IX

In a brief space, Murdo learned what Nial could tell him. For all his

shepherd-eyes, he could discern nothing in the pool but a vague blur of

darkness far down.

What was he to do? He could not think, with these two staring at him

there. He whispered to Nial that he would be back shortly, that he was

going upstream to where Oona's clothes were; adding that when he brought

them back Nial was to lead the little lass away, take her home, find and

tell Sorcha.

When, some minutes later, Murdo returned with the small bundle, he saw

that the child was weary with heat and fatigue, as well as with what

she had endured. There would be no trouble with her.

And indeed, when once she was in her scanty garb again, Oona went

without a word. Nial whispered that he would be back as soon as he

could; and would bring the grey horse with him.

The last Murdo saw of them was a momentary glimpse as they disappeared

among the bracken, under the pines. The elf-man was carrying the

sleeping Oona in his strong crooked arms.

The shepherd, who had betrayed no emotion as yet, stood staring into the

pool. A mist came into his eyes, and one or two tears rolled down his

furrowed face. A grim satisfaction moved into his mind, along with his

dull pain; for now he remembered how his father, who had been shepherd

on Màm-Gorm of Iolair before him, had had "the sight" of this very

happening. The old man had been laughed at in the Strath; though, by the

waterside, he had thrice seen Màm-Gorm's wraith rise out of the Kelpie's

Pool. _Now_ the foolish folk down there would not be laughing.

After a time he bethought himself that Nial might not be back for long.

It was nigh upon noon, and he wished to get the body away as soon as

might be. It was now he remembered that Nial could not tell Sorcha, for

he had met her and Alan going after the kye to the hill-pastures. This

was well, meanwhile.

At the Ford of Ardoch there was an old boat not used for years past,

save by himself, by Sorcha, or by Alan. In it were fishing-poles, a

rope, and other things of his and Alan's. They would serve now, he

muttered. So once more the gaunt, plaided shepherd strode upstream,

mumbling, as he went, through his red tangled beard, and with his wild

hill-eyes shining with the thoughts of life and death that were slowly

filling his brain; thoughts, memories, superstitious fears, and vague,

strange phantasma rising from the dull ache of sorrow.

To his ears the most familiar of sounds, the bleating of ewes and lambs,

came down from the mountain as a lamentable cry. That night there would

be dread in his heart, because of the lonely hillside, and the wide

darkness, and the wraith that would be moving through that darkness.

Soon he found what he wanted, and speedily returned. At first he thought

he would need help, but after a time he decided to do what he could

himself. To one of the long poles he fastened his shepherd staff, with

its strong curved cromak.

The sweat poured from his face with heat and weariness long before he

succeeded, at last, in getting a grip of the corpse. But, undaunted by

failure after failure, and these even after he had first caught hold, he

raised it slowly to the shelving ledge which ran out a few feet below

the surface. The rest was easy. He slipped the rope over the feet, arms,

and waist; then slid the body along the slippery ledge, and so with a

rush to the face of the pool, and thence to a wide cranny in the rock

beside him.

Sure, there was no mistake. Màm-Gorm himself, in truth; for all he was

so quiet and pale, with the dark brown out of his face now, and all the

stern, brooding life of the man no more than an already nigh-forgotten

idle song.

So this was the end of Torcall Cameron of Màm-Gorm. There had been none

prouder and more aloof than he in all Strath Iolair. Ay, he was a proud

man. And now there was an end of it all. Sure, it was a bitter ending.

God save us the dark hour of it. Ay, the dull knock and the muffled

voice that come soon or late, in the mirk of day or night, at the

soul-gate of each of us--Torcall mhic Diarmid had heard them.... Thus,

over and over, variously, yet ever on the same lines, Murdo revolved in

his mind the passing of Màm-Gorm.

At last, to his satisfaction, he heard the peculiar cry which Nial was

wont to give as a signal. Then followed the trampling of a horse:

finally both appeared, coming along a stony path in the forest that in

winter was a clattering watercourse.

It did not take long for the two to lift the body on to the small,

shaggy white horse, and there to secure it; with the white face staring

blankly up at the blue sky, the open eyes fronting with unwinking gaze

the pitiless glare of the sun. While they worked, Nial told how he had

carried Oona home, and laid her on Sorcha's bed, sound asleep and warm.

He had feared to leave her there all alone, lest she waked, or lest evil

came to her "out of the shadow"; but he did what he could, and that was

to take down the great Book from the shelf by the bed where Torcall

Cameron would sleep never again, and lay it at the lassie's feet. Then

he had gone out to the kailyard, and let Donn the collie leave her two

pups awhile, and had given her a shawl of Sorcha's to smell, and then

had sent her up the mountain to seek for Màm-Gorm's daughter, wherever

she might be with the sheep and kye.

As soon as all was ready, the crossing of the Mairg Water was done at

the Ford, and then the ascent begun to Ardoch-beag. Murdo stalked in

front, the rope-bridle looped over his arm; Raoilt, the white mare,

staggered and stumbled after him up the craggy path. Then came Nial, his

shape not more fantastic than the shadow which waxed and waned mockingly

before him, as he toiled upward, with bent head and tear-wet, quivering

face. Finally, lagging some yards behind, limped Murdo's two collies.

The August heat-wave silenced every bird on the hillside. Not even the

grouse cluttered. Far away, in a marshy place, there was a drumming of

snipe.

The air was heavy with the smell of honey-ooze from the pale ling and

the purple bell-heather. Now and again there was the sharp twang in it

of the bog-myrtle, sweltering in the sunglow.

The thin dust rose from the path, or even from the face of the granite

rocks. The shadows of the wayfarers lay pale-blue against the hill road,

when the path widened into it. The dogs crawled, panting, their long

tongues lolling like quivering, bloody snakes. Nial wearily wagged his

shaggy peaked head to and fro: at times, too, he let his great swollen

tongue fall half out of his mouth, as though to cool the thirst of it

against the parched air. Poor Raoilt sweated at every pore of her body,

while dark streaks of wet ran down her flanks. Murdo showed less

fatigue; but his weather-brown face had become deep red, and about his

moist brow a haze of midges hovered. Quiet and cool, one only: cool and

quiet, the rider on the white horse, for all that his face was as baked

clay in the yellow glare, that his staring eyes were upon the whirling

disc of flame in the zenith.

With a sigh of relief Murdo saw at last the cottage of the Gilchrists,

sole house on the easter side of Tornideon.

Not a word had he said hitherto to Nial as to the taking of the corpse

to Ardoch-beag. If the dwarf had thought of a destination at all, apart

from Màm-Gorm, it was doubtless of the minister's house, which lay three

miles beyond Ardoch-beag, at the far end of Inverglas.

But suddenly he waked to the knowledge that Murdo was off the road, and

on the path leading to the byres of the widow Anabal.

What was the meaning of it? he asked; but Murdo would not hear. As they

stopped at the ring-stone, between the byre and the cottage, he went up

to the shepherd.

"Why will you be doing this thing, Murdo MacMurdo?" he demanded.

At first the man gloomed upon him, then he smiled grimly.

"Wait."

Having said this, Murdo strode to the doorway of the cot. He knocked;

there was no answer. He knocked again; again no answer. Then he opened

the door. He did not expect to see Alan, but he was sure the woman

Anabal would be in. There was no trace of her. The bed had not been

slept in. The peats were black in the fireplace. Yet, strange to say, an

open Bible lay on the low deal table, and on the near page was a pair of

horn spectacles.

It was very strange. Well, he would search everywhere, both but and ben,

out-houses and byre and stable.

There was not even a dog about the place.

He returned to Nial, downcast.

"There is a spell upon this place, Nial-of-the-woods. I wish we had not

come."

"Why did you come?"

"This, man, this--_this_--is why!" he muttered savagely, and as he spoke

he drew from his pocket a gold ring.

"That is one reason, Nial-of-the-woods! Look you, I found that ring in a

crevice in the rocks on the further left side of the Linn o' Mairg. Look

you again, I know the ring. Do you see these letters? Ah, well, you

can't read, poor elfin-creature that you are; but I'll tell them to you.

They are _F. G._ and _A. G._ And now will you be knowing what _F. G._

and _A. G._ are for? They are for Fergus Gilchrist and Anabal

Gilchrist--_and this ring here, that I found by the Linn o' Mairg, is

the wedding-ring of Anabal Gilchrist_!"

The outcast stared, vaguely impressed, but without understanding what

Murdo was driving at. The man saw he was puzzled, so with a rough

gesture he pulled him over to the near flank of the mare. "And here, you

poor fool--_to Himself be the praise, for this and that!_--is the other

reason. Look at _that_!"

What he pointed to was a long tress of grey hair, grey-streaked brown

hair, firmly clutched in the right hand of the dead man.

A glimmering of Murdo's meaning came into Nial's mind. He glanced at the

shepherd, appalled.

"Ay," whispered the latter, divining his thought: "sure, that there is

nothing else but a tress of the hair of the woman Anabal. And you be

telling me, Nial, if you can, what Anabal Gilchrist was doing last

night or to-day afore dawn, that she should leave her golden

wedding-ring lying by the Linn-side, and that a tress of her hair--and

there is none like it, no, none o' that witchy grey-brown, in all the

Strath--should be held even now in the death-grip o' Torcall Cameron o'

Màm-Gorm?"

"And that is why you have come here, with ... with ... _him_?"

"That is why."

The two looked at each other. A fierce anger and lust of revenge burned

in the heart of the shepherd. To Nial everything was simply a horrible,

incomprehensible mystery. But Murdo knew something, perhaps more than

anyone else, of what had lain between Torcall Cameron and Anabal

Gilchrist; whatever the outcast knew, or vaguely surmised, was too deep

down in his mind now to swim up into remembrance.

It was Nial who broke the silence.

"What of Alan?"

"The curse is upon him too--to the Stones be it said!"

"He will be far up on the north side of Tornideon ... or with Sorcha on

Iolair."

"The woman must have fled. Or ... ah, for sure, that thought was never

coming to me. Nial, my man, you never thought o' that, did you? You

never thought that perhaps there were _two_ bodies down there in the

pool! Ay, for sure, for sure: Màm-Gorm was not the man to die alone!"

"Perhaps ... Murdo, perhaps it was ... perhaps it was ... _he_ who...."

The words failed. The gaunt shepherd looked down at the speaker,

frowning darkly.

"May be, may be," he muttered at last. "If I thought _that_, I would be

letting him lie in his own house. Nial, see that no word o' this gets

upon your lips if you meet anyone. No one must think _that_. No one in

the Strath must think an evil thing o' Màm-Gorm."

Once more Murdo left, and made a diligent search everywhere. When he

came back, he was muttering constantly, with a wild look in his eyes.

"Did you hear _that_?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

"That? What? I heard nothing."

"Did ye not hear some one in the shadow ayont the byre crying, _Cian!

Cian! Cianalas! Dubhachas!_"[15]

[15] Pron. _Kĕ-ăn! Kĕ-ăn! Keen-ăl-ŭs! Doov-ăch-ŭs!_ To Celtic ears,

not unlike the wailing cry of the plover. The words, moreover, mean

_For long, ever! Melancholy! Gloom!_ The word _feadag_ (pron.

_Fāād'ak_), in the ensuing sentences, has two meanings--a plover,

and a flute. The _binn fheadag_ is "the shrill voice of the

plover." Murdo turns the word both ways: _feadag_, the bird, and

_feadag_, a flute; the flute made of wind and shadow that sometimes

is heard on the hills when a (_tamhasq_) _tāvăsk_ moves through the

gloom of night.

"No, no," murmured Nial, trembling; "I saw the shadow of a bird on the

grassy place yonder, and a cry like the _binn fheadag_."

"Ay, the feadag, the feadag, but no flying bird, for 'twas a wraith

playing the dark song of the dead on the shadowy feadag that no man has

ever seen, though there be those who hear it ... God save us!"

Nial shuddered. It might be so, he thought. He believed he had seen a

plover only, had heard no more than the wailing cry of a plover; but

doubtless Murdo _knew_.

The shepherd stood staring at him gloomily. At last he spoke:

"This is a dark thing, Nial, my man. There is no light upon it to me

whatever. But it will be looking to me as though I should go down to the

Pool again, and be seeing if _she_ is there too. And if not, then I must

seek out Alan upon the hill. Do you think this thing too?"

Nial shook his head despondently; he could think neither one way nor

another. Màm-Gorm lay there dead--white, stiff, staring up to the sun.

He knew _that_.

"Ah, poor fool that you are," Murdo went on, pityingly, and as though

talking to himself; "sure, I need not be asking you. How can a soulless

thing o' the woods think? wi' a head like an addled egg, and a poor bit

body withouten a spirit in it, as all decent folk have. Well, well, 'tis

Himself has the good reason, praise be His! And now, Nial, I will be

doing this thing. I told you the Book lay open on the table in there.

Well, I will be for going by whatever the word is that is on my sight

when I first look. If it tell me to go into Inverglas, and speak of this

evil day, then it is going there I will be; if it tell me to go and seek

in the Pool, well, I will be going there; and whatever I see, it will be

the way for me. If I am to speak, it is speaking I will be; if I am to

be silent, it is silent I will be."

And with that the shepherd turned, moved slowly away, and entered the

cottage for the third time.

Where would he look? he wondered, when he stood by the table and stared

down upon the open Gaelic Bible. Sure, he would accept the sign in the

sentence across which Anabal's spectacles lay.

He stooped, and with pointing finger read slowly and with difficulty,

word by word:

"_Cuir, a Thighearna, faire air mo bheul; gléidh dorus mo bhilean!_"

"_Set, O Lord, a watch before my mouth; keep the door of my lips!_"

"That will be enough," he muttered with bated breath, and went out. As

he approached the horse, Nial saw that he had found the "wisdom."

Vaguely he wondered if Murdo had noticed any "living words"--mysterious

phrase that ever perplexed, and sometimes terrified him.

"Nial, I have found the word. It is not for me to go into the Strath

with news of the dead. The Book said, "_Keep a watch before the mouth,

keep the door of the lips._" You understand...? Ay, sure: poor, faithful

creature that loved Màm-Gorm; ay, an' that Màm-Gorm, too, loved as much

as Donn or Fior or any o' the dogs, wise beasties.... Well, I will be

going now, down to the Pool: then, one way or the other, I will be

looking for Alan Gilchrist. An' it is for you to wait here, Nial, lest

he, or any other, come. We'll put the mare and ... and ... Màm-Gorm ...

into the byre just now. And you wait, you will be minding!"

In silence Raoilt, with her rigid burden, was led into the hot gloom of

the byre. Then the door was partially closed, for there was no fastening

to it, and Murdo made ready to go.

"Leave me one o' the dogs," said Nial sullenly.

"And for why?"

"I will not be staying here alone, in this treeless, foreign place,

Murdo MacMurdo: no, that I won't, unless you will be leaving me one of

the dogs."

The shepherd grunted surlily, for the collies were his best friends, and

good company. But if so to be, then so to be. He would take Braon and

leave Luath. It was safer, at such a time, to be alone with a dog than a

bitch; for bitches were known often to be in league with demons and evil

spirits. As for Nial, not being human himself, there would be less risk.

Now that he noticed it, there was a red glare in Luath's eyes, and the

bitch moved about in a strange way. For sure he would take Braon.

* * * * *

The time went wearily for the watcher at Ardoch-beag. The sweltering

heat made him long doubly for the green forest that was his home. He did

not dare enter that lonely house. Who or what might be sitting there,

or standing looking at him from the inner room? Neither could he venture

into the byre, though, but for her awful burden, he would rather have

the company of the mare Raoilt than of the bitch Luath.

For a long while he sat in the shadow of a dyke that was the south side

of the winter sheepfold. But he grew more and more uneasy as time

passed. What if Murdo did not come back till after nightfall?

He rose and stared about him. Where was Luath? He could not see the

collie anywhere. He had noticed her trotting idly up the steep bend of

the road beyond the cottage.

"Ah, there she is," he muttered, as he saw a shadow flit bluely across

the blinding way. But what was the matter with the beast? She came along

at a swift, slinking run, her tail skiffing the ground between her feet.

As she passed, she gave him a furtive glance. The upper lip, taut, just

showed a glimmer of white fangs.

"Luath! Luath! Luath!"

But the collie would pay no heed; or, rather, she paid this heed, that

she broke into a race, and flew down the road to the Ford till she was

no more than a black blur beyond a whirling eddy of dust.

This was the last straw. Nial gave one look more all around him. Then

he listened at the byre, to hear if Raoilt were munching at her hay.

What if Màm-Gorm should get tired of being dead, and should dismount,

and, rigid and white, step out into the sunlight! The thought made him

shiver, for all the blazing heat.

Silently as his shadow, he was out upon the road. Suddenly the whim took

him to go the other way rather than by the path he and the others had

come. Below Cnoc-Ruadh the road dipped for a bit; and there was a

sheep-path from it that would lead him down to the ford of

Ath-na-chaorach, whence he would soon be in Iolair forest again.

But no Ford of the Sheep did Nial see that day.

For after he had reached the summit of the road at that part, to the

westward of Ardoch-beag, he saw a sight that brought the heart

suffocatingly to his mouth. It was this, then, that had made Luath slink

swiftly away, with curled lip and bristling fell?

There, as though carven in stone, sat the woman Anabal, rigid and

motionless as the thing that was in the byre. She was on the extreme

verge of Cnoc-Ruadh, where a double ledge runs out from the great

boulder which overhangs the Strath, and whence for nigh upon a score of

miles the eye can follow the course of Mairg Water.

At the far end a heat-haze obscured mountain-flank and bracken-slope,

and birk-shaw--all save the extreme summits of the hills, purple-grey

shadows against the gleaming sky. Nearer, in the north strath, the smoke

of many cots, sheilings, and bothan rose in their perpendicular or

spiral columns of pale blue mist.

From where Nial stood he could see her face. It was as wan and awful as

that of the dead man in the byre, but he saw that the eyes lived. The

woman sat dumb, blind, oblivious of the flaming heat, her gaze fixed,

unwavering. Fire burned in them, a fire that would never be quenched

till the day of the grave.

He could not tell whether she was alive or dead, whether a woman or a

wraith. But he noted the long, tangled locks of hair which hung over her

shoulder, brown hair streaked with grey, like the tress that the dead

man still clutched in his right hand.

It was a thing to flee from. One desire only possessed him now, to reach

the safe green quietudes of the pine-forest once more. There all was

familiar; there he could evade man or wraith.

And so he, too, left that solitude where, once again, Torcall and Anabal

were nigh one to another, and not knowing it.

How could he know--none but God knew--that in the woman's ears was the

roar of the Linn forever? that the laughter of a kelpie wrought her ever

to an excruciating terror? Dumb, motionless, staring unwaveringly: so

was she at the flame-red setting, as she had been since the first blaze

had lightened along the peaks of the east.

X

It was within an hour of nightfall when, from the verge of the forest

below Màm-Gorm, Nial caught sight of the kye coming down from the

hill-pastures. He could not see Sorcha, but he knew she must be there;

probably with Alan, who for days past had been wont to depute his own

shepherding on Tornideon to a herd-laddie who lived with an old drover

just beyond the Pass of the Eagles.

Nial had already been up at the farm. Oona lay where he had left her,

and was still in the same profound and, but for her low breathing,

deathlike slumber. Thence he had wandered back to the forest, thinking

that he would descend toward the Linn o' Mairg, and see if Murdo were

still there in his quest for Anabal. He had scarce entered the

pine-glades when, happening to glance backward, he saw the cows coming

home.

Sure enough, in a few minutes Sorcha appeared: and, as he had surmised,

Alan with her. They walked together, his arm about her waist, while

slowly they followed the leisurely kye. As they came nearer, Nial heard

Sorcha singing one of her many milking songs. Often he had heard her

sing that which now came rippling down the heather, and he could have

given her word for word for it.

O sweet St. Bride of the

Yellow, yellow hair:

Paul said, and Peter said,

And all the saints alive or dead

Vowed she had the sweetest head,

Bonnie, sweet St. Bride of the

Yellow, yellow hair.

White may my milking be,

White as thee:

Thy face is white, thy neck is white,

Thy hands are white, thy feet are white,

For thy sweet soul is shining bright--

O dear to me,

O dear to see,

St. Bridget white!

Yellow may my butter be,

Soft and round:

Thy breasts are sweet,

Soft, round, and sweet

So may my butter be:

So may my butter be, O

Bridget sweet!

Safe thy way is, safe, O

Safe, St. Bride:

May my kye come home at even,

None be fallin', none be leavin',

Dusky even, breath-sweet even

Here, as there, where, O

St. Bride, thou

Keepest tryst with God in heav'n,

Seest the angels bow

And souls be shriven--

Here, as there, 'tis breath-sweet even,

Far and wide--

Singeth thy little maid

Safe in thy shade,

Bridget, Bride!"

Nial hesitated. He would have gone to her at once, but he did not wish

to speak before Alan. Moreover, what was he to say to Angus Óg, as

Anabal's son was called by the strath folk on account of his beauty and

because he was a dreamer and a poet, though but a shepherd of the hills?

How could he tell of Murdo's quest by the pool, and also of the spirit

or wraith he had seen sitting on Cnoc-Ruadh that is beyond Ardoch-beag

on Tornideon?

The flanks of the cows gleamed in the light as with filled udders they

swung slowly homeward, their breaths showing in whorls of mist whenever

they were in shadow, where the dews were already falling after the

extreme of heat. Behind them, now on a sloping buttress of rock and

heather, now on the smooth thymy hollows which lay like green pools

among the purple ling, Alan and Sorcha moved, both bathed in the

sunglow, his left hand clasping her right and swinging slow. Ah, fair to

see, thought Nial: fair to see!

But, even while he pondered, he saw Alan take Sorcha in his arms, kiss

her, and then, with lingering hand-clasp, turn to go up the mountain

again, or, as might be, to cross to Tornideon. Not far did he go,

though: for, as Nial watched, he saw Sorcha's lover lean against a great

boulder, where he stood like a fair god, because of the sunflood falling

upon him in gold waves out of the west. Beautiful the rolling of that

sea of light across the sloping surface of the forest: with the

yellow-shining billows flowing and rippling among the summits of the

pines, and ever and again spilling into branchy crevices or dark green

underglooms.

Doubtless Alan was waiting to see her reach Màm-Gorm, and perhaps for a

signal thereafter: if so, thought Nial, he had best see Sorcha at once,

though he knew not the way of the thing to be said, or if he could speak

at all while Oona slept.

Slowly he moved toward her. She had descried him, for she did not follow

the cows, but stood, waiting. The gloaming was already about her. She

was like a spirit, he thought, with the windy hair about her face--for

with the going of the sun a sudden eddy had arisen, and the air of its

furtive, wavering pinions was upon Sorcha.

"Nial!" she cried blithely, when he was a brief way off, "is the

peat-smoke a bird, that it has flown away from the house--for not a

breath of smoke do I see? Is father in? and Oona? Have you seen her?

I've called thrice, but St. Bridget herself wouldn't be having an answer

from Oona if she's hiding somewhere. _Oona!_ ... _Oona!_ ... _Oona!_"

"Don't be calling upon the child, Sorcha. She is tired, and is

sleeping."

"And father?"

Then in his heart of hearts Nial knew that he had not the courage to

say what he had to say. Sure, too, there was something he did not

understand. After all, the woman he had seen on Cnoc-Ruadh could be no

other than Anabal Gilchrist. And if _she_ could be drowned and yet come

alive again, perhaps Torcall Cameron could--ay, was perhaps already up

and, blind as he was, feeling blankly round the walls of the strange

place he was in, to be out soon, and, later, in the dark, come striding

into Màm-Gorm.

"And father, Nial, and father? Is he in, or is he out upon the hill,

with the gloom upon him this night again?"

"It will be a strange thing that I am telling you,

_Sorcha-nighean-Thorcall_, but one that will be glad and warm in your

heart."

"Speak."

"There is ... there is peace now between Màm-Gorm and the woman Anabal,

that is mother of Alan."

"Peace!--oh, Nial! To Himself the praise of it! Oh, glad I am at the

good thing that you say! Sure, glad am I!"

"It is true. Ay, and he has gone over to Tornideon, and will sleep this

night at Ardoch-beag."

Sorcha stared bewildered. Even her joy at the news, which meant so much

for her and Alan, was forgotten in sheer amaze. Her father go to

Tornideon! her father asleep at Ardoch-beag!

Words of his came to her remembrance: she, too, muttered, "My soul swims

in mist."

"Nial, is this--a true thing?..."

"Ay."

"Is it--is it--a true thing that he is up at Ardoch-beag, and will sleep

there ... and ... and ... is at peace?"

"Ay, sure, he is up at Ardoch-beag, and will sleep there, and sure, too,

sure, he is at peace."

A wonderful light came into the girl's beautiful eyes. Her twilight

beauty was now as a starry dusk.

"Nial," she whispered, "dear Nial, you and Murdo see to the milking of

the kye for me this night ... do, dear good Nial, do! And you can ask

Oona, too, to help you ... for ... for, Nial, all is well now ... and I

can go to Alan ... oh, glad am I, and like as though a bird sang in my

heart!"

And then, before he realised what he had brought upon himself, before he

could say a word of yea or nay, Sorcha had turned, and with swift steps

was hurrying through the gloaming to where Alan still stood on the

hillside, watching and dreaming, dreaming and hoping.

Nial stood gazing after her. Strange, this mystery of beauty! All his

trouble waned out of the glare of day into a cool twilight. The passing

of her there on the hill was like music in his ears. Ah, to be Alan, to

have so tall and strong a body, so fair a face, to have Sorcha's love,

to have a soul! The fairer soul the fairer body--that seemed to him a

truth; for what had he to go by but the three he knew best and loved

best: Oona and Sorcha and Alan, the fairest man, the most beautiful

woman, the loveliest child he had ever seen or dreamed of there in

Strath Iolair, or during those mysterious wanderings of his when he was

far from the mountain-land with the gipsy-people? No beauty like theirs,

no others like them in any way; sure, it was because the souls of them

were white, and all three kindred of the forgotten "people of the sun,"

whom Sorcha sometimes sang or spoke of as the Tuatha-de-Dánan, and

Màm-Gorm had told him once were old, forgotten gods--fair, deathless

folk!

In truth it was with joy that Sorcha hastened toward Alan. He saw the

light in her eyes before she was near enough to speak. Often, beholding

her, he was aware of something within him that was as a sun-dazzle to

the eye that looks upon a shining sea or a cloudless noon. Sometimes his

heart beat low, and an awe made a hushed, fragrant, green-gloom dusk in

his brain; sometimes he grew faint, strangely wrought, as a worshipper

when the spirit for a brief moment unveils its sanctuary and irradiates,

transforms the whole trembling body, but most the face and the eyes of

wonder. At other times all the poet in him arose. Then he laughed low

with joy because of her beauty; and saw in her the loveliness of the

mountain-land. Then it was that she was his "Dream," his "Twilight," his

"Shining star," his "Soft breath of dusk." Dear she was to him as the

fawn to the hind, sweet as the bell-heather to the wild bee, lovely and

sweet and dear beyond all words to say, all thought to image. Then there

were their blithe hours of youth--hours when he was _Alan-aluinn_ and

she _Sorcha-maiseach_; seasons of laughing happiness and light ripple of

the waters of peace. Children of the sun they were in truth, in a deeper

sense than they, as all the kindred of the Gael, were children of the

mist.

But of late both--and he particularly--had been wrought more and more by

the passion of love. Ever since the refusal of the minister at Inverglas

to marry them, because of the feud between Torcall Cameron and Anabal

Gilchrist, and of the ban laid by each against the offspring of the

other, they had troubled themselves no more about what, after all, to

them, in their remote life in these mountain solitudes, meant little. In

the dewy, moth-haunted, fragrant nights of May, when it was never quite

dark upon the hills, and even in the forest the pine-boles loomed

shadowy, they had become dearer than ever to each other. Day by day

thereafter their joy had grown, like a flower moving ever to the sun;

and as it grew, the roots deepened, and the tendrils met and intertwined

round the two hearts, till at last they were drawn together and became

one, as two moving rays of light will converge into one beam, or the

song of two singers blend and become as the song of one. As the weeks

passed, the wonder of the dream became at times a brooding passion, at

times almost an ecstasy. Ossian and the poets of old speak of a strange

frenzy that came upon the brave; and, sure, there is a _mircath_[16] in

love now and again in the world, in the green, remote places at least.

Aodh the islander, and Ian-bàn of the hills, and other dreamer-poets

know of it--the _mirdhei_, the passion that is deeper than passion, the

dream that is beyond the dreamer, the ecstasy that is the rapture of the

soul, with the body nigh forgot.

[16] The "mircath," or war-frenzy, is _mire-chath_, the "passion of

battle," as the "mirdeeay" is _mire-dheidh_, the "passion of

longing." The word Darthula--_infra_--is a later Gaelic variant of

_Dearduil_ (almost identically pronounced), the Scoto-Gaelic

equivalent of the Erse _Deirdrê_, the most beautiful woman of old.

This _mirdhei_ was now more and more upon Alan; upon Sorcha, too, the

dream-spell lay.

So it was in a glad silence that he watched her coming. For the moment

she was not Sorcha, but a _Bándia-nan-slèibhtean_, a goddess of the

hills, fair as the _Banrigh-nan-Aillsean_, the fairy queen. Often,

singing or telling her some of the songs of Oisìn mhic Fhionn, he had

called her _his_ Darthula, after that fairest of women in the days of

old, because she too had deep eyes of beauty and wonder. Therefore the

word came out of his heart, like the single mating-note of a mavis,

when, as she drew nigh to him and whispered low, "_Alan! Alan!_" he

murmured only "_Darthula ... Darthula-mochree!_"

In a few words she told him the marvellous news: Torcall and Anabal at

peace; her father now at Ardoch-beag!

At first he too could scarce believe it. Then, little by little, the

smaller wonder waned, and the wonder of his love--the wonder of Sorcha

grew.

Hand in hand they wandered slowly up the mountain as in a dream. A

strange new joy had come to them. The world fell further away, far

beneath them. Even the Strath became a shadowy place--a foreign strand

where their voyaging boats need never coast.

When the moon rose, first through a tremulous flood of amber-yellow

light, thence to emerge as a pale-gold flower, low in the

_Lios-nan-speur_, the "garden of the starry heavens," the mountain

lovers were already far up Ben Iolair, and nigh the great Sgòrr-Glan,

the precipice that on the eastern flank falls sheer from the

Druim-nan-Damh, the Ridge of the Stags, for close upon two thousand

feet. Here in a sheltered place known as the _Bad-a-sgailich ann

choire-na-gaoithe_, "the shading clump of trees in the windy corrie,"

was the sheiling of Murdo the shepherd, which for weeks past had been

used by Alan rather than his own hill-sheiling high on Tornideon, where

the east wind blew with a fierce breath, and the hill-slope was barren,

and there was no Sorcha.

They could hear the wind among the heights, but the moon-wave was

everywhere with quiet light, and there was peace.

For a while they stood at the door of the cot. The moonshine touched

them with a beam of pale gold--a finger out of heaven. Silent and still

it was: no sound but the furtive crying of the wind among the invisible

corries and peaks, with a flute-like call among the serrated pinnacles

of the Ridge of the Stags. At intervals, as a vagrant breath, came the

sigh of the hill-torrents as they fell toward the Srùantsrhà, the wild

stream that foams from the lochan of Mairg beyond the Pass of the

Eagles, and surges hoarse and dark, even in the summer droughts, at the

base of the great precipice of Sgòrr-Glan.

Hand in hand they stood, silence between them. Their eyes dreamed into

the moonlit dusk. In the mind of Alan Sorcha moved as a vision; in the

mind of Sorcha there were two shadowy figures of dream--Alan, and the

child over whose faint breath of life in her womb her heart yearned as a

brooding dove.

* * * * *

When Oona awoke she saw that it was dark. In the peat-glow she could

descry the figure of Nial crouching in the shadow of the ingle, his gaze

fixed upon her.

"What is it, Nial? what have you been doing?"

The dwarf saw that as yet she had not remembered. He feared for the

child, though he knew not, what none knew, how the strange fatalism of

the race was already strong within her, strong and compelling as hunger,

thirst, or sleep.

"Oona, my fawn, you must have food. I am hungry too. You have not eaten

since last night."

A startled look came into her eyes. He saw it, and hurriedly resumed:

"So, a little ago, I lit the peats, which had smouldered into ash; and

now, bonnie wee doo, I will be making the porridge for you, and see ...

the water is boiling that is in the kettle, and I'm thinking it is

singing _Oona, Oona, mochree, Oona, Oona, mochree, come and be having

the food with poor Nial_! And, Oona, look you, there is the warm milk,

and the bread; for I milked the brown cow Aillsha-bàn, when Sorcha went

up the hill with Alan. An' I couldn't be milking the white one, Gealcas,

for she wouldn't give without Sorcha's singing, an' I could not be

minding that song; no, not I; but I knew the song for Aillsha-bàn:

"Aillsha-bàn, Aillsha-bàn,

Give way to the milking!

The holy St. Bridget

Is milking, milking

This self-same even

The white kye in heaven--

Ay, sure, my eyes scan

The green place she is in,

Aillsha-bàn, Aillsha-bàn:

And her hand is so soft

And her crooning is sweet

As my milking is soft

Upon thee, Aillsha-bàn--

As my crooning is sweet

Upon thee, Aillsha-bàn,

Aillsha-bàn--

So soft is my hand and

My crooning so sweet,

Aillsha-bàn!"

Poor Nial's singing was not restful, for his voice was at all times

shrill and hoarse, and now it had an added quaver in it. But Oona

listened, drowsily content.

She had remembered all. Yes: Sorcha was right that day when she said

Death roamed through every hour, and that the moment before each new

hour Death stood at the door and broke the link that held the going and

the coming in one bond.

If her foster-father was dead, he was dead. The fact was absolute to

her. Once she had seen a stag die. She had been up near the summit of

Iolair, and was about to quench her thirst from a small black tarn, hid

among the rocks, when she caught sight of a wounded deer. The hunter

had maimed, not slain it: and though it had escaped, it was only to sink

with weariness by the tarn, and lie there watching its blood trickle

steadily into the crimsoned water, till there should be no more flow. As

long as life remained in the stricken beast, Oona could not believe in

the possibility of death. In its extremity it made no further effort

when she drew close: only a gurgling sob showed its broken heart, and

great tears fell from its violet eyes. Either instinct let the stag know

that she would do it no harm, or it was too weak to resent a touch: but

in the end the dying deer let Oona take its nozzle in her lap, while she

smoothed the velvety skin and wiped away the blood and sweat. Even when,

kissing it and calling it tender impossible names, she saw the veil come

over the eyes, she could not admit that death could come

_then_--_there_. But when there was not a quiver, and the rigid limbs

were cold, her tears dried, and she looked at it meditatively. It was

dead: what had she in common with it? A little ago, her heart throbbed

with loving pity: now she glanced at the great beast curiously. Its

strong odour was disagreeable: its bloodied mouth and breast disgusted

her. There was no good in being sorry. It was dead.

In a different, but kindred way, her foster-father was the stricken

deer. She had seen him almost to his death: she had seen the drowned

body: almost she had died of her wild and passionate grief. Then she had

slept through the noon-heats, and the afternoon, and the evening: and

now she awoke to the no longer overwhelming but irrefutable fact, that

her foster-father was dead.

She had meant well. Why did the woman Anabal not see to the blind man?

But it did not matter. He was dead now: dead. God willed it so. It was

to be. Not all the striving in the world could have prevented this. In

wild winter nights, before the peats, she had heard Torcall himself

chant the rune of Aodh the poet, with that haunting ending which Sorcha

sang often to herself; that Alan had on his lips at times as always in

his heart; and that even Murdo muttered when it was tempestuous weather,

and Death was abroad, and the gloom of the rocks was heavy upon him. Ah,

the words evaded her: but Nial would know, Nial who was the tuneless

harp that caught all wandering strains, from sheiling-song to the way of

the wind among leaves.

"Nial: what is the thing that Sorcha sings often ... and that ... that

_he_ sang sometimes, about the quiet at the end?"

Nial stared, puzzled for a moment: then he repeated in a low voice:

"_Deireadh gach comuinn, sgaoileadh:

Deireadh gach cogaidh, sìth!_"

Over and over Oona murmured the words: "_The end of all meeting,

parting: the end of all striving, peace_."

She was tired. She would think no more about her foster-father. He had

seen God by now. He would know why she ran away from the Linn: and how

the fear was upon her in the wood: and, afterward, how the sorrow of him

pulled at her heart. And now....

How she wished Sorcha were home, to sing to her! Warm was the peat-glow,

and she was tired. She closed her eyes again, murmuring drowsily the

refrain of an old song.

Silence was in the dusky room again. Nial sat crouching by the fire:

patient, as was his wont. There was not a sound within, save the low

breathing of the child and the dull spurtle of the flame among the red

fibres on the undersides of the peats. Outside there was a melancholy

wail in the sough of the hill-wind.

The first hour of the dark passed. What was the night to bring forth? he

wondered. Where was Murdo? what had he found?

Another hour passed. A weary sleep was on him. He dozed, woke, stared

at the shadowy figure of Oona, dozed again. At last he too slumbered,

the _duain-samhach_ that is too calm for dreams, too deep for sorrow.

It was in the middle of the third hour that he stirred because of the

howling of a dog.

Nial could do what was impossible even for Murdo the shepherd: he could

tell in the dark, and by the sound only, which of the dogs barked. He

knew now that the howling came neither from Donn nor Luath. It was not

the coming of Murdo, then, for these were his two dogs, and that was not

the howl of either. If they were near, their baying would be audible.

Yes, it was Fior. She must have left her pups, and be roaming round the

sheiling. Why was she not in the barn? What had alarmed her?

If it were not because of Oona, he would go and quiet her. Tenderly he

glanced toward the bed. He rose slowly, his heart beating.

In the flicker of the fire he saw the child sitting upright, her eyes

wide open and staring fixedly.

She said no word. He feared to speak. Her unwavering gaze disconcerted

him, though now he saw that it was not upon him. He would just whisper

to her, he thought:

"Oona-mùirnean, Oona-uanachan, it is only Fior. She will be baying

against the moon, because of the spell against her pups."

She paid no attention to him. He shivered as he saw that her eyes were

now unnaturally bright: and that their gaze shifted, as though they

followed one who moved about the room.

The child shivered, but seemed more in startled amaze than dread. There

was more fear in Nial than with her, when he heard her speak.

"Why do you come here?"

Nial stared. There was no one visible.

"_Is coma leam thu!_ I hate you, I hate you!" cried the child, with a

passionate sob. "Go back to him! I left him with you! He is not here; he

is dead ... he is dead ... he is dead!"

Trembling, the dwarf advanced a step or two.

"Oona! Oona! It is I, Nial! Speak to me!"

"Stand back, Nial: the woman Anabal, wife of Fergus, is speaking to me."

With a groan he staggered to one side. Was she here, then, and not still

sitting on the great rock overlooking the Strath? Sure, then, a spirit

must she be: and no wraith now, for his eyes were void of her.

But for all his dread, he must guard his lamb. If only he knew one of

the spells in the Book, that he had placed at Oona's feet!

"And what will An--what will she be saying to you, my bird?"

"She says: '_Leanabh, dh' èirich dha; dh' èirich domh; eiridh dhuit_!'"

Nial slowly repeated the words below his breath: "_Child, it has

happened to him; it has happened to me; it will happen to you_." Oona

must be ill, he thought; as Murdo was two winters ago, that time he came

back from the Strath, on the last night of the year, lurching and

swaying, and saying wild, meaningless things.

"And what else will she be saying to you, birdeen?"

"'_Thig thu gu h'anamoch!_'"

"'_Thou shalt come later_'; sure now, dear, there is no meaning in that!

Oona, my bonnie, lie down; lie down, wee lassie, and sleep, and sleep!"

But even as he spoke, he saw a change in her face. It was like moonshine

suddenly moving on dark water.

He caught fragmentary words ... _suain_ ... _sìth_ ... and then, with

"sleep" and "peace" still on her lips, she lay back, smiling.

Slowly and soundlessly he approached the bed. In the intense stillness

he heard his breath going like the slow, heavy beat of a heron's wing.

Outside, the baying of the dog had suddenly ceased.

She was asleep, or nigh so. He stooped and kissed the yellow tangles

that overspread the pillow.

Her lips moved.

What was the thing she whispered? He could not hear; ah, she was

murmuring it again: "_... anail ... breath of ... breath of a...._"

"_Hush-sh-sh_, birdeen," he whispered low; then, seeing that her lips

again muttered drowsily, he put his ear to them.

"_And then ... she ... smiled ... and said: Do not ... fear!_ (a pause,

a sigh) _... sacred is the ... breath ... the breath of ... a mother_."

The child slept. He stole back to the ingle. There was peace now; even

the wind, though it moaned and swelled more and more loudly, was as a

soothing song.

And so the night passed; Nial sleeping fitfully, waking often, and ever

when he woke pondering that last saying of the child, _Is blàth anail na

mathar_.