
 Afar off the ravens spy 
 Death-shadows cloud the sky. 
 Let the wolves of the Gael die 
 
 'Neath the screaming swords! 
 
 The Shining Ones yonder 
 
 High in Valhalla 
 Shout now, with thimder. 
 Drive the Gaels under. 
 Cleave them asunder, — 
 
 Swords of Valhallaf 
 
 A shiver passed over every viking. Strong 
 men shook as a child when lightning plays. 
 Then the trembling passed. The mircath, the 
 war-frenzy came on them. Loud laughter 
 went from boat to boat. Many tossed the 
 great oars, and swung them down upon the 
 
 391 
 
Seanachas 
 
 sea, splashing the sun-dazzle into a yeast of 
 foam. Others sprang up and whirled their 
 javelins on high, catching them with bloody- 
 mouths: others made sword-play, and stam- 
 mered thick words through a surf of froth 
 upon their lips. Olaf the Red towered high 
 on the steering-plank of the Calling Raven, 
 swirling round and round a mighty battle-axe : 
 on the Sea-Wolf, Torquil One- Arm shaded his 
 eyes, and screamed hoarsely wild words that 
 no one knew the meaning of. Only Haco was 
 still for a time. -Then he, too, knew the mir- 
 cath ; and he stood up in the Red-Dragon and 
 laughed loud and long. And when Haco the 
 Laugher laughed, there was ever blood and to 
 spare. 
 
 The birlinns of the islanders drove swiftly 
 on. They swayed out into a curve, a black 
 crescent there in the gold - sprent blue 
 meads of the sea. From the great birlinn 
 that carried the Sunbeam came a chanting 
 voice : 
 
 O, 'tis a good song the sea makes when blood is on 
 
 the wave, 
 And a good song the wave makes when its crest of 
 
 foam is red! 
 For the rovers out of Lochlin the sea is a good grave, 
 And the bards will sing to-night to the sea-moan of 
 
 the dead! 
 
 392 
 
Seanachas 
 
 Yo-ho-a-h'eily-a-yo, eUy, ayah, a yo! 
 Sword and Spear and Battle-axe sing the Song of 
 Woe! 
 
 Ayah, eily, a yo! 
 
 Eily, ayah, a yo! 
 
 Then there was a swirling and dashing of 
 foam. Clouds of spray filled the air from the 
 thresh of the oars. 
 
 No man knew aught of the last moments 
 ere the birlinns bore down upon the viking- 
 galleys. Crash and roar and scream, and a 
 wild surging; the slashing of swords, the 
 whistle of arrows, the fierce hiss of whirled 
 spears, the rending crash of battle-axe and 
 splintering of the javelins; wild cries, oaths, 
 screams, shouts of victors, and yells of the dy- 
 ing; shrill taunts from the spillers of life, and 
 savage choking cries from those drowning in 
 the bloody yeast that bubbled and foamed in 
 the maelstrom where the war-boats swung and 
 reeled this way and that ; and, over all, the loud 
 death-music of Haco the Laugher. 
 
 Olaf the Red went into the sea, red indeed, 
 for the blood streamed from head and shoul- 
 ders, and fell about him as a scarlet robe. 
 Torquil One-Arm fought, blind and arrow- 
 sprent, till a spear went through his neck, and 
 he sank among the dead. Louder and louder 
 grew the fierce shouts of the Gael ; fewer the 
 
 393 
 
Seanachas 
 
 savage screaming cries of the vikings. Thus 
 it was till two galleys only held living men. 
 The Calling Raven turned and fled, with the 
 nine men who were not wounded to the death. 
 But, on the Red-Dragon, Haco the Laugher 
 still laughed. Seven men were about him. 
 These fought in silence. 
 
 Then Toscar mac Aonghas, that was leader 
 of the Gael, took his bow. None was arrow- , 
 better than Toscar of the Nine Battles. He 
 laid down his sword and took his bow, and 
 an arrow went through the right eye of Haco 
 the Laugher. He laughed no more. The 
 seven died in silence. Swaran Swiftfoot was 
 the last. When he fell, he wiped away the 
 blood that streamed over his face. 
 
 " Skoal! " he cried to the hero of the Gael, 
 and with that he whirled his battle-axe at Tos- 
 car mac Aonghas ; and the soul of Toscar met 
 his, in the dark mist, and upon the ears of both 
 fell at one and the same time the glad laughter 
 of the gods in Valhalla. 
 
 394 
 
THE SAD QUEEN 
 
 " There was darkness over Eiri : they adored things 
 of Faerie." The Fiacc Hymn. 
 
 Two men lay bound in the stone fold be- 
 hind the great wall of Dun Scaith in the Isle 
 of Mist. 
 
 One was Ulric the Skald; the other was 
 Connla the Harper. Only they two lived when 
 the galleys went down in the Minch, and 
 the Gael and the Gall sank in the reddened 
 waves. 
 
 For a long hour they were swung on the 
 waves and on the same spar — the mast of the 
 Death-Raven, which Sven of the Long Hair 
 had sailed in from the north isles, with a score 
 galleys of a score men in each. Farcha the 
 Silent had met him with two score galleys of 
 ten men in each. 
 
 They had fought since the sun was in the 
 south till it hung above the west. Then there 
 were only the Death-Raven and the Foam- 
 Sweeper. Ulric sat by Sven and sang the 
 death-song and the song of swords; Connla 
 
 395 
 
Seanachas 
 
 sat by Farcha and sang the high song of vic- 
 tory. 
 
 When the galleys met through the bloody 
 tangle in the seas, where spears rose and fell 
 like boughs and branches of a wood in storm, 
 and where men's hair clung black and limp 
 past wild eyes and faces red with blood, Sven 
 leaped into the Foam-Sweeper, and clove the 
 head from a spearman who thrust at him, so 
 that it fell into the sea, and the headless man 
 shook with a palsy and waveringly mowed 
 an idle spear. 
 
 But in that doing he staggered, and Farcha 
 thrust his spear through him. The spear fixed 
 Sven to the mast. Then an arrow from the 
 sea struck him across the eyes, and he saw no 
 more ; and when the Foam-Sweeper sank and 
 dragged the Death-Raven with it, the two kings 
 met: but Farcha was now like a heavy fish 
 swung this way and that, and Sven thought 
 the body was the body of Gunhild whom he 
 loved, and strove to kiss it, but could not be- 
 cause of the spear and seven arrows which 
 nailed him to the mast. 
 
 When the moon rose, the waters were in a 
 white calm. Mid-sea, a great shadow passed 
 northward : the travelling myriad of the her- 
 ring-host. 
 
 When Ulric the Skald sank from the mast, 
 
 396 
 
Seanachas 
 
 Connla the Harper held him by the hair, and 
 gave him breath, so that he Hved. 
 
 Thus when two spears drifted near, neither 
 snatched at them. Later, Connla spoke. " One 
 pulls me by the feet," he said; " it is one of 
 your dead men who is drowning me." But at 
 that Ulric drew a long breath, and strength- 
 ened his heart : then, seizing one of the spears, 
 he thrust it downward, and struck the dead 
 man whose hair tangled the feet of Connla, so 
 that the dead man sank. 
 
 When they heard cries, they thought the 
 galleys had come again, or others of Sven's 
 host, or of Farcha's: but when they were 
 dragged out of the sea, and lay staring at the 
 stars, they knew no more, for sounds swam 
 into their ears, and mist came into their eyes, 
 and it was as though they sank through the 
 boat, and through the sea, and through the 
 infinite blank void below the sea, and were as 
 two feathers there, blown idly under dim stars. 
 
 When they woke it was day, and a woman 
 stood looking darkly at them. 
 
 She was tall, and of great strength; taller 
 than Connla, stronger than Ulric. Long black 
 hair fell upon her shoulders, which, with her 
 breast and thighs, were covered with pale 
 bronze. A red and green cloak was over the 
 right shoulder, and was held by a great brooch 
 
 397 
 
Seanachas 
 
 of gold. A yellow torque of gold was round 
 her neck. A three-pointed torque of gold was 
 on her head. Her legs were swathed with 
 deerskin thongs, and her feet were in coverings 
 of cowskin stained red. 
 
 Her face was pale as wax, and of a strange 
 and terrible beauty. They could not look long 
 in her eyes, which were black as darkness, 
 with a red flame wandering in it. Her lips 
 were curled delicately, and were like thin 
 sudden lines of blood in the whiteness of 
 her face. 
 
 " I am Scathach," she said, when she had 
 looked long at them. Each knew that name, 
 and the heart of each was like a bird before 
 the slinger. If they were with Scathach,^ the 
 queen of the warrior-women of the Isle of 
 Mist, it would have been better to die in 
 water. The grey stones of Dun Scaith were 
 russet with old blood of slain captives. 
 
 " I am Scathach," she said. " Do I look 
 upon Sven of Lochlann and Farcha of the 
 Middle Isles?" 
 
 " I am Ulric the Skald," answered the north- 
 man. 
 
 ' Scathach (pronounced Ska'ah, or Skiah) : the 
 name of the island of Skye is by some said to be 
 derived from the famous Amazonian queen who 
 lived there, and taught Cuchullin the arts of war. 
 
 398 
 
Seanachas 
 
 " I am Connla the Harper," answered the 
 Gael. 
 
 " You die to-night," and with that Scathach 
 stood silent again, and looked darkly upon them 
 for a long while. 
 
 At noon a woman brought them milk and 
 roasted elk meat. She was fair to see, though 
 a scar ran across her face. They sent word 
 by her to Scathach with a prayer for life; 
 they would be helots, and put birth upon 
 women. For they knew the wont. But the 
 woman returned with the same word. 
 
 " It is because she loved Cuchullin," the 
 woman said, " and he was a poet, and sang 
 songs, and made music as you do. He was 
 fairer than you, man with the yellow hair, man 
 with the long, dark hair; and you have put 
 memories into the mind of Scathach. But she 
 will listen to you harping and singing before 
 you die." 
 
 When the darkness came, and the dew fell, 
 Ulric spoke to Connla. " The horse Rime- 
 mane is moving among the stars, for the foam 
 is falling from his mouth." 
 
 Connla felt the falling of the dew. 
 
 " It was thus on the night I loved," he said 
 below his breath. 
 
 Ulric could not see Connla's face because 
 of the shadows. But he heard low sobs, and 
 
 399 
 
Seanachas 
 
 knew that Connla's face was wet with tears. 
 " I too loved," he said ; " I have had many 
 women for my love." 
 
 " There is but one love," answered Connla 
 in a low voice ; " it is of that I am thinking and 
 have remembrance." 
 
 " Of that I do not know," said Ulric. " I 
 loved one woman well so long as she was 
 young and fair. But one day a king's son de- 
 sired her, and I came upon them in a wood on 
 a cliff by the sea. I put my arms about her and 
 leaped down the cliff. She was drowned. I 
 paid no eric.'' 
 
 " There is no age upon the love of my love," 
 said Connla softly : " she was more beautiful 
 than the stars." And because of that great 
 beauty he forgot death and his bonds. 
 
 When the warrior-women led them out to 
 the shore, Scathach looked at them from where 
 she sat by the great fire that blazed upon the 
 sands. 
 
 She had been told that which they said one 
 to the other. 
 
 " Sing the song of your love," she said to 
 Ulric. 
 
 " What heed have I of any woman in the 
 hour of my death ? " he answered sullenly. 
 
 " Sing the song of your love,'' she said to 
 Connla. 
 
 400 
 
Seanachas 
 
 Connla looked at her, and at the great fire 
 round which the fierce-eyed women stood and 
 looked at him, and at the still, breathless stars. 
 The dew fell upon him. 
 
 Then he sang — 
 
 Is it time to let the hour rise and go forth, as a hound 
 
 loosed from the battle-cars? 
 Is it time to let the hour go forth, as the White 
 
 Hound with the eyes of flame ? 
 For if it be not time, I would have this hour that is 
 
 left to me under the stars. 
 Wherein I may dream my dream again, and at the 
 
 last whisper one name. 
 
 It is the name of one who was more fair than youth 
 
 to the old, than life to the young; 
 She was more fair than the first love of Angus the 
 
 Beautiful, and though I were blind 
 And deaf for a hundred ages I would see her, more 
 
 fair than any poet has sung, 
 And hear her voice like mournful songs crying on the 
 
 wind. 
 
 There was silence. Scathach sat with her 
 face between her hands, staring into the flame. 
 
 She did not lift her face when she 
 spoke. 
 
 " Take Ulric the Skald," she said at last, 
 
 but with eyes that stared still into the flame, 
 
 " apd give him to what woman wants him, for 
 
 he knows nothing of love. If no woman 
 
 401 
 
Seanachas 
 
 wants him, put a spear through his heart, so 
 that he die easily. 
 
 " But take Connla the Harper, because he 
 has known all things, knowing that one thing, 
 and has no more to know, and is beyond us, 
 and lay him upon the sand with his face to the 
 stars, and put red brands of fire upon his 
 naked breast, till his heart bursts and he dies." 
 
 So Connla the Harper died in silence, where 
 he lay on the moonlit sand, with red embers 
 and flaming brands on his naked breast, and 
 his face white and still as the stars that shone 
 upon him. 
 
 402 
 
THE LAUGHTER OF SCATHACH THE 
 QUEEN 
 
 In the year when CuchuUin left the Isle of 
 Skye, where Scathach the warrior-queen ruled 
 with the shadow of death in the palm of her 
 sword-hand, there was sorrow because of his 
 beauty. He had fared back to Eire, at the 
 summons of Concobar mac Nessa, Ard-Righ 
 of Ulster. For the Clan of the Red Branch 
 was wading in blood, and there were seers who 
 beheld that bitter tide rising and spreading. 
 
 Cuchullin was only a youth in years; but 
 he had come to Skye a boy, and he had left 
 it a man. None fairer had ever been seen of 
 Scathach or of any woman. He was tall and 
 lithe as a young pine; his skin was as white 
 as a woman's breast ; his eyes were of a fierce 
 bright blue, with a white light in them as of 
 the sun. When bent, and with arrow half- 
 way drawn, he stood on the heather, listening 
 against the belling of the deer; or when he 
 leaned against a tree, dreaming not of eagle- 
 chase or wolf-hunt, but of the woman whom 
 he had never met; or, when by the dun, he 
 
 403 
 
Seanachas 
 
 played at sword-whirl or spear-thrust, or raced 
 the war-chariot across the machar — then, and 
 ever there were eyes upon his beauty, and 
 there were some who held him to be Angus 
 Og himself. For there was a light about 
 him, such as the hills have in sun-glow an 
 hour before set. His hair was the hair of 
 Angus and of the fair gods, earth-brown 
 shot with gold next his head, ruddy as 
 flame midway, and, where it sprayed into a 
 golden mist of fire, yellow as windy sun- 
 shine. 
 
 But CuchuUin loved no woman upon Skye, 
 and none dared openly to love Cuchullin, for 
 Scathach's heart yearned for him, and to cross 
 the Queen was to put the shroud upon one- 
 self. Scathach kept an open face for the son 
 of Lerg. There was no dark frown above the 
 storm in her eyes when she looked at his 
 sunbright face. Gladly she slew a woman be- 
 cause Cuchullin had lightly reproved the maid 
 for some idle thing ; and once, when the youth 
 looked in grave silence at three viking captives 
 whom she had spared because of their comely 
 manhood, she put her sword through the heart 
 of each, and sent him the blade, dripping red, 
 as the flower of love. 
 
 But Cuchullin was a dreamer, and he loved 
 what he dreamed of, and that woman was not 
 404 
 
Seanachas 
 
 Scathach, nor any of her warrior-women 
 who made the Isle of Mist a place of ter- 
 ror for those cast upon the wild shores, 
 or stranded there in the ebb of inglorious 
 battle. 
 
 Scathach brooded deep upon her vain desire. 
 Once, in a windless, shadowy gloaming, she 
 asked him if he loved any woman. 
 
 " Yes," he said. " Etain." 
 
 Her breath came quick and hard. It was 
 for pleasure to her then to think of CuchuUin 
 lying white at her feet, with the red blood 
 spilling from the whiteness of his breast. But 
 she bit her under lip, and said quietly : 
 
 "Who is Etain?" 
 
 "She is the wife of Midir." 
 
 And with that the youth turned and moved 
 haughtily away. She did not know that the 
 Etain of whom Cuchullin dreamed was no 
 woman that he had seen in Eire, but the wife 
 of Midir, the King of Faerie, who was so 
 passing fair that Mac Greine, the beautiful 
 god, had made for her a Grianan all of shining 
 glass, where she lives in a dream, and in that 
 sun-bower is fed at dawn upon the bloom of 
 flowers and at dusk upon their fragrance. O 
 ogham mhic Greine, tha e boidheach,^ she 
 
 » "O beauty of my love the Sun-lord" (lit. "O 
 youth, son of the Sun, how fair he is!"). 
 40s 
 
Seanachas 
 
 sighs for ever in her sleep ; and that sigh is in 
 all sighs of love for ever and ever. 
 
 Scathach watched him till he was lost be- 
 hind the flare of the camp fires of the rath. 
 For long she stood there, brooding deep, till 
 the sickle of the new moon, which had been 
 like a blown feather over the sun as it sank, 
 stood out in silver-shine against the blue-black 
 sky, now like a wake in the sea because of the 
 star-dazzle that was there. And what the 
 Queen brooded upon was this: Whether to 
 send emissaries to Eireann, under bond to 
 seek in that land till they found Midir and 
 Etain, and to slay Midir and bring to her the 
 corpse, for a gift from her to lay before 
 Cuchullin; or to bring Etain to Skye, where 
 the Queen might see her lose her beauty and 
 wane into death. Neither way might win the 
 'heart of Cuchullin. The dark tarn of the 
 woman's mind grew blacker with the shadow 
 of that thought. 
 
 Slowly she moved dun-ward through the 
 night. 
 
 " As the moon sometimes is seen rising out 
 of the east," she muttered, " and sometimes, as 
 now, is first seen in the west, so is the heart 
 of love. And if I go west, lo, the moon may, 
 rise along the sunway ; and if I go east, lo, the 
 moon may be a white light over the setting 
 406 
 
Seanachas 
 
 sun. And who that knoweth the heart of. 
 man or woman can tell when the moon of love 
 is to appear full-orbed in the east, or sickle- 
 wise in the west?" 
 
 It was on the day following that tidings 
 came out of Eireann. An Ultonian brought a 
 sword to Guchullin from Concobar the Ard- 
 Righ. 
 
 " The sword has ill upon it, and will die un- 
 less you save it, Cuculain, son of Lerg," said 
 the man. 
 
 " And what is that ill, Ultonian ? " asked the 
 youth. 
 
 " It is thirst." 
 
 Then CuchuUin understood. 
 
 On the night of his going none looked at 
 Scathach. She had a flame in her eyes. 
 
 At moonrise she came back into the rath. 
 No one meeting her looked in her face. Death 
 lay there, like the levin behind a cloud. But 
 Maev, her chief captain, sought her, for she 
 had glad news. 
 
 " I would slay you for that glad news, 
 Maev," said the Dark Queen to the warrior- 
 woman, " for there is no glad news unless 
 it be that Cuchullin is come again; only; I 
 spare, for you saved my life that day 
 the summer-sailors burned my rath in the 
 south." 
 
 407 
 
Seanachas 
 
 Nevertheless Scathach had gladness because 
 of the tidings. Three viking galleys had been 
 driven into Loch Scavaig, and been dashed to 
 death there by the whirling wind and the nar- 
 row, furious seas. Of the ninety men who had 
 sailed in them, only a score had reached the 
 rocks, and these were now lying bound at the 
 dun, awaiting death. 
 
 " Call out my warriors," said Scathach, 
 " and bid all meet at the oak near the Ancient 
 Stones. And bring thither the twenty men 
 that lie bound in. the diin." 
 
 There was a scattering of fire and a clash- 
 ing of swords and spears when the word went 
 from Maev. Soon all were at the Stones be- 
 neath, the great oak. 
 
 " Cut the bonds from the feet of the sea- 
 rovers, and let them stand." Thus commanded 
 the Queen. 
 
 The tall, fair men out of Lochlin stood with 
 their hands bound behind them. In their eyes 
 burned wrath and shame, because that they 
 were the sport of women. A bitter death 
 theirs, with no sword-song for music. " Take 
 each by his long yellow hair," said Scathach, 
 " and tie the hair of each to a down-caught 
 bough of the oak." 
 
 In silence this thing was done. A shadow 
 was in the paleness of each viking face. 
 408 
 
Seanachas 
 
 " Let the boughs go," said Scathach. 
 
 The five score warrior women who held the 
 great boughs downward sprang back. Up 
 swept the branches, and from each swung a 
 living man, swaying in the wind by his long 
 yellow hair. 
 
 Great men they were, strong warriors ; but 
 stronger was the yellow hair of each, and 
 stronger than the hair the bough wherefrom 
 each swung, and stronger than the boughs the 
 wind that swayed them idly like drooping 
 fruit, with the stars silvering their hair and 
 the torch-flares reddening the white soles of 
 their dancing feet. 
 
 Then Scathach the Queen laughed loud and 
 long. There was no other sound at all there, 
 for none ever uttered sound when Scathach 
 laughed that laugh, for then her madness was 
 upon her. 
 
 But at the last, Mael strode forward and 
 struck a small clarsach that she carried, and 
 to the wild notes of it sang the death-song of 
 the vikings : 
 
 O arone a-ree, eily arone, arone! 
 
 'Tis a good thing to be sailing across the sea! 
 
 How the women smile and the children are laughing 
 
 glad 
 When the galleys go out into the blue sea — arone! 
 O eily arone, arone! 
 409 
 
Seanachas 
 
 But the children may laugh less when the wolves 
 
 come. 
 And the women may smile less in the winter-cold ; 
 For the Summer-sailors will not come again, arone! 
 O arone a-ree, eily arone, arone! 
 
 I am thinking they will not sail bac^ again, O no! 
 The yellow-haired men that came sailing across the 
 
 sea: 
 For 'tis wild apples they would be, and swing on 
 
 green branches. 
 And sway in the wind for the corbies to preen their 
 
 eyne. 
 
 O eily arone, eily a-ree! 
 
 And it is pleasure for Scathach the Queen to see this: 
 To see the good fruit that grows upon the Tree of the 
 
 Stones. 
 Long, speckled fruit it is, wind-swayed by its yellow 
 
 roots. 
 And like men they are with their feet dancing in the 
 
 void air! 
 
 O, O, arone, aree, eily arone! 
 
 When she ceased, all there swung swords 
 and spears, and flung flaring torches into the 
 night, and cried out : 
 
 O arone a-ree, eily arone, arone, 
 O, O, arone, a-ree, eily arone! 
 
 Scathach laughed no more. She was weary 
 now. Of what avail any joy of death against 
 410 
 
Seanachas 
 
 the pain she had in her heart, the pain that 
 was called Cuchullin ? 
 
 Soon all was dark in the rath. Flame after 
 flame died out. Then there was but one red 
 glare in the night, the watch-fire by the diin. 
 Deep peace was upon all. Not a heifer lowed, 
 not a dog bayed against the moon. The wind 
 fell into a breath, scarce enough to lift the 
 fragrance from flower to flower. Upon the 
 branches of a great oak swung motionless a 
 strange fruit, limp and grey as the hemlock 
 that hangs from ancient pines. 
 
 411 
 
AHEZ THE PALE 
 
 The moon sent her lances through the forest 
 of Broceliande, among giant thickets of oak 
 and beech. Under their boles the fire-flies 
 trailed green fires. At long intervals a night- 
 jar intermittently churred his passionate note 
 to his mate, she swaying silent on a near 
 branch. But the cry of the night-jar, the faint 
 rustle of a wolf's foot among the acorn-garths, 
 or of a doe uneasy amid the fern, the innu- 
 merable whisper of the green leafy world — 
 what were these but breaths of sound upon 
 the sea of silence. 
 
 The nightingales had been still for a moon- 
 quarter or more. For three farings of sun 
 and moon the wind had scarcely reached 
 Broceliande from the sea, or had reached it 
 only to lapse where the fronds of the bracken 
 were motionless as the pines. Through the 
 long days sullen thunders had prevailed. 
 Sometimes their hollow booming came inland, 
 and the sea moaned among oak-glades round 
 whose roots no wave had ever lapped, whose 
 green lips had never felt the foam-salt which 
 412 
 
Ahez the Pale 
 
 in tempests whitens leagues of the mainland. 
 Sometimes their prolonged reverberations 
 came out of the. south, and the void echoes of 
 the Black Mountain travelled the green way 
 of the oak summits beyond where the dunes 
 fringe the extreme of the forest. But north 
 or south, east or west, the thunders had not 
 lapsed for days. Ubiquitous, they were a per- 
 petual menace: yet though lightnings flashed 
 continually along their livid flanks, these 
 scimitars and dreadful spears were not let 
 loose. Save by night, when the obscure dome 
 unveiled, there was no cessation of that hollow 
 minatory voice, a sullen monotone: the skiey 
 fires darted and flickered their adder-tongues, 
 but flamed no solitary oak into a sudden blaze, 
 blasted no homestead, charred no fugitive life. 
 
 In the profound silence of this night, a long 
 wailing chant ascended from the shadow of 
 the forest. 
 
 After the first interval, a figure stirred 
 stealthily amid the fern, in a glade near the 
 westward margin of Broceliande, and moved 
 swiftly to where the chant rose and fell, a thin, 
 solitary cadence in that remote and consecrate 
 region. 
 
 For in those days the forest of Broceliande 
 was the holy of holies of the Druids, who, 
 within its solitudes, maintained their most se- 
 
 413 
 
Ahe2 the Pate 
 
 cret rites and mysteries. Beyond the reach of 
 their spells, not only the wolf and the bear, but 
 the korrigan and the nain, the pool-sprite and 
 the swamp-demon, the were-wolf and the soul- 
 less ghoul that was like a woman, made the 
 greenglooms a terror by day — a living death 
 by night. 
 
 It was no druid, however, who tracked i ur- 
 tively the chanting voice, for the moonlight 
 glistered on an iron breastplate and on a 
 plumed and strangely-shaped bronze helmet. 
 The man who thus dared secret death 
 made no effort to escape into the recesses of 
 the forest. Stealthily he drew closer to where 
 the priest of Teutates sang. When, at last, he 
 was so near the fane, a single tall stone, that 
 he was within a javelin-flight of the solitary 
 white-robed chanter, he crouched, and waited. 
 
 The priest was a youth, and fair. As, in 
 his slow, circling walk he came nigh the spot 
 where the interloper lay amid the fern, he 
 stopped and stared dreamily at the moon, 
 which swung goldenly in the green dusk be- 
 tween two lofty oaks. In his eyes there was 
 a light that was not lit there by Teutates. He 
 smiled and drew farther into the wood, so that 
 he could look at the yellow globe as a fair face 
 set far above him. 
 
 There was silence now. The druid had 
 414 
 
'Ahds the Pale 
 
 ceased his chant, had forgotten his god. But 
 the gods never slumber, nor do they forgive. 
 The youth moved a step or two forward into a 
 thick garth of fern. Slowly he raised his 
 arms. 
 
 " To thee, O Goddess, I pray ! " he cried, 
 softly. "To thee I pray! Grant me that 
 which is the sweetest and surest thing in the 
 world!" 
 
 He stared upward, his lips parted, his eyes 
 shining. 
 
 " She loves me," he murmured again : " she 
 loves me, O Goddess ! Grant me that which 
 is the sweetest and surest thing in the world ! " 
 
 Astoret must have heard the prayer, or did 
 Teutates frown upon her and have his own 
 dark will? For, even as Aran the Druid 
 spoke, a sword sprang from the gloom and 
 passed through his back and into his heart 
 and out beyond his breast, so that he died in 
 that moment and soundlessly, save for the bub- 
 bling of a red foam upon his lips. 
 
 Swiftly the slayer dragged the body a score 
 of yards deeper into the wood. Then, with 
 famished haste, he denuded the druid, and, 
 having taken off his own raiment and armour, 
 put it upon the silent one, in exchange for the 
 white priestly garment wherewith he had al- 
 ready clothed himself. 
 
 415 
 
Ahes the Pale 
 
 Of his weapons he kept none save a long, 
 broad-bladed dagger, which he secured to the 
 belt beneath the robe he now wore. But first 
 with it he slashed the face of the dead man, so 
 that none might know him. 
 
 " Lie there," he muttered with savage irony : 
 " lie there, Jud Mael ! At dawn the druids will 
 come, and will find thee here, and will throw 
 thy sacrilegious body on the altar-flame, as a 
 peace-offering to Teutates. For now I am 
 Aran the Druid, who has departed no man 
 knows where." 
 
 He turned at that, and passed swiftly into 
 the forest, moving eastward. 
 
 He walked till dawn. Because of the smile 
 in his eyes, he saw neither korrigan nor ghoul : 
 because of the triumph in his heart he feared 
 neither the tusk of the wild boar nor the fang 
 of the wolf. Once, at sunrise, he laughed. 
 That was because, from the summit of a gran- 
 ite scaur, he saw a dark column of smoke ris- 
 ing from the Circle of Stones where he had 
 slain Aran the Druid. 
 
 " So that is the end of Jud Mael," he mut- 
 tered : " and now . . . Ahez may grind her 
 teeth that she has missed the killing of her 
 own prey, though her heart will leap because 
 of that slaying and burning there in the for- 
 est." 
 
 416 
 
Ah^s the Pale 
 
 Again, before he left that place, he mut- ' 
 tered; ^nd with clenched fist thrust his arm 
 menacingly against that vague west wherein 
 his death slipped stealthily after him from tree 
 to tree. By noon he was within three miles of 
 the Altar of Teutates, for all that he had 
 walked a score since midnight. He had wan- 
 dered in a circle, but knew it not; for he was 
 in a dream. When he came to note the sun 
 it was high overhead. Later, he slept. It was 
 a sweet sleep that he had, amid a garth of 
 bracken beset with brambles. All through his 
 dream he heard the deep execrations of Ahez, 
 daughter of Morgwyn, the lord of Gwened: 
 the low moaning of the dead man, Aran the 
 Druid : and the sound of his own laughter. 
 
 He woke suddenly at the sun-down howl of 
 a wolf. For a moment the sweat broke out 
 upon his white face. It was not because of the 
 howl of the wandering beast, but because his 
 fear translated that savage sound into the cry 
 of Ahez. A glance at his white robe reas- 
 sured him. He smiled. What was Aran now ? 
 The Druids, at the two great festivals of the 
 year, spoke of the strange faring of the soul. 
 It came, they said, as a flying bird : it slipped 
 away, according as were a man's deeds, as a 
 bird, as a wolf, as a snake, or as a toad. His 
 skin grew cold for a moment as he thought he 
 
Ahiz the Pale 
 
 might meet Aran in some such guise: would 
 the dead man recognize him ? 
 
 He had the instinct of the wanderer against 
 sleeping twice in the same place. Moreover, 
 hunger now began to torment him. He crept 
 slowly from his lair, and wandered this way 
 and that in search of wild fruits or palatable 
 herbs. Suddenly his gaze was arrested by a 
 glint of flame. Sinking to the ground, he 
 watched eagerly ; fearful lest what he had seen 
 was the torch of a pursuer. In a brief while, 
 however, he discerned that the light was that 
 of a fire. 
 
 With tread as stealthy as that of a wolf near 
 a fold he stole out of the wood, and from whin 
 to whin till he was close upon the fire. Beside 
 it sat an old man. Jud Mael looked long at 
 the woodlander. His instinct was to kill him, 
 for the sake of the roasted hedgehog which the 
 old man was about to devour: but the risk 
 was too great, for even if the woodlander were 
 unknown to the druids his dead body might af- 
 ford a fatal clue. So, at the last, he decided 
 to speak. 
 
 So quietly did he draw near that he was at 
 the old man's side unheard. 
 
 The peasant stumbled to his feet, startled: 
 but when he saw the white robe of a druid he 
 looked reassured, and made an obeisance. 
 418 
 
Ahes the Pale 
 
 " What do you do here, in the sacred wood, 
 you who are clad in skins ? " 
 
 " I am not within the precincts, holy one. 
 This glade is open ground. Surely you know 
 it, who are Aran the Chanter." 
 
 Jud Mael started. A hunted look came into 
 his wolfish eyes. He knew there was no re- 
 semblance between Aran and himself. How 
 then did this old man take him for the druid 
 whom he had slain. 
 
 " How know you that I am Aran the Druid, 
 old man ? " 
 
 " Am I wrong, holy one ? I took you to be 
 Aran, for I heard that he had wandered in the 
 forest, and had been seen of no man since yes- 
 ter moonrise." 
 
 " Even so, I am Aran. And why are you 
 here?" 
 
 " I was told to wait on the outskirts of the 
 wood, and to light a great fire, so that the 
 flame of it should be seen of the wanderer. 
 But as darkness was not yet come, and I was 
 weak with hunger and had slain this beast, I 
 made a small fire that I might eat." 
 
 " I too am hungered. I have tasted no food 
 for a night and a day." 
 
 " Eat, then, holy one." 
 
 "But you?" 
 
 " Oh, I can find roots beneath these oaks. It 
 
 419 
 
'Ahes the Pale 
 
 is not fit that I should eat when Aran the 
 Druid is weary with hunger. Eat ! " 
 
 Jud Mael ate. As he devoured the white 
 sweet meat his courage rose. By the time he 
 had finished, the woodlander brought him 
 some ground-berries wherewith to slake his 
 thirst. 
 
 " Tell me, old man," Jud Mael said at last, 
 having placed himself so that he could see any 
 white-robe coming out of the darkness from 
 the forest : " tell me what was said concerning 
 me. 
 
 " Nought that I know of, save that you had 
 wandered." 
 
 " And thou hast heard nought else to-day ? " 
 
 " Surely. All who dwell by the wood have 
 heard of the death of one who ventured into 
 the holy precincts. He was a warrior. He 
 died with blood. The druids burned his ac- 
 cursed body at sunrise. Some say that he 
 was slain by Aran — and, as it is an evil thing 
 for a druid to take life, that he, you, O 
 holy one, went into the deep forest to do 
 penace." 
 
 " Did you hear the man's name ? " 
 
 " Yes. It was Jud Mael." 
 
 " How was that known ? " 
 
 " There was a sword upon him that was 
 420 
 
Ahes the Pale 
 
 the sword given to the lord Jud Mael by Mor- 
 gwyn the King, because of what he did in 
 some great battle — I know not what, nor what 
 battle. There was a rune carved on it. More- 
 over, his helmet had the dragon of the Lords 
 of Mael." 
 
 " I do not know the man. What of him ? " 
 
 " It is not for me to speak." 
 
 " Speak, man. I command you." 
 
 " They say he was a fugitive." 
 
 "A fugitive? . . . from the King?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " From whom then ? " 
 
 " From the King's sister, the lady Ahez." 
 
 "The lady Ahez?" 
 
 " Yes : Ahez the Pale they call her, because 
 she is so cream-white and fair." 
 
 " Why should Jud Mael fly from her ? " 
 
 " They say he did her a great wrong." 
 
 "What wrong?" 
 
 " How do I know, holy one ? I can but re- 
 peat idle gossip." 
 
 " Tell me what you have heard." 
 
 " Idle tongues have it that Jud Mael prom- 
 ised marriage to Ahez the Pale : but that when 
 she bade .him fulfil his vows, as she was with 
 child to him, he laughed and said he could 
 wed no woman, not even the King's sister, be- 
 cause that in his own place beyond the Black 
 421 
 
AMz the Pale 
 
 Mountains he had already a wife and chil- 
 dren." 
 
 " What else did you hear ? " 
 
 " Nothing, holy one." 
 
 "Did not Ahez the Pale speak to the 
 King?" 
 
 " They say she did, but who knows ? " 
 
 " What else do they say about that, they 
 who say she did ? " 
 
 "That King Morgwyn let his riding-whip 
 fall across her shoulder, and bade her begone 
 and not enter his presence again till she rode 
 into the castle-wynd either with Jud Mael by 
 her side as her wedded lord or with Jud Mael's 
 head as the price of her honour." 
 
 "Well ?" 
 
 " That is all." 
 
 "Have you not heard whither Jud Mael 
 fled?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Nor if Ahez the Pale has been seen, on 
 that hopeless quest of hers ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Old man, wouldst thou earn some gold ? " 
 
 " Gladly, holy one." 
 
 "Then go at dawn — ^nay, go at once, for 
 
 now that I am found there is no need for you 
 
 to wait here — and seek out the lady Ahez. 
 
 Tell her what you know concerning that which 
 
 422 
 
Ahh the Pale 
 
 happened in this forest. Tell her that you 
 have spoken with Aran the Druid, and that it 
 was he who slew Jud Mael, and that he knew 
 the man — so that she may know for a surety 
 that he who wronged her is no longer among 
 the living." 
 
 There was no response from the wood- 
 lander. Jud Mael leaned forward and looked 
 closely at him. He saw that the old man's 
 eyes were intently staring. 
 
 " What is itj old man, what do you see, that 
 you stare like that ? " 
 
 " Yonder ... in the oak-glade yonder . . . 
 on a white horse . . . yes, yes, it is Ahez the 
 Pale . . ." 
 
 With a stifled cry the druid sprang to his 
 feet. 
 
 Yes, the woodlander was right. A woman, 
 with long yellow hair, rode on a great white 
 war-horse. She was chanting low to herself, 
 with her eyes turned upon the moon. She had 
 not yet seen those who had descried her. 
 
 With the silent swiftness of a beast of prey 
 he slid back behind a mass of gorse, then 
 glided from whin to whin till he was under the 
 oaks again. 
 
 The old man stood, with gaping mouth and 
 rapt eyes, as the night-rider drew nigh. 
 
 Ah, she was fair indeed, he thought: just 
 
 423 
 
Ahes the Pale 
 
 like moonlight she was, fair and white and 
 wonderful. 
 
 As the white war-horse trampled the brack- 
 en, the words Ahez chanted became audible. 
 
 But this was in the old, old, far-off days. 
 But this was in the old, old, far-off days. 
 
 Guenn took up his sword, and she felt its shining 
 blade. 
 
 And she laughed and vowed it fitted ill for the han- 
 dling of a maid. 
 
 He looked at her, and darkly smiled, and said she 
 
 was a queen : 
 For she could swing the white sword high and love 
 
 its dazzling sheen. 
 
 They rode beneath the ancient boughs, and as they 
 
 rode she sang. 
 But at the last both silent were : only the horse-hoofs 
 
 rang. 
 
 She lifted up the great white sword and swung it 
 
 'neath his head — 
 "Ah, you may smile, my lord, now you may smile," 
 
 she said. 
 
 For this was in the old, old, far-off days. 
 For this was in the old, old, far-off days. 
 
 Suddenly Ahez reined in the great white 
 stallion she rode. She had caught sight of 
 the woodlander. At that moment she saw a 
 424 
 
Ah^2 the Pale 
 
 white-robed figure glide into the darkness of 
 the forest. 
 
 " Tell me, forester," she asked — and the old 
 woodlander wondered in his heart whether 
 the beauty of her face excelled that of her 
 voice — " tell me if the lord Jud Mael passed 
 this way?" 
 
 " The lord Jud Mael is dead, great lady. 
 He was slain overnight. Only this moment 
 there was one with me here who slew him — 
 yea, and knew him to be Jud Mael." 
 
 " And what will the name of that man be, 
 and where may I find him ? " 
 
 " He is called Aran the Chanter. He is a 
 druid. He may be found at the Sacred Circle. 
 But this moment he went yonder, to the east- 
 ward." 
 
 " Then I will seek Aran the Chanter," she 
 said: and, so saying, Ahez the Pale rode on- 
 ward in the moonlight. 
 
 It was only then that the woodlander no- 
 ticed she carried a white babe in the fold of 
 her left arm. He knelt, and prayed to his 
 gods. 
 
 Once more, as she rode, she caught sight of 
 a white-robed figure flitting rapidly before 
 her. 
 
 "Ah, Aran the Chanter," she murmured, 
 " I would fain have word of you ! " 
 
 425 
 
Ahes the Pale 
 
 At the first mile she passed the Well of 
 Death — a deep fount in the forest where the 
 tiains were wont to meet. And as she rode 
 she heard the nains chanting. 
 
 She had the old ancient wisdom. She knew 
 the wood-speech. And the song the nains 
 sang was of blood, and of the red footsteps 
 in the wood. 
 
 And when Ahez passed the Well a nain ap- 
 peared. She was like a woman, but was all 
 of green flame. She sang : 
 
 And this was in the old, old, far-off days. 
 And this was in the old, old, far-off days. 
 
 Whereat Ahez the fearless chanted back: 
 
 O Nain, what was in the old, old, far-off days f 
 
 And the nain laughed, and sang : 
 
 O Blind One, who followest a dead man that is alive! 
 
 And having chanted this she vanished. But 
 Ahez 'knew what the nain meant, and the 
 blood-flame rose in her. 
 
 So, she followed a dead man who was alive ! 
 Who could this be but Jud Mael. Ah, the 
 white-robed druid ! 
 
 She took a long dagger from her girdle, and 
 426 
 
Ahes the Pale 
 
 pricked the flank of the white stallion till the 
 blood trickled red. 
 
 As the steed sprang onward through the 
 moonshine, the nains chanted. She heard 
 their wild mocking laughter, and wondered if 
 to Aran, the flying druid, that was Jud Mael, 
 the fugitive from death, their voices rang with 
 wild terror. 
 
 Once, from an oak-glade, she saw him look 
 back over his shoulder. 
 
 The eyes of the gods were in the Wood of 
 Broceliande that night. Whether Jud Mael 
 turned to the right or to the left, or fled on- 
 ward with stumbling feet, seeking for dark 
 places and briery thickets and the conduits of 
 damp caverns, the moonbeams tracked him 
 like hounds. 
 
 While still afar off, Ahez the Pale saw this 
 thing, and she smiled. 
 
 Once he stopped for a few panting mo- 
 ments. He heard her chanting: 
 
 For this was in the old, old, far-off days. 
 For this was in the old, old, far-off days. 
 
 Then, blind with fear, he stumbled on. 
 
 For a brief while thereafter he had hope. 
 The sound of the following hoofs grew faint- 
 er. Thrice, on furtively looking back, he could 
 427 
 
Ahh the Pale 
 
 discern no white rider, no white horse. Once, 
 in a rearward glade, he saw two leverets play- 
 ing in the moonshine. He drew a long breath. 
 It was well, he thought; for he had now a 
 wide glade to cross, a vast glade horribly 
 white with the moonflood, with but a single 
 isle of refuge midway, a solitary lightning- 
 blasted oak. 
 
 Jud Mael hesitated to traverse this terrify- 
 ing void, yet dared not skirt it lest the woman 
 on the white horse should cut him off. At last 
 he fell on his hands and knees, and slowly 
 crawled through the dewy fern. 
 
 He had gone half-way, when suddenly his 
 heart leaped against his throat. 
 
 A great white stallion was trampling down 
 the bracken at the edge of the glade. A 
 woman, with long moonlit hair, rode it; and 
 as she rode in silence he heard the crying of 
 a child. 
 
 With gasping haste he crawled close to the 
 oak. There, among its cavernous roots, he 
 hoped to escape unseen. 
 
 Ahez the Pale rode straight for the soli- 
 tary tree. When the great stallion trampled 
 among the far-spreading roots, she drew 
 rein. 
 
 " Come forth, Jud Mael," she cried. 
 
 Jud Mael shivered. At last the man within 
 428 
 
Ahkz the Pale 
 
 him wrestled with the coward, and he rose to 
 his feet, and stepped out into the moonlight. 
 
 "Art thou Aran the Druid, O thou who 
 wearest a white robe, or art thou Jud Mael? " 
 
 "I am Jud Mael, O Ahez, whom I have 
 loved." 
 
 " And it was thou who slew the priest ? " 
 
 " He came to his death." 
 
 " As thou to thine. But first, lest I slay thee 
 where thou standest, take this child that is 
 your child. He is no child of mine, though I 
 bore him. I am of the royal line, that never 
 bore a coward, and what could this child be 
 but a coward and a traitor? The boy must 
 die." 
 
 " I cannot slay the little one, Ahez." 
 
 " I have not tracked thee down to bandy 
 words. Take thou the child." 
 
 Slowly Jud Mael advanced. On his white 
 face the sweat glittered like dew. 
 
 He put out his arms, and enfolded the child. 
 Then, with steadfast eyes, he looked up at 
 Ahez. 
 
 She stared at him unflinchingly, but made 
 no sign. 
 
 "Ahez!" 
 
 " Hast thou not heard me, dog? " 
 
 Jud Mael flushed a deep red. 
 
 " Beware, woman ! After all, it is but a 
 
 4?9 
 
Ahdz the Pale 
 
 woman you are, and you are alone here, and 
 I can slay you as easily as I could a fawn of 
 the forest." 
 
 " Thou liest." 
 
 The man looked at her defiantly ; then, sul- 
 lenly, his eyes fell. 
 
 "What wouldst thou, Ahez?" 
 
 " Slay this child." 
 
 With a sudden savage gesture the man took 
 the broad knife from the belt that was below 
 his white robe. He hesitated a moment, then 
 abruptly plunged the iron blade into the child's 
 breast. There was a long gasping sound, a 
 clinching of little fingers, a spasmodic twitch- 
 ing of little hands and feet. A thin jet of 
 blood spurted up in the face of Jud Mael. He 
 stood, shaking, trembling like a leaf. 
 
 " Why hast thou made me do this thing, 
 Ahez?" 
 
 " Thou wert a liar, and betrayed me. Think- 
 est thou I shall bear the seed of a traitor ? " 
 
 "But to what end?" 
 
 " To what end ? . . . That thy soul may 
 pass into some evil thing, and die and utterly 
 perish. For now thou hast slain thine own 
 blood. Bring me the child. Alive, it was 
 thine ; slain, it is mine." 
 
 Jud Mael slowly drew near. He lifted the 
 inert small body. Ahez leaned sideways as 
 
 430 
 
Ahes the Pale 
 
 though to take it in her arms. As she gripped 
 the child with her left hand, she raised her 
 right arm. The next moment a dagger flashed 
 in the moonlight, and with a scraping, gurgling 
 sound, sank in between the shoulders of Jud 
 Mael. 
 
 The man staggered, reeled, and would have 
 fallen but for the heaving flank of the stallion. 
 Ahez leaned back, and with a wrench pulled 
 away the dagger. Then before the stricken 
 man could recover she thrust the blade into 
 his neck. 
 
 Jud Mael gave a hoarse cry. As he fell, he 
 slashed at the thigh of Ahez, but the weapon 
 missed and made a deep cut in the belly of the 
 stallion. Snorting and rearing, the great beast 
 swung round and trampled upon the fallen 
 man, neighing savagely the while. 
 
 When he lay quite still, Ahez dismounted. 
 She took the body of the child and piled loose 
 stones above it, to keep it sacred against wild 
 beasts and birds of prey. 
 
 Thereafter, with Jud's knife, she severed 
 the man's head, and by its long black hair 
 slung it to the tangled mane of the stallion. 
 
 Then she mounted, and rode slowly back by 
 the way she had come. 
 
 431 
 
THE KING OF YS AND 
 DAHUT THE RED 
 
The King of Ys and 
 Dahut the Red 
 
 (Proem) 
 
 In the days when Gradlon was Conan of 
 Arvor, or High-King of the Armorican races 
 who peopled Brittany, there was no name 
 greater than his. From the sand-dunes of the 
 Jutes and Angles to where the dark-skinned 
 Basque fishermen caught fish with nets, the 
 name of Gradlon was a sound for silence. 
 Arvor was become so great a land that Franks 
 were called wolves there, and like wolves 
 were hunted down. The wild cry that sur- 
 vives to this day in the forests of Dualt and 
 Huelgoet, in the granite heart of Cornovailles, 
 A'hr bleiz! A'hr bleiz! was heard often then : 
 but no wolf ever so dreaded the cry as the 
 haggard Prankish fugitives. 
 
 Gradlon, Conan of Arvor, was in the mid- 
 way of life when for once he staunched the 
 thirst of his sword. This was when he went 
 over into the lands of the Kymry, the elder 
 
 435 
 
The King of Ys and Dahut the Red 
 
 brothers of his Armorican race, and there 
 fought with them against Saxon hordes, till 
 the red tide ebbed. Thereafter he had gone 
 far northward till the Oeban Gaels hated the 
 singing of Breton shafts, and till the moun- 
 tain-tribes of the Picts paid tribute; Thence, 
 at last, he returned. When he came to his 
 own land, he brought with him two treasures 
 which he held chief among all treasures he 
 had won : a black stallion, and a woman, white 
 as cream with eyes like blue lochs and with 
 long great masses of hair red as the bronze- 
 red berry of the wild ash. The name of the 
 horse was Morvark: the name of the woman, 
 Malgven. When men spoke of the Tameless 
 One they meant Morvark: and after a time 
 they seldom said Malgven, but " the Queen," 
 because Gradlon made her the Terror of Arvor, 
 or " the White Queen," because of her foam 
 white beauty, or the " Red Queen," because 
 of her masses of ruddy hair, which, when un- 
 fastened, was as a stream of blood falling over 
 a white cliff. 
 
 None knew whence Morvark came, nor 
 whence Malgven. What passed from lip to 
 lip was this: that the great, black, tameless 
 stallion was foaled of no earthly mare, but of 
 some strange and terrible sea-beast. It had 
 come out of the North, on a day of tempest. 
 
 436 
 
The King of Ys and Dahut the Red 
 
 Amid the screaming of the gale in the haven 
 where Gradlon and the men of Arvor were, a 
 more wild, a more savage screaming had been 
 heard. Gradlon went forth alone, and at dawn 
 he was seen riding on a huge black stallion, 
 which neighed with a cry like the cry of the 
 sea-wind, and whose hoofs trampled the wet 
 sands with a sound like the clashing of waves. 
 The hair of Gradlon was streaming out on the 
 wind like yellow seaweed on a rushing ebb: 
 his laughter was like the hallala leaping of 
 billows: his eyes were wild as falling stars. 
 
 It was when far in the Alban northlands 
 that the Breton king and Malgven were first 
 seen together. She was not a conquest of the 
 sword. The rumour by the fires had it that 
 she was the queen of a great prince among 
 the Gaels: that she was wife to the King 
 of the Picts : that she was of the fair, perilous 
 people of Lochlin, who were even then seizing 
 for their own the Alban isles and western 
 lands. But one saying was common with all : 
 that she was a woman of dark powers. One 
 and all dreaded her sorceries. Gradlon 
 laughed at these, when she was not by, but 
 swore that there had never been since the first 
 woman so great a sorceress over the heart of 
 man. 
 
 For many months they were together in 
 
 437 
 
The King of Ys and Dahut. the Red 
 
 Alba, nor did once Malgven sigh for the place 
 or the man she had left, nor did ever any her- 
 ald come to Gradlon calling upon him to give 
 up the woman. When she had learned the 
 Armorican tongue she spoke to some of the 
 Breton chiefs, but she had eyes for one man 
 only. She loved Gradlon as he loved her. 
 When they asked her concerning her people, 
 she looked at them till they were troubled: 
 then she answered, I was born of the Wind 
 and the Sea: and, troubled more, they asked 
 no further. 
 
 It was when they were upon the sea, off the 
 Cymric coasts, that the child of Malgven was 
 born. 
 
 For three days before that birthing, strange 
 voices were heard rising from the depths. In 
 the hollow of following waves the long-dead 
 were seen. In the moonshine the flying foam 
 was woven into white robes, wherefrom 
 shining eyes, calm and august, or filled with 
 communicating terror, looked upon the trem- 
 bling seamen. 
 
 On the third day white calms prevailed. At 
 sundown the web of dusk was woven out of 
 the sea, till it rose in purple darkness and hung 
 from the Silver Apples, the Great Galley, the 
 Hounds, the Star of the North, and the Even- 
 ing Star. At the rising of the moon, a sudden 
 
 438 
 
The King of Ys and Dahut the Red 
 
 froth ran along the black lips of the sea. A 
 Voice moaned beneath the travelling feet of 
 the waves, and trembled against the stars. Men, 
 staring into the moving gulfs beneath them, 
 beheld vast irresolute hands, a;s of a Swimmer 
 who carried Ocean upon his unfathomable 
 brows ; others, staring upward into the dust of 
 the Milky Way, discerned eyebrows terrible as 
 comets, and beneath them pale orbs as of for- 
 gotten moons, with long wind-uplifted hair 
 blowing from old worlds idly swinging in the 
 abyss, far back into the starless inlands of the 
 Silent King. 
 
 And as that Breath arose, the knees of the 
 seafarers were as reeds in a shaken water. 
 An old druid of the Gaels whispered Mana- 
 nann! O Mananann! 
 
 Gradlon the king lay upon the fells of she- 
 wolves, and bit his lips, and muttered that if 
 a man spoke he would take his heart from 
 him and throw it to the filmy beasts of the 
 sea. 
 
 It was then that Malgven's labour was 
 done. Her belly opened, and a woman-child 
 came forth, and at the first cry of the child 
 the Voice that was a Breath ceased. And when 
 there was no more any moaning of the un- 
 numbered, cries and laughters came from the 
 deeps; and like a flash of wings meteors fled 
 
 439 
 
The King of Ys and Dahut the Red 
 
 by ; and beyond the unsteady masts were sud- 
 den green and blue flames, plumes worn by 
 demons whose meeting pinions were made of 
 shadow, and beyond these the dancing of the 
 little stars. And by these portents Gradlon 
 was troubled. But Malgven smiled and said: 
 "Let the girl be called Dahut, Wonder, for 
 truly her beauty shall be the wonder of all who 
 come after us. She is but a little foam-white 
 human child : but the sea is in her veins, and 
 her eyes are two fallen stars. Her voice will 
 be the mysterious voice of the sea: her eyes 
 will be the mysterious light within the sea: 
 therefore let her be called Dahut. She shall 
 be the little torch at the end, for me, Malgven : 
 she shall be the Star of Death for the multi- 
 tude whom she will slay with love: she shall 
 be the doom of thee and thine and thy people 
 and the kingdom that is thine, O Gradlon, 
 Conan of Arvor: therefore let her be called 
 Dahut, Wonder ; Dahut, the sweet evil singing 
 of the sea; Dahut, Blind Love; Dahut, the 
 Laugher; Dahut, Death. Yea, let her be 
 called Dahut, O Gradlon, she to whom I have 
 given more than other women give to those 
 whom they bear : for I am of those children of 
 Danii of whom you have heard strange tales, 
 of those Tuath-De-Danann whose lances 
 made of moonshine can pierce granite walls, 
 440 
 
The King of Ys and Dahut the Red 
 
 and whose wisdom is more old than the an- 
 cient forgotten cromlechs in your land and in 
 mine, and whose pleasure it is to dwell where 
 are the palaces of the Sidhe, that are wher- 
 ever green hills grow dim and pale and blue as 
 the smoke above woods." 
 
 Thus was it that the sea-born child of Grad- 
 lon of Arvor and Malgven the Dannite was 
 called Dahut. 
 
 When the Armoricans returned to their own 
 land, the brother of Gradlon, whom he had 
 made Tarist or vice-Regent welcomed Gradlon 
 for their father, the old King of Cornouailles 
 still lived, though blind from the Gaulish 
 arrow which had crossed his face slantwise 
 in a great battle on the banks of the Loire. 
 It was not till the seventh year thereafter 
 that Gradlon again fared far. For three 
 years he was among the Kymry, the Alban 
 Gaels, the Picts, the Islesmen, the Gaels, 
 of Erie, the Gaels of Enona: then, when he 
 was in that land which is now called Anglesey, 
 a deep craving and weariness came upon him 
 to see Malgven again, though less than a year 
 back had she gone from him, to rule in Arvor 
 in his place, for Arz his brother had been slain 
 in a Prankish foray. 
 
 Her beauty was so great that he wore the 
 days in sorrow because of it. When he arose 
 441 
 
The King of Ys and Dahut the Red 
 
 at dawn it flashed against his eyes out of the 
 rising sun: when he looked at the sea, it 
 moved from wave to wave, and beckoned to 
 him: when he stared at the cloud-shadowed 
 hills he saw it lying there adream: when he 
 fared forth at the rising of the moon it took 
 him subtly, now with a birch branch that 
 caught his hair as often it had tangled with 
 Malgven's long curling locks, now with the 
 brushing of tall fern that was a sound like the 
 rustling of her white robe, now because of 
 two stars shining low above dewy grass, 
 which were as her shining eyes. 
 
 There was no woman in the world so beau- 
 tiful, he knew : and yet both men and women 
 prophesied that Dahut would be more beauti- 
 ful still — Dahut the Red, as the girl was al- 
 ready called because of her ruddy bronze- 
 hued hair, wonderful in mass and colour as 
 was that of her mother: more wonderful far, 
 said Malgven, smiling proudly, who knew 
 Dahut to be of the Tuath-De-Danann even as 
 her mother was, and that she would be a torch 
 to light many flames and mayhap fires vast 
 and incalculable. 
 
 So one day Gradlon arose and said " For 
 
 Dahut," and broke his sword : and said " For 
 
 'Arvor," and broke his spear : and said, " For 
 
 Malgven," and bade every prisoner be set 
 
 442 
 
The King of Ys and Dahut the Red 
 
 free, and the ships be filled with treasure and 
 provision. 
 
 When he saw the black rocky coasts of Fin- 
 istere once more he swore a vow that he 
 would never again leave his land, or Malgven. 
 
 Everywhere as he journeyed to Kemper he 
 heard the rumour of the Red Queen's great- 
 ness, of her terrible beauty, of Dahut the 
 Beautiful, Dahut the Perilous, Dahut the Sor- 
 ceress. And he laughed to think that the girl 
 of ten summers was already so like the woman 
 who bore her : and his heart yearned for both, 
 as his ears longed to be void of the ceaseless 
 moan of the sea. His first joy was when he 
 rode through the forest of Huelgoet and heard 
 no sound but the croodling of wild doves and 
 the soft, sleepy purring of the south wind lap- 
 ping the green leaves. When he reached the 
 great town, as Kemper was then called, he saw 
 black banners falling from the low walls of 
 the Fort. He rode onward alone, and found 
 Malgven lying on a high couch with her gold- 
 en diadem on her head, and her long hair 
 clasped with golden rings, and her snow white 
 arms alongside her breastplate of curiously 
 carven mail, which she wore above a white 
 robe. Beside her sat the old blind King. 
 
 From that day Gradlon never smiled. For 
 five years from that day he strove against the 
 
 443 
 
The King of Ys and Dahut the Red 
 
 bitter hours and in all unkingly ways, but 
 without avail. He could not forget the beauty 
 of Malgven. For one year he strove furiously 
 in war. For a second year he hunted wild 
 beasts, from forest to forest, from the do- 
 mains of the north to the domains of the' 
 south and from the domains of the east to the 
 domains of the west. For the third year he 
 loved women by day, and cursed them 
 through sleepless remembering nights. For 
 the fourth year he drank deep. For the fifth 
 year the evil of his life was so great that men 
 murmured against him: and many muttered 
 " Better the old blind King, Arz-Dall, or the 
 young sorceress Dahut herself." 
 
 During all these years Gradlon had no sight 
 of Dahut. Because that she was her mother's 
 self, and because that her beauty was so like 
 yet greater than that of Malgven, the King 
 had sent her to Razmor, his great fort in the 
 north, where are the wildest seas and the wild- 
 est shores of Armorica. And in all these years 
 Gradlon had but one joy, and that was when 
 he mounted the great black stallion, Morvark, 
 and rode for hours, and for leagues upon 
 leagues, by the falling surf of the seas. For 
 when he rode the great horse, the sea-beast as 
 the Armoricans called it in their dread, he 
 dreamed he heard voices he heard at no other 
 
 444 
 
The King of Ys and Dahut the Red 
 
 time, and often, often, the long cry of Malg- 
 ven that he had first Hstened to with shudder- 
 ing awe among the GaeUc hills. 
 
 It was at the end of the fifth year that he 
 came suddenly upon Dahut, when he was rid- 
 ing on Morvark by the wild coast of Razmor. 
 When his gaze drank in her great beauty, he 
 reined in his furious stallion, and his heart 
 beat, for it was surely Malgven come again, in 
 irnmortal Dannite youth. Then, remember- 
 ing that Morvark would let no mortal mount 
 him, save only Gradlon and Malgven that was 
 gone, he flung himself to the ground, and lay 
 there as though dead — whereat with a loud 
 neighing, terrible as the storm blast, Morvark 
 raced with streaming mane toward Dahut. 
 And when he was come to her, the girl laughed 
 and held out her arms, and the black stallion 
 whinnied with red nostrils against her cream- 
 white breasts, and his great eyes were like 
 dark billows that have sunken rocks beneath 
 them, and when he bent low his head and 
 Dahut's ruddy hair streamed over her white 
 shoulders, like blood falling over a white cliff, 
 it was as though beneath this sunlit white 
 cliff brooded the terror and mystery of noc- 
 turnal seas. Then Dahut mounted Morvark. 
 and rode back toward the King her father. 
 As she rode, the moan of Ocean broke across 
 
 445 
 
The King of Ys and Dahut the Red 
 
 the sands. Waves lifted themselves out of 
 windless calms, and made a hollow noise as of 
 travelling thunders. On the unfurrowed flow- 
 ing plains, billows, like vast cattle with shaggy 
 manes, rose and coursed hither and thither, 
 with long, low, deliberate roar upon roar. 
 Among the rocks and caverns a myriad wave 
 relinquished clinging hands, only to spring 
 forward again and seize the dripping rocks 
 and swirl far inland long watery fingers so 
 swift and fluent yet with salt grip terrible and 
 sure. 
 
 Gradlon looked at Dahut, and at the snort- 
 ing stallion Morvark, and at the suddenly 
 awakened and uplifted sea. 
 
 " Avel, avelon, holl avel! " he cried : " wind, 
 wind, all is but wind! vain as the wind, void 
 as the wind ! " 
 
 For he had seen that the woman, whose 
 beauty was so great that his heart beat for 
 fear of its strangeness, was no other than Da- 
 hut his daughter: and by that passing loveli- 
 ness and that terrible beauty, and by the bend- 
 ing to her of the Tameless Morvark, and by 
 the portents of the Sea which loved her, he 
 knew that this was the daughter of Malgven, 
 who was of the ancient and deathless children 
 of Danu. 
 
 When Gradlon rode back to Kemper with 
 446 
 
The King of Ys and Dahut the Red 
 
 Dahut before him upon Morvark, all who saw 
 them fell on their knees. So great was the 
 beauty of Dahut, and so strange was already 
 the public rumour of the Sorceress, of this 
 Daughter of the Sea. Her skin was white as 
 new milk, as the breasts of doves : her hair was 
 long and thick and wonderful, and of the hue 
 of rowan berries in sunlight, of bronze in fire- 
 light, of newly spilled blood trickling down a 
 white cliff: her eyes were changeful as the 
 sea, and, as the sea, were filled with unfath- 
 omable desires, and with shifting light full of 
 terror and beauty. 
 
 But because Dahut could not live far from 
 the wild seas she loved, she bade Gradlon 
 make a new great town, and to build it by 
 Razmor, where the square-walled castle was, 
 on the wave-swept promontory. 
 
 And thus was the town of Ys built by Grad- 
 lon, Conan of Arvor, for the mystery and the 
 delight and the wonder and the terror that 
 was called Dahut the Red. 
 
 447 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 By Mrs. William Sharp 
 
 The publication of Pharais (1894) and The Moun- 
 tain Lovers (1895) by William Sharp, under the 
 pseudonym of "Fiona Macleod," was followed by 
 that of two volumes of Tales : The Sin-Eater and Other 
 Tales in 1895, and The Washer of the Ford and Other 
 Legendary Moralities in 1 8g6, published by P. Geddes 
 and Colleagues, to which firm William Sharp was 
 literary adviser. In 1897 the contents of the two 
 books were rearranged and published in a three- 
 volumed paper^covered edition entitled Barbaric 
 Tales, Dramatic Tales, Spiritual Romances, and to 
 each volume a new tale was added. In 1900 the 
 five volumes were reissued by Mr. David Nutt. 
 
 In America The Washer of the Ford and The Sin- 
 Eater were brought out by Messrs. Stone and Kim- 
 ball (Chicago) in 189s and 1896; and in 1906 were re- 
 issued by Messrs. Duffield & Co. 
 
 For the purposes of the present edition various 
 alterations have been made in the arrangement of 
 the two original volumes; inasmuch as the major 
 portion of their contents now form one volume. 
 From The Sin-Eater the tales concerning the Achana 
 Brothers are grouped together, with others of the 
 same series under the sub-title of "Under the Dark 
 Star," in The Dom-inion of Dreams (Vol. Ill), whereto 
 "The Birdeen" has been transferred, and also "The 
 448 
 
Bibliographical Note 
 
 Daughter of the Sun" in an altered form and en- 
 titled "A Memory." "Tragic Landscapes" now 
 forms part of Volume VI. 
 
 The alterations in the contents of The Washer of 
 the Ford are as follows: "Ula and Urla" is now in- 
 cluded in The Sin-Eater section of this volume, be- 
 cause that tale is the sequel to "The Silk o' the 
 Kine" and was written subsequently to the publi- 
 cation of The Sin-Eater. Two tales from "The 
 Shadow-Seers" will be found in Vol. Ill, and two 
 in Vol. IV. " The Woman with the Net " and ' ' The 
 Sad Queen" have been added to The Washer of the 
 Ford section from The Dominion of Dreams, and 
 "AhSz the Pale" from Barbaric Tales. "Dahut 
 the Red," written in 1905, is herein reprinted from 
 The Pall-Mali Magazine, where it appeared post- 
 humously in igo6. 
 
 The slight revision of the text, and the substitu- 
 tion of the English titles of "St. Bride of the Isles" 
 for "Muime Chriosd," and "Cathal of the Woods" 
 for "The Annir Choille," are in accordance with in- 
 structions left by the author. 
 
 449