II

The still weather had come, and all the isles lay in beauty. Far south,

beyond vision, ranged the coasts of Eiré: westward, leagues of quiet

ocean dreamed into unsailed wastes whose waves at last laved the shores

of Tir-ná’n-Òg, the Land of Eternal Youth: northward, the spell-bound

waters sparkled in the sunlight, broken here and there by purple

shadows, that were the isles of Staffa 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 Rûm called Haleval,

Haskeval, and Oreval, and the sheer Scuir-na-Gillian and the peaks of

the Cuchullins 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 pastures came plaintively against the dawn. The

lowing of the kye arose from the sandy hollows 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 sea-weed 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 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 Iona 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 approached. 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 Dùvach,” 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 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 rejoined 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 yellow tongues of flame moved to and fro. The sacrifice of

God was made. Out of the immeasurable heaven He had come, in His golden

chariot. Now, in the wonder and mystery of His love, He was re-born upon

the world, 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 illumined 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-suffering 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 anywhere, 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 hidden 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, 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 of 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 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 finger-shadows upon

the granite rocks and boulders.

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, trembling, 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 was for her

that day what it could be once in each year to every person who came to

it, a breath of new life and the strength and joy of youth. With slow

steps she advanced towards the arch of the quickens. Her heart beat as

she saw that the branches at the summit 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 forward 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 Dùvach or

her foster-brothers for the space of a year and a day. Only Cathal, the

aged Arch-Druid, who died seven days thence, had a vision of her, and

wept for joy.