* * * * *
None saw their return. Mrs. Maclean went before them with the child, and
at once sent Ealasaid out to keep watch and ward against the coming of
any one. Thereafter she swiftly made all ready for those whom God had
lifted out of the grave.
But so weary was Alastair--so far spent by hunger, and fatigue, and
exposure--that he could not put on the clothes laid ready for him. So
Lora led him gently to bed; and there, after he had swallowed a little
broth and warm milk, he fell into a profound sleep which lasted till
dark, and then, after a brief interval wherein he ate ravenously, till
late on the morrow.
From that time forth, Alastair's madness took a new form. All of dark
gloom, of dread or vague fear, went from him. His reason seemed to be a
living energy again, though still bewilderingly distraught at times, and
ever veiled.
Nevertheless, that day of his awakening after his long, life-saving
slumber was the last wherein the things of his past and the affairs of
the present were realities to him. Concerning these, he could listen to
little and speak less; and, again and again, his struggling thought
became confused and his words incoherent.
Yet Lora learned enough to know what his one passionate wish was. Full
well he knew that the end was not far from him; but before he entered
into the silence he might live many months; and he longed to leave
Innisròn. Beyond words, he longed to die in that little lonely isle of
Ithona which was his sole heritage from his mother, and where he had
been born; for his father had brought his fair Eilidh there from his old
gloomy castle at Dunvrechan for the travail that was her doom.
Upon Ithona no one dwelt other than an old islander whose fathers had
been there before him for generations.
Seumas Macleod was at once shepherd and fisherman, and caretaker of the
long, low farm-house: alone now, since the death of his wife at
midsummer of that year. There was room and to spare for Alastair and
Lora and the little one; for Mary also--for Mrs. Maclean never dreamed
of parting from these her children.
And thus it was arranged, ere dusk came and filled with violet shadows
all the hollows that lay betwixt the cottage and the sea.
* * * * *
Three days thence, late on a hot afternoon scarce cooled by the breeze
that moved soundlessly though steadily over the upland crags of
Innisròn, a company of islanders was met at the little western haven
betwixt Ardfeulan and Craig-Ruaidh. Every one on the isle was there,
indeed, except the one or two who were weakly or in extreme old age.
On the water, moored to a ledge, a herring-trawler, the _Ellù_, lay with
her brown sail flapping idly. In the stern sat Lora, with her child at
her breast, and beside her Mrs. Maclean. In the waist, with a leg on
either side of the seat, Angus Macrae, who owned the boat, leaned
against the mast.
The islanders made a semi-circular group. In the middle were six or
seven old men: on either side were the younger men, women old and young,
and the children. Behind were the collie dogs, squatted on their
haunches or moving restlessly to and fro.
Some mischance had made it impossible for Mr. Macdonald, the old
minister of these outer isles, to be present. Father Manus, a young
priest of Iona, took his place, and had already blessed the sea, and the
_Ellù_ that was to voyage across it, and those who were going away for
ever from Innisròn, and the weary hearts they carried with them, and the
sad hearts of those who were gathered to see them go.
Alastair, tall, frail, with wild eyes strangely at variance with the
quiet pallor of his face--and to many there scarce recognisable, so
greatly had he altered--was bidding farewell to the elders one by one.
Not a word else was spoken by any than the familiar good-bye--_Beannachd
leibh_. The hearts of all were too full.
At the last, Alastair came to where Ealasaid MacAodh stood, crying
silently. He took her in his arms, and kissed her on the brow and then
upon both eyes.
She watched him as he moved slowly down to the _Ellù_. He stepped on
board, followed by Ranald Macrae, and sat down beside Lora, whose hand
he took in his, and with the other stroked it gently.
As old Angus Macrae shook out the sail, Ealasaid suddenly fell on her
knees, and, swaying to and fro, began a wailing lament:
"_Tha mo latha goirid,
Tha mo feasgar fada,
O, oi, oi, tha cèo air a' bheinn,
O, oi, oi, tha drùchd air an fheur!_"
My day is short,
Long is my night--
O, alas, alas, the mist upon the hill,
O, alas, alas, the dew upon the grass!
Slowly the _Ellù_ moved out from the haven.
Lora and Mary sat with bowed heads. Alastair had turned and was staring
seaward, where a glory of gold and scarlet was gathered against the
going down of the sun.
"_O, oi, oi, tha cèo air a' bheinn,
O, oi, oi, tha drùchd air an fheur!_"
sang the islanders in a long, wailing chant.
Suddenly the sail filled, became taut. The boat moved swiftly before the
wind.
A deep silence fell upon all. Then Griogair Fionnladh, the oldest of the
islesmen, raised the pipes from his shoulder and began to play.
But the wild, mournful, plaintive air was not the expected Lament of
Farewell. It was the ancient Coronach for the Dead.
One by one, every man doffed his bonnet; the white-haired elders bowing
their heads, and, with downcast eyes, muttering inaudibly. Sobs were
heard and tears fell; but no word was spoken.
When the sun set, the _Ellù_ was far on her way--a black speck in the
golden light. With the coming of the gloaming, the islanders slowly
dispersed. Soon there was none left, save Fionnladh and Ealasaid.
For a long while thereafter upon the twilight-water rose and fell,
mingling with the solemn, rhythmic chant of the waves, the plaintive,
mournful wail of the Coronach for those who have passed into the
silence.
When that, too, had ceased, there was no sound that the sea heard not
nightly, save the sobbing of the woman Ealasaid.