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 NIVER5/A
 
 The Writings of 
 "FIONA MACLEOD 
 
 UNIFORM EDITION 
 
 ARRANGED BY 
 
 MRS. WILLIAM SHARP
 
 I too will set my face to the wind and 
 throw my handful of seed on high. 
 
 — F. M.
 
 exs-0
 
 Pharais 
 
 and 
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 BY 
 
 "FIONA MACLEOD" 
 
 (WILLIAM SHARP) 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
 
 1911
 
 Copyright, 1895, by 
 STONE & KIMBALL 
 
 Copyright, 1895, by 
 JOHN LANE 
 
 Copyright, 1909, by 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
 
 THE TROW PRESS, NEW YORK
 
 PR 
 5~3SO 
 
 I ! 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 FOREWORD vii 
 
 By Elizabeth A. Sharp 
 
 PHARAIS ii 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS 181 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 401 
 
 By Mrs. William Sharp 
 
 "
 
 "// is Loveliness I seek, not lovely things."
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 INTO this collected edition are gathered all 
 the writings of William Sharp published 
 under his pseudonym "Fiona Macleod," which 
 he cared to have preserved ; writings charac- 
 terised by the distinctive idiom he recognised 
 to be the expression of one side of his very 
 dual nature — of the spiritual, intuitive, sub- 
 jective self as distinct from the mental, rea- 
 soning, objective self. 
 
 In the preparation of this edition I have 
 carefully followed the author's written and 
 spoken instructions as to selection, deletion, 
 and arrangement. To the preliminary ar- 
 rangement he gave much thought, especially to 
 the revision of the text, and he made consider- 
 able changes in the later version of certain of 
 the poems and tales. In one instance only have 
 I acted on my own judgment, and have done so 
 because I felt satisfied he would have offered 
 no objection to my suggestion. In accordance 
 with his decision the romance Green Fire is 
 
 vii
 
 Foreword 
 
 not reissued in its entirety, because he consid- 
 ered the construction of it to be seriously de- 
 fective. He rewrote the second half of the 
 story — the only portion he cared to keep — re- 
 named it " The Herdsman " and included it in 
 The Dominion of Dreams. Scattered through- 
 out Green Fire there are a number of 
 ' Thoughts " which I and other readers are 
 desirous of preserving ; I have therefore gath- 
 ered them together and have included them 
 in the form of detached " Fragments." 
 
 The Laughter of Peter kin is also excluded, 
 because it is a retelling of old familiar Celtic 
 tales and not primarily an original work. Two 
 of these retellings, however, Deirdre and the 
 Sons of Usna, and The Four White Swans 
 have been published separately in America by 
 Mr. Mosher (Portland, Maine). 
 
 Though the " Fiona Macleod " phase be- 
 longs to the last twelve years of William 
 Sharp's life, the formative influences which 
 prepared the way for it went back to child- 
 hood. Though " the pains and penalties of 
 impecuniosity " during his early struggles in 
 London tended temporarily to silence the in- 
 tuitive subjective side of his nature in the 
 necessary development of the more objective 
 intellectual " William Sharp " — critic, biog- 
 rapher, essay and novel writer as well as 
 
 viii
 
 Foreword 
 
 poet — he never lost sight of his desire to give 
 expression to his other self. 
 
 William Sharp was born in 1855 °f Scottish 
 parents (he died at Maniace, Sicily, in 1905), 
 was educated at the Academy and University 
 of Glasgow, and spent much of his youth 
 among the Gaelic-speaking fisher-folk and 
 shepherds of the West Highlands. After a 
 voyage to Australia for his health, he settled 
 in London in 1878 and strove to make for 
 himself a place in the profession of Literature. 
 His friendships with Rossetti, Browning, Pa- 
 ter, Meredith were important factors in his 
 development; and later he came into valued 
 personal touch with W. D. Howells, Richard 
 Stoddart, Edward Clarence Stedman, and 
 other English and American men of letters. 
 
 In 1886, not long after his marriage, he suf- 
 fered a serious illness and a protracted conva- 
 lescence. During the enforced leisure he 
 dreamed many dreams, saw visions, and re- 
 membered many things out of the past both 
 personal and racial. He determined, should he 
 recover, to bend every effort to ensure the 
 necessary leisure wherein to write that which 
 lay nearest his heart. Accordingly in 1889 he 
 left London for a time. The first outcome of 
 a wonderful winter and spring in Rome was 
 a volume of verse, in unrhymed metre, Sospiri 
 
 ix
 
 Foreword 
 
 di Roma, privately published in 1891, and fol- 
 lowed in 1893 by a volume of dramatic inter- 
 ludes, Vistas; and, though both are a blending 
 of the two elements of the poet's dual nature, 
 they to some extent foreshadowed the special 
 phase of work that followed. He was feeling 
 his way, but did not find what he sought until 
 he wrote Pharais, the first of the series of 
 books which he issued under the pseudonym 
 of " Fiona Macleod." 
 
 In the sunshine and quiet of a little cot- 
 tage in Sussex ; in the delight in " the green 
 life " about him ; impelled by the stimulus of a 
 fine friendship, he had gone back to the in- 
 fluences of his early memories, and he began to 
 give expression to his vision of the Beauty of 
 the World, of the meaning of Life, of its joys 
 and sorrows. The ultimate characteristic ex- 
 pression of his " dream self " was due to the 
 inspiration and incentive of the friend to 
 whom he dedicated Pharais. It was, as he 
 states in a letter to me written in 1896, " to her 
 I owe my development as ' Fiona Macleod,' 
 though in a sense, of course, that began long 
 before I knew her, and indeed while I was a 
 child"; and again, "without her there would 
 never have been any ' Fiona Macleod.' " 
 
 The volumes appeared in quick succession. 
 Pharais in 1894; The Mountain Lovers in
 
 Foreword 
 
 1895 ; The Sin-Eater in 1895 ; The Washer of 
 the Ford in 1896; Green Fire in 1896; The 
 Laughter of Peterkin in 1897 ; The Dominion 
 of Dreams in 1899; and a volume of poems, 
 From the Hills of Dream, in 1896. A second 
 serious illness intervened, and in 1900 he pub- 
 lished The Divine Adventure, and in 1904 
 The Winged Destiny. Of his two dramas, 
 written in 1898-9, The House of Usna 
 was performed by the Stage Society in Lon- 
 don in 1900, and was issued in book form in 
 America by Mr. Mosher in 1903; The Im- 
 mortal Hour was published in America in 
 1907 and in England in 1908. The volume of 
 nature essays, Where the Forest Murmurs, 
 and an enlarged edition of From the Hills of 
 Dream were also published posthumously. 
 
 For twelve years the name of " Fiona Mac- 
 leod " was one of the mysteries of contempo- 
 rary literature. The question of " her " iden- 
 tity provoked discussion on both sides of the 
 Atlantic; conjecture at times touched the truth 
 and threatened disclosure. But the secret was 
 loyally guarded by the small circle of friends 
 in whom he had confided. " ' Fiona ' dies " he 
 was wont to say, " should the secret be found 
 out." These friends sympathised with and 
 respected the author's desire to create for him- 
 self, by means of a pseudonym, the necessary 
 
 xi
 
 Foreword 
 
 seclusion wherein to weave his dreams and 
 visions into outward form; to write a series 
 of Celtic poems, romances and essays differ- 
 ent in character from the literary and critical 
 work with which William Sharp had always 
 approached his public. 
 
 In a letter to an American friend written in 
 1893, before he had decided on the use of the 
 pseudonym, he relates : " I am writing a 
 strange Celtic tale called Pharais, wherein the 
 weird charm and terror of the nisfht of tragic 
 significance is brought home to the reader (or 
 I hope so) by a stretch of dew-sweet moon- 
 flowers glimmering white through the mirk of 
 a dust laden with sea-mist. Though the act- 
 ual scene was written a year ago and one or 
 other of the first parts of Pharais, I am going 
 to rewrite it." In 1895 he wrote to the 
 same friend who had received a copy of the 
 book, and who, remembering the statement, 
 was puzzled by the name of the author : " Yes, 
 Pharais is mine. It is a book out of the 
 core of my heart. . . . Ignored in some quar- 
 ters, abused in others, and unheeded by the 
 general reader, it has yet had a reception that 
 has made me deeply glad. It is the beginning 
 of my true work. Only one or two know that 
 I am ' Fiona Macleod.' ' To the last the se- 
 cret was carefully guarded for him, until he 
 
 xii
 
 Foreword 
 
 passed " from the dream of Beauty to 
 
 Beauty." 
 
 In the author's " Foreword " to the Tauch- 
 nitz selection of the Fiona Macleod Tales, en- 
 titled Wind and Wave, he has set down in ex- 
 planation what here may be fittingly reprinted. 
 He explains that in certain sections are tales 
 of the old Gaelic and Celtic-Scandinavian life 
 and mythology ; that in others there is a blend- 
 ing of Paganism and Christianity; in others 
 again " are tales of the dreaming imagination 
 having their base in old mythology or in a 
 kindred mythopoeic source. . . . They divide 
 broadly into tales of the world that was and 
 tales of the world that is, because the colour 
 and background of the one series are of a day 
 that is past, and past not only for us, but for 
 the forgetting race itself; while the colour and 
 background of the other, if interchangeable, is 
 not of a past, but only of a passing world 
 which lies in essential truth in nature, material 
 or spiritual, the truth of actual reality, and 
 the truth of imaginative reality. . . . 
 
 " Many of these tales are of the grey wan- 
 dering wave of the West, and through each 
 goes the wind of the Gaelic spirit, which every- 
 where desires infinitude, but in the penury of 
 things as they are turns upon itself to the dim 
 enchantment of dreams. And what are these, 
 
 xiii
 
 Foreivord 
 
 whether of a single heart on the braes of sor- 
 row or of the weariness of unnumbered minds 
 in the maze of time and fate, but the dreams 
 of the wavering images of dreams, with which 
 for a thousand years the Gael has met the 
 ignominies and sorrows of a tragical destiny; 
 the intangible merchandise which he contin- 
 ually creates and continually throws away, as 
 the May wind gathers and scatters the gold 
 of the broom." 
 
 Elizabeth A. Sharp. 
 
 XIV
 
 PHARAIS 
 
 A ROMANCE OF THE ISLES
 
 " Mithich domh triall gu tigh Pharais." 
 (It is time for me to go up unto the House of Paradise.) 
 
 Muireadhach Albannach. 
 
 "How many beautiful things have come to us from Pharais." 
 
 " Bileag-na-Toscuil."
 
 To 
 
 E. W. R. 
 
 Dear friend, — While you gratify me by your 
 pleasure in this inscription, you modestly dep- 
 recate the dedication to you of this story of 
 alien life — of that unfamiliar island-life so 
 alien in all ways from the life of cities, and, 
 let me add, from' that of the great mass of the 
 nation to which, in the communal sense, we 
 both belong. But in the Domhan-Tbir of 
 friendship there are resting-places where all 
 barriers of race, training, and circumstance 
 fall away in dust. At one of these places of 
 peace we met, a long while ago, and found 
 that we loved the same things, and in the same 
 way. You have been in the charmed West 
 yourself; have seen the gloom and shine of 
 the mountains that throw their shadow on the 
 sea: have heard the wave whisper along that 
 haunted shore which none loves save with pas- 
 sion, and none, loving, can bear to be long 
 parted from. You, unlike so many who de- 
 
 3
 
 Pharais 
 
 light only in the magic of sunshine and cloud, 
 love this dear land when the mists drive across 
 the hillsides, and the brown torrents are in 
 spate, and the rain and the black wind make 
 a gloom upon every loch, and fill with the dusk 
 of storm every strath, and glen, and corric. 
 Not otherwise can one love it aright : " Tir 
 nam Beann s'nan gleann' s'nan ghaisgach," as 
 one of our ancient poets calls it — " The land 
 of hills, and glens, and heroes." You, too, like 
 Dcirdre of old, have looked back on " Alba" 
 and, finding it passing fair and dear, have, 
 with the Celtic Helen, said in your heart — 
 
 Inmain tir in tir ud thoir, 
 Alba cona lingantaibh! . . . 
 
 ' BelovSd is that eastern land, 
 Alba of the lochs." 
 
 In the mythology of the Gael are three for- 
 gotten deities, children of Delbaith-Dana. 
 These are Seithoir, Teithoir, and Keithoir. 
 One dwells throughout the sea, and beneath 
 the soles of the feet of another are the high- 
 est clouds; and these two may be held sacred 
 for the beauty they weave for the joy of eye 
 and ear. But now that, as surely none may 
 gainsay, Keithoir is blind and weary, let us 
 worship at his fane rather than give all our 
 homage to the others. For Keithoir is the god 
 
 4
 
 Dedication 
 
 of the earth; dark-eyed, shadozvy brother of 
 Pan; and his fane is among the lonely glens 
 and mountains and lonelier isles of " Alba cona 
 lingantaibh." It is because you and I are of 
 the children of Kcithoir that I wished to grace 
 my book with your name. 
 
 The most nature-wrought of the English 
 poets hoped he zvas not too late in transmuting 
 into his own verse something of the beautiful 
 mythology of Greece. But while Keats spun 
 from the inexhaustible loom of genius, and I 
 am but an obscure chronicler of obscure 
 things, is it too presumptuous of me to hope 
 that here, and mayhap elsewhere, I, the latest 
 comer among older and worthier celebrants 
 and co-enthusiasts, likewise may do something, 
 howsoever little, to win a further measure of 
 heed for, and more intimate sympathy with, 
 that old charm and stellar beauty of Celtic 
 thought and imagination, now, alas, like so 
 many other lovely things, growing more and 
 more remote, discoverable seldom in books, 
 and elusive amid the sayings and oral legends 
 and fragmentary songs of a passing race? 
 
 A passing race: and yet, mayhap not so. 
 Change is inevitable; and even if we could 
 hear the wind blowing along Magh Mell — the 
 Plain of Honey — we might list to a new note, 
 
 5
 
 Pharais 
 
 bitter-sweet: and, doubtless, the waves falling 
 over the green roof of Tir-na-Thonn' murmur 
 drowsily of a shifting of the veils of circum- 
 stance, which Kcithoir weaves blindly in his 
 dark place. But what was, surely is; and what 
 is, surely may yet be. The form changes; the 
 essential abides. As the saying goes among 
 the isle-folk: The shadow fleets beneath the 
 cloud driven by the wind, and the cloud falls 
 in rain or is sucked of the sun, but the wind 
 sways this way and that for ever. It may well 
 be that the Celtic Dream is not doomed to be- 
 come a memory merely. Were it so, there 
 would be less joy in all Springs to come, less 
 hope in all brown Autumns; and the cold of 
 a deathlier chill in all Winters still dreaming 
 by the Pole. For the Celtic joy in the life of 
 Nature — the Celtic vision — is a thing apart: it 
 is a passion; a visionary rapture. There is 
 none like it among the peoples of our race. 
 
 Meanwhile, there are a few remote spots, as 
 yet inviolate. Here, Anima Celtica still lives 
 and breathes and hath her being. She dreams; 
 but if she awake, it may not necessarily be to 
 a deepening twilight, or to a forlorn passage 
 to Tir Tairngire — that Land of Promise whose 
 borders shine with the loveliness of all for- 
 feited, or lost, or banished dreams and realities 
 of Beauty. It may be that she will arise to a 
 
 6
 
 Dedication 
 
 wider sway, over a disfrontiercd realm. Blue 
 are the hills that are far from us. Dear say- 
 ing of the Gael, whose soul as well as whose 
 heart speaks therein. Far hills recede, re- 
 cede I Dim veils of blue, woven from within 
 and without, haunt us, allure us, always, al- 
 zvays ! 
 
 But now, before I send you my last zvord of 
 greeting, let me add (rather for other readers 
 than for you, who already knozv of them) a 
 word concerning the Gaelic rimes interpolated 
 in Pharais.* 
 
 The " Urnuigh Smalaidh an Teine " (p. 42) 
 and " Au t Altachadh Leapa " (p. 4s) — re- 
 spectively a prayer to be said at covering up 
 the peat-fire at bed-time and a Rest-blessing 
 — are relics of ancient Celtic folklore which 
 were sent to the Rev. Dr. Alexander Stewart, 
 of "Nether Lochaber" fame, by Mr. A. A. 
 Carmichael, of South Uist, who took them 
 down from the recitation of a man living at 
 Iocar of Uist. From the same Hebridcan 
 source came the " Rann Buacbailleac," or rune 
 to be said over cattle when led to pasture at 
 morn, introduced at p. 49. The English ver- 
 
 * A slightly anglicised lection of the Gaelic word Paras = Para- 
 dise. Heaven.^ "Pharais." properly, is the genitive and dative case 
 of Paras, as in the line from Muireadhach Albannach. quoted after 
 the title page. " Mithich domh trial] ku tigh Pharais" — " // is time 
 for me to go up unto the House of Paradise."
 
 Pharais 
 
 sions, by Dr. Stewart, appeared first in " The 
 Inverness Courier," over twenty years ago. 
 There are several versions current of the au- 
 thentic incident of the innocent old woman 
 held to be a witch, and of her prayer. I weave 
 into my story the episode as I heard it many 
 years ago, though with the rune rescued from 
 oblivion by Dr. Stewart, rather than with the 
 longer and commonly corrupted version still 
 to be heard by the croft- fire in many localities, 
 all " the far cry " from the Ord of Sutherland 
 to the Rhinns of Islay. The " Laoidh Mhna- 
 than " — the Chant of Women, at p. ioo — is not 
 ancient in the actual form here given, which 
 is from an unpublished volume of " Orain' 
 Spioradail." 
 
 The sweetest-voiced of the younger Irish 
 singers of to-day has spoken of the Celtic Tzvi- 
 light. A tzvilight it is; but, if night follow 
 gloaming, so also does dawn succeed night. 
 Meanwhile, twilight voices are sweet, if faint 
 and far, and linger lovingly in the ear. 
 
 There is another Paras than that seen of 
 Alastair of Innisrbn — the Tir-Nan-Oigh of 
 friendship. Therein we both have seen beau- 
 tiful visions and dreamed dreams. Take, then, 
 out of my heart, this book of vision and dream. 
 
 Fiona Macleod. 
 8
 
 " O bihag-geal, 
 O bileag-na-Toscuil, bileag Pharais, 
 O tha e boidheach! 
 Tha e boidheach!"
 
 Pharais 
 
 It was midway in the seventh month of her 
 great joy that the child moved, while a rap- 
 ture leaped to her heart, within the womb 
 of Lora, daughter of the dead Norman Mac- 
 lean, minister of Innisron, in the Outer Isles. 
 
 On the same eve the cruel sorrow came to 
 her that had lain waiting in the dark place 
 beyond the sunrise. 
 
 Alastair, her so dearly beloved, had gone, 
 three days earlier, by the Western Isles 
 steamer, to the port of Greenock, thence to 
 fare to Glasgow, to learn from a great pro- 
 fessor of medicine concerning that which so 
 troubled him — both by reason of what the 
 islesmen whispered among themselves, and 
 for what he felt of his own secret pain and 
 apprehension. 
 
 There was a rocky spur on Innisron, whence 
 the watcher could scan the headland round 
 which the Clansman would come on her 
 
 II
 
 Pharais 
 
 thrice-weekly voyage: in summer, while the 
 isles were still steeped in the yellow shine ; in 
 autumn, when the sky seaward was purple, and 
 every boulder in each islet was as transparent 
 amber amid a vapour of amethyst rising from 
 bases and hollow caverns of a cold day-dawn 
 blue. 
 
 Hither Lora had come in the wane of the 
 afternoon. The airs were as gentle and of as 
 sweet balmy breath as though it were Summer- 
 sleep rather than only the extreme of May. 
 The girl looked, shading her eyes, seaward ; 
 and saw the blue of the midmost sky laid as a 
 benediction upon the face of the deep, but 
 paler by a little, as the darkest turquoise is pale 
 beside the lightest sapphire. She lifted her 
 eyes from the pearl-blue of the horizon to the 
 heart of the zenith, and saw there the soul of 
 Ocean gloriously arisen. Beneath the weedy 
 slabs of rock whereon she stood, the green of 
 the sea-moss lent a yellow gleam to the slow- 
 waving dead-man's-hair which the tide laved 
 to and fro sleepily, as though the bewitched 
 cattle of Seumas the seer were drowsing 
 there unseen, known only of their waving 
 tails, swinging silently as the bulls dreamed of 
 the hill-pastures they should see no more. 
 Yellow-green in the sunlit spaces as the sea- 
 hair was, it was dark against the shifting 
 
 12
 
 Pharais 
 
 green light of the water under the rocks, and 
 till so far out as the moving blue encroached. 
 
 To Lora's right ran a curved inlet, ending in 
 a pool fringed with dappled fronds of sea- 
 fern, mare's-tails, and intricate bladder-wrack. 
 In the clear hollow were visible the wave-worn 
 stones at the bottom, many crowned with 
 spreading anemones, with here and there a 
 star-fish motionlessly agleam, or a cloud of 
 vanishing shrimps above the patches of sand, 
 or hermit crabs toiling cumbrously from peril- 
 ous shelter to more sure havens. Looking 
 down she saw herself, as though her wraith 
 had suddenly crept therein and was waiting to 
 whisper that which, once uttered and once 
 heard, would mean disunion no more. 
 
 Slipping softly to her knees, she crouched 
 over the pool. Long and dreamily she gazed 
 into its depths. What was this phantasm, she 
 wondered, that lay there in the green-gloom as 
 though awaiting her? Was it, in truth, the 
 real Lora, and she but the wraith ? 
 
 How strangely expressionless was that pale 
 face, looking upward with so straightforward 
 a mien, yet with so stealthy an understanding, 
 with dark abysmal eyes filled with secrecy and 
 dread, if not, indeed, with something of 
 menace. 
 
 A thrill of fear went to the girl's heart. A 
 
 13
 
 Pharais 
 
 mass of shadow had suddenly obscured her 
 image in the water. Her swift fancy sug- 
 gested that her wraith had abruptly shrouded 
 herself, fearful of revelation. The next mo- 
 ment she realised that her own wealth of dark 
 hair had fallen down her neck and upon her 
 shoulders — hair dusky as twilight, but inter- 
 wrought with threads of bronze that, in the 
 shine of fire or sun, made an evasive golden 
 gleam. 
 
 She shuddered as she perceived the eyes of 
 her other self intently watching her through 
 that cloudy shadow. A breath came from the 
 pool, salt and shrewd, and cold as though 
 arisen from those sea-sepulchres whence the 
 fish steal their scales of gold and silver. A 
 thin voice was in her ears that was not the 
 lap of the tide or the cluck of water gurgling 
 in and out of holes and crannies. 
 
 With a startled gesture she shrank back. 
 
 " What is it? What is it? " she cried; but 
 the sound of her own awed voice broke the 
 spell : and almost at the same moment an eddy 
 of wind came circling over the rock-bastions 
 of the isle, and, passing as a tremulous hand 
 over the pool, ruffled it into a sudden silvery 
 sheen. 
 
 With a blithe laugh, Lora rose to her feet. 
 The sunlight dwelt about her as though she 
 
 14
 
 Pharais 
 
 were the sweetest flower in that lost garden of 
 Aodh the poet, where the streams are un- 
 spanned rainbows flowing to the skyey cauld- 
 rons below the four quarters, and where every 
 white flower has at dusk a voice, a whisper, 
 of surpassing sweetness. 
 
 " O Alastair, Alastair ! " she cried, " will the 
 boat never be coming that is to bring you back 
 to me ! " 
 
 Not a black spot anywhere, of wherry or 
 steamer, caught the leaping gaze. Like a bird 
 it moved across the sea 2 and found no object 
 whereon to alight. 
 
 The Clansman was often late ; but her smoke 
 could be seen across Dunmore Head nigh 
 upon quarter of an hour before her prow 
 combed the froth from the Sound. 
 
 With a sigh, the girl moved slowly back 
 by the way she had come. Over and over, 
 as she went, she sang, crooningly, lines 
 from a sweet song of the Gael, O, Till, a 
 Leannain! 
 
 As she passed a place of birchen under- 
 growth and tall bracken, she did not see an 
 old man, seated, grey and motionless as a 
 heron. He looked at her with the dull eyes of 
 age, though there was pity in them and some- 
 thing of a bewildered awe. 
 
 " Ay," he muttered below his breath, 
 
 15
 
 Pharais 
 
 " though ye sing for your dear one to return, 
 ye know not what I know. Have I not had 
 the vision of him with the mist growin' up an' 
 up, an' seen the green grass turn to black 
 mools at his feet ? " 
 
 Lora, unwitting, passed; and he heard her 
 voice wax and wane, as falling water in a glen 
 where the baffled wind among the trees soughs 
 now this way and now that: — 
 
 "Mo chridhe-sa ! 's tusa 'bhios truagh, 'bhios truagh, 
 Mur pill is' 'thog oirre gu cluaidh, gu cluaidh !" 
 
 She went past the boulder on the path that hid 
 the clachan from view, and within a net-throw 
 of which was the byre of Mrs. Maclean's 
 cottage, where, since her father's death, she 
 had dwelt. 
 
 A tall, gaunt, elderly woman, with hair of 
 the ivory white of the snowberry, was about 
 to pass from behind the byre with a burthen 
 of fresh bracken for Ian Maclean's bed — for 
 the old islesman abode by the way of his 
 fathers, and was content to sleep on a deerskin 
 spread upon fresh-gathered fern — when she 
 caught sight of Lora. She stopped, and with 
 an eager glance looked at the girl: then be- 
 yond, and finally seaward, with her long, 
 thin, brown arm at an angle, and her hand 
 
 16
 
 Pharais 
 
 curved over her eyes against the glare of the 
 water. 
 
 Silence was about her as a garment. Every 
 motion of her, even, suggested a deep calm. 
 Mrs. Maclean spoke seldom, and when she said 
 aught it was in a low voice, sweet and serene, 
 but as though it came from a distance and in 
 the twilight. She was of the shadow, as the 
 islesmen say ; and strangers thought her to be 
 austere in look and manner, though that was 
 only because she gazed long before she replied 
 to one foreign to her and her life: having the 
 Gaelic, too, so much more natively than the 
 English, that oftentimes she had to translate 
 the one speech into the other nearer to her : 
 that, and also because the quiet of the sea was 
 upon her, as often with hill-folk there is a 
 hushed voice and mien. 
 
 Lora knew what was in her mind when she 
 saw her gaze go seaward and then sweep 
 hither and thither like a hawk ere it set- 
 tles. 
 
 " The boat is not yet in sight, Mary ; she is 
 late," she said simply: adding immediately. " I 
 have come back to go up Cnoc-an-Iolair ; from 
 there I'll see the smoke of the Clansman 
 sooner. She is often as late as this." 
 
 Mrs. Maclean looked compassionately at the 
 girl. 
 
 17
 
 Pharais 
 
 " Mayhap the Clansman will not be coming 
 this way at all to-night, Lora. She may be 
 going by Kyle-na-Sith." 
 
 A flush came into Lora's face. Her eyes 
 darkened, as a tarn under rain. 
 
 " And for why should she not be sailing this 
 way to-night, when Alastair is coming home, 
 and is to be here before sundown?" 
 
 " He may have been unable to leave. If he 
 does not come to-day, he will doubtless be here 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " To-morrow ! O Mary, Mary, have you 
 ever loved, that you can speak like that? 
 Think what Alastair went away for! Surely 
 you do not know how the pain is at my 
 heart?" . 
 
 " Truly, mitirnean. But it is not well to be 
 sure of that which may easily happen other- 
 wise." 
 
 " To-morrow, indeed ! Why, Mary, if the 
 Clansman does not come by this evening, and 
 has gone as you say by Kyle-na-Sith, she will 
 not be here again till the day after to-mor- 
 row ! " 
 
 " Alastair could come by the other way, by 
 the Inverary boat, and thence by the herring- 
 steamer from Dunmore, after he had reached 
 it from Uan Point or by way of Craig-Sion- 
 nach." 
 
 18
 
 Pharais 
 
 " That may be, of course ; but I think not. 
 I cannot believe the boat will not be here to- 
 night." 
 
 Both stood motionless, with their hands 
 shading their eyes, and looking across the 
 wide Sound, where the tide bubbled and 
 foamed against the slight easterly wind-drift. 
 The late sunlight fell full upon them, working 
 its miracle of gold here and there, and making 
 the skin like a flower. The outline of each 
 figure stood out darkly clear as against a 
 screen of amber. 
 
 For a time neither spoke. At last, with a 
 faint sigh, Mrs. Maclean turned. 
 
 " Did you see Ian on your way, Lora-mo- 
 ghraidhf" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Do not have speech with the old man to- 
 night, dear one. He is not himself." 
 
 " Has he had the sight again ? " 
 
 " Ay, Lora." 
 
 Again a silence fell. The girl stood mood- 
 ily, with her eyes on the ground : the elder 
 watched her with a steadfast, questioning 
 look. 
 
 " Mary ! " 
 
 Mrs. Maclean made no reply, but her eyes 
 brought Lora's there with the answer that was 
 in them. 
 
 19
 
 Pharais 
 
 " Ian has never had the sight again upon 
 . . . upon Alastair, has he?" 
 
 " How can I say? " 
 
 " But do you know if he has? If you do not 
 tell me, I will ask him." 
 
 " I asked him that only yester-morning. He 
 shook his head." 
 
 " Do you believe he can foresee all that is to 
 happen? " 
 
 " No. Those who have the vision do not 
 read all that is in the future. Only God knows. 
 They can see the thing of peril, ay, and the 
 evil of accident, and even Death — and what is 
 more, the nearness and sometimes the way of 
 it. But no man sees more than this — unless, 
 indeed, he has been to Tir-na-h'Oigh." 
 
 Mrs. Maclean spoke the last words almost in 
 a whisper, and as though she said them in a 
 dream. 
 
 ' Unless he has been to Tir-na-h'Oigh, 
 Mary?" 
 
 " So it is said. Our people believe that the 
 Land of Eternal Youth lies far yonder across 
 the sea; but Aodh, the poet, is right when he 
 tells us that that land is lapped by no green 
 waves such as we know here, and that those 
 who go thither do so in sleep, or in vision, or 
 when God has filled with dusk the house of 
 the brain." 
 
 20
 
 Pharais 
 
 " And when a man has been to Tir-na- 
 h'Oigh in sleep, or in dream, or in mind-dark, 
 does he see there what shall soon happen 
 here?" 
 
 " It is said.' 
 
 "Has Ian been beyond the West?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then what he sees when he has the sight 
 upon him is not bcannaichtc: is not a thing 
 out of heaven? " 
 
 " I cannot say. I think not." 
 
 " Mary, is it the truth you are now telling 
 me?" 
 
 A troubled expression came into the wom- 
 an's face, but she did not answer. 
 
 " And is it the truth, Mary, that Ian has not 
 had the sight upon Alastair since he went 
 away — that he did not have it last night or 
 this morning? " 
 
 Lora leaned forward in her anxiety. She 
 saw that in her companion's eyes which gave 
 her the fear. But the next moment Mrs. Mac- 
 lean smiled. 
 
 "I too have the sight, Lora-mo-ghraidli ; 
 and shall I be telling you that which it will be 
 giving you joy to hear? " 
 
 "Ay, surely, Mary!" 
 
 " Then I think you will soon be in the arms 
 of him you love " — and, with a low laugh, she 
 
 21
 
 Pharais 
 
 pointed across the sea to where a film of blue- 
 grey smoke rose over the ridge of Dunmore 
 headland. 
 
 "Ah, the Clansman!" cried Lora, with a 
 gasp of joy: and the next moment she was 
 moving down the path again toward the little 
 promontory. 
 
 The wind had risen slightly. The splash, 
 splash, of the sunny green waves against each 
 other, the lapping of the blue water upon the 
 ledges to the east, the stealthy whisper where 
 the emerald-green tide-flow slipped under the 
 hollowed sandstone, the spurtle of the sea- 
 wrack, the flashing fall and foam-send of the 
 gannets, the cries of the gulls, the slap of wind 
 as it came over the forehead of the isle and 
 struck the sea a score of fathoms outward — all 
 gave her a sense of happiness. The world 
 seemed suddenly to have grown young. The 
 exultant Celtic joy stood over against the 
 brooding Celtic shadow, and believed the 
 lances of the sunlight could keep at bay all 
 the battalions of gloom. 
 
 The breeze was variable, for the weft of 
 blue smoke which suddenly curled round the 
 bend of Dunmore had its tresses blown sea- 
 ward, though where Lora stood the wind came 
 from the west, and even caused a white foam 
 along the hither marge of the promontory. 
 
 22
 
 Pharais 
 
 With eager eyes she watched the vessel 
 round the point. After all, it was just possible 
 she might not be the Clansman. 
 
 But the last sunglow shone full against 
 Dunmore and upon the bows of the steamer 
 as she swung to the helm; and the moment 
 the red funnel changed from a dusky russet 
 into a flame of red, Lora's new anxiety was 
 assuaged. She knew every line of the boat, 
 and already she felt Alastair's kisses on her 
 lips. The usual long summer-gloaming 
 darkened swiftly ; for faint films of coming 
 change were being woven across the span of 
 the sky from mainland oceanward. Even as 
 the watcher on Innisron stood, leaning for- 
 ward in her eager outlook, she saw the ex- 
 treme of the light lift upward as though it 
 were the indrawn shaft of a fan. The con- 
 tours of the steamer grew confused : a velvety 
 duskiness overspread Dunmore foreland. 
 
 The sky overhead had become a vast lift of 
 perishing yellow — a spent wave of daffodil by 
 the north and by the south; westward, of 
 lemon, deepening into a luminous orange glow 
 shot with gold and crimson, and rising as an 
 exhalation from hollow cloud-sepulchres of 
 amethyst, straits of scarlet, and immeasurable 
 spaces of dove-grey filled with shallows of the 
 most pale sea-green. 
 
 23
 
 Pharais 
 
 Lora stood as though wrought in marble. 
 She had seen that which made the blood leap 
 from her heart, and surge in her ears, and 
 clamour against her brain. 
 
 No pennon flew at the peak of the steamer's 
 foremast. This meant there was neither pas- 
 senger nor freight to be landed at Innisron, so 
 that there was no need for the ferry. 
 
 She could scarcely believe it possible that 
 the Clansman could come, after all, and yet 
 not bring Alastair back to her. It seemed ab- 
 surd : some ill-timed by-play ; nay, a wanton 
 cruelty. There must be some mistake, she 
 thought, as she peered hungrily into the sea- 
 dusk. 
 
 Surely the steamer was heading too much to 
 the northward ! With a cry, Lora instinctively 
 stretched her arms toward the distant vessel; 
 but no sound came from her lips, for at that 
 moment a spurt of yellow flame rent the gray 
 gloom, as a lantern was swung aloft to the 
 mast-head. 
 
 In a few seconds she would know all; for 
 whenever the Clansman was too late for her 
 flag-signal to be easily seen, she showed a 
 green light a foot or so beneath the yel- 
 low. 
 
 Lora heard the heavy pulse of the engines, 
 the churn of the beaten waves, even the delir- 
 
 24
 
 Pharais 
 
 ious surge and suction as the spent water was 
 driven along the hull and poured over and 
 against the helm ere it was swept into the 
 wake that glimmered white as a snow-wreath. 
 So wrought was she that, at the same time, 
 she was keenly conscious of the rapid tweet- 
 tweet-tzveet-tweet-tweet — o-o-h sweet! — 
 sweet! of a yellow-hammer among the whin 
 close by, and of the strange, mournful cry of 
 , an oyster-opener as it flew with devious 
 swoops toward some twilight eyrie. 
 
 The throb of the engines — the churn of the 
 beaten waves — the sough of the swirling yeast 
 — even the churning, swirling, under-tumult, 
 and through it and over it the heavy pulse, the 
 deep panting rhythmic throb : this she heard, 
 as it were the wrought surge of her own blood. 
 
 Would the green light never swing up to 
 that yellow beacon? 
 
 A minute passed : two minutes : three ! It 
 was clear that the steamer had no need to call 
 at Innisron. She was coming up the mid of 
 the Sound, and, unless the ferry-light sig- 
 nalled to her to draw near, she would keep 
 her course north-westward. 
 
 Suddenly Lora realised this. At the same 
 time there flashed into her mind the idea that 
 perhaps Alastair was on board after all, but 
 that he was ill, and had forgotten to tell 
 
 25
 
 Pharais 
 
 the captain of his wish to land by the island 
 ferry. 
 
 She turned, and, forgetful or heedless of 
 her condition, moved swiftly from ledge to 
 ledge, and thence by the path to where, in the 
 cove beyond the clachan, the ferry-boat lay on 
 the tide-swell, moored by a rope fastened to 
 an iron clank fixed in a boulder. 
 
 " Ian ! Ian ! " she cried, as she neared the 
 cove; but at first she saw no one, save Mrs. 
 Maclean, black against the fire-glow from her 
 cottage. " Ian ! Ian ! " 
 
 A dark figure rose from beside the ferry- 
 shed. 
 
 "Is that you, Ian? Am bheil am bhata 
 deas? Is the boat ready? Bi ealamh! bi 
 ealamh! mach am bhata: quick! quick! out 
 with the boat ! " 
 
 In her eager haste she spoke both in the 
 Gaelic and the English : nor did she notice that 
 the old man did not answer her, or make any 
 sign of doing as she bade him. 
 
 "Oh, Ian, bi ealamh! bi ealamh! Faigh 
 am bhata deas! rach a stigh do'n bhata!" 
 
 Word for word, as is the wont of the people, 
 he answered her : — 
 
 "Why is it that I should be quick? Why 
 should I be getting the boat ready ? For what 
 should I be going into the boat ? " 
 
 26
 
 Pharais 
 
 "The Clansman! Do you not see her? 
 Bi ealamh; bi ealamh! or she will go past us 
 like a dream." 
 
 " She has flown no flag, she has no green 
 light at the mast. No one will be coming 
 ashore, and no freight ; and there is no freight 
 to go from here, and no one who wants the 
 ferry unless it be yourself, Lora nighcan Tor- 
 maid! " 
 
 "Alastair is there: he was to come by the 
 steamer to-day ! Be quick, Ian ! Do you hear 
 me?" 
 
 " I hear," said the old man, as he slowly 
 moved toward the boulder to his left, unloosed 
 the rope from the iron clank, and drew the boat 
 into the deep water alongside the landing-ledge. 
 
 "There is no good in going out, Lora bhan! 
 The wind is rising: ay, I tell you, the wind 
 goes high : we may soon hear the howling of 
 the sea-dogs." 
 
 But Lora, taking no notice, had sprung into 
 the boat, and was already adjusting the long 
 oars to the old-fashioned wooden thole-pins. 
 Ian followed, grumblingly repeating, " Tha 
 gaoth ruhbr am! Tha coltas stair m' air!" 
 
 Once, however, that the wash of the sea 
 caught the wherry, and the shrewd air sent 
 the salt against their faces, the old man ap- 
 peared to realise that the girl was in earnest. 
 
 27
 
 Pharais 
 
 Standing, he laid hold of the sloped mast, to 
 steady himself against the swaying as the tide 
 sucked at the keel and the short waves slapped 
 against the bows, and then gave a quick cal- 
 culating glance seaward and at the advancing 
 steamer. 
 
 Rapidly he gave his directions to Lora to 
 take the helm and to keep the boat to wind- 
 ward : 
 
 " Gabh an sthtir, Lora: cum ris a' ghaoth i! " 
 
 The next moment the long oars were moving 
 slowly, but powerfully, through the water, and 
 the ferry-boat drove into the open, and there 
 lay over a little with the double swing of wind 
 and tide. 
 
 The gloaming was now heavy upon the sea ; 
 for a mist had come up with the dipping of 
 the sun, and thickened the dusk. 
 
 Suddenly Ian called to Lora to hold the 
 oars. As soon as she had caught them, and 
 was steadying the boat in the cross surge of 
 the water, he lifted a lantern from under the 
 narrow fore-deck, lighted the wick below the 
 seat (after the wind had twice blown the flame 
 into the dark), and then, gripping the mast, 
 waved the signal to and fro overhead. 
 
 It was well he thought of this, for the 
 steamer was going at full speed, and would 
 not have slackened. 
 
 28
 
 Pharais 
 
 In a few minutes thereafter the heavy ster- 
 torous throb and splash was close by them, 
 while the screw revolved now at quarter- 
 speed. 
 
 A hoarse voice came from the Clansman: 
 
 " Ferry ahoy ! " 
 
 " Ay, ay, ta ferry she will pe/' called back 
 Ian in the quaint English of which he was so 
 proud : though he thought the language a poor, 
 thin speech, and fit only for folk who never 
 left the mainland. 
 
 " What are ye oot for, Ian? Ha' ye ony 
 body comin' aboard ? " 
 
 " We've come out for Mr. Alastair Mac- 
 leod," Lora broke in eagerly : " we've come to 
 take him off." 
 
 " Hoots, my girl, what for d'ye fash yersel 
 an' us too for the like o' sic havers. There's 
 no one aboard who wants to land at Innisron : 
 an' as for Alastair Macleod, he was na' on the 
 Clansman when we left Greenock, so he could 
 na' well be on her the now ! As for you, Ian 
 Maclean, are ye doited, when, wi' neither flag 
 nor green light aloft, ye stop the steamer like 
 this, a' for a lassie's haverin' ! Ye'll hear o' 
 this yet, my man, I'se telling ye ! Auld f ule 
 that ye are, awa' wi' ye ! keep aff the wash o' 
 the steamer: . . . an' by the Lord, I'll . . ." 
 
 But already the Clansman was forging 
 
 29
 
 Pharais 
 
 ahead, and the second-officer's menace was 
 swallowed up in the tumult of churned seas. 
 
 A minute later the steamer was a dark mass 
 to the nor'-west, with a sheet of white writh- 
 ing after her, and a swirl of flaming cinders 
 from her funnel riding down the night like a 
 shoal of witch-lights. 
 
 The wherry rocked heavily, caught as she 
 was in the surge from the screw, and lying 
 adrift in the sliding hollows and rough criss- 
 cross of the waves. 
 
 Lora sat motionless and speechless. The 
 old man stared down into the darkness of the 
 boat : but though his lips moved continuously, 
 no sound came from them. 
 
 For a time it was as though a derelict were 
 the sport of the sea, which had a dull moan 
 in it, that partly was from the stifled voice of 
 the tide as it forced its way from the cauldrons 
 of the deep, and partly from the fugitive 
 clamour of breaking waves, and mostly from 
 the now muffled, now loud and raucous sough 
 of the wind as it swung low by the surge, or 
 trailed off above the highest reach of the flying 
 scud. 
 
 At last, in a whisper, the girl spoke. 
 
 " Ian, has aught of evil come to Alastair?" 
 
 " God forbid ! " 
 
 " Do you know anything to his undoing?" 
 
 30
 
 Phorais 
 
 " No, Lora bhan." 
 
 " You have not had the sight upon him 
 lately?" 
 
 The islesman hesitated a moment. Raising 
 his eyes at last, he glanced first at his com- 
 panion and then out into the dusk across the 
 waves, as though he expected to see some one 
 or something there in answer to his quest. 
 
 " I dreamt a dream, Lora, wife of Alastair. 
 I saw you and him and another go away into 
 a strange place. You and the other were as 
 shadows ; but Alastair was a man, as now, 
 though he walked through mist, and I saw 
 nothing of him but from the waist upward." 
 
 Silence followed this, save for the wash of 
 the sea, the moan of wind athwart wave, and 
 the soft rush of the breeze overhead. 
 
 Ian rose, and made as though he were going 
 to put out the oars ; but as he saw how far the 
 boat had drifted from the shore, and what a 
 jumble of water lay between them and the isle, 
 he busied himself with hoisting the patched 
 brown sail. 
 
 As if no interval had occurred, Lora ab- 
 ruptly called him by name. 
 
 " Ian," she added, " what does the mist 
 mean? . . . the mist that you saw about the 
 feet and up to the waist of Alastair?" 
 
 There was no reply. Ian let go the sail, 
 
 31
 
 Pharais 
 
 secured it, and then seated himself a few feet 
 away from Lora. 
 
 She repeated the question : but the old man 
 was obstinately silent, nor did he speak word 
 of any kind till the wherry suddenly slack- 
 ened, as she slipped under the lee of the little 
 promontory of the landing-place. 
 
 " The tide will be on turning now," he 
 exclaimed in his awkward English, chosen at 
 the moment because he did not dare to speak 
 in the Gaelic, fearful as he was of having any 
 further word with his companion ; " and see, 
 after all, the wind she will soon pe gone." 
 
 Lora, who had mechanically steered the 
 boat to its haven, still sat in the stern, though 
 Ian had stepped on to the ledge and was hold- 
 ing the gunwale close to it so that she might 
 step ashore with ease. She looked at him as 
 though she did not understand. The old man 
 shifted uneasily. Then his conscience smote 
 him for having used the cold, unfriendly Eng- 
 lish instead of the Gaelic so dear to them both : 
 for was not the girl in the shadow of trouble, 
 and did he not foresee for her more trouble to 
 come? So, in a gentle, apologetic voice, he 
 repeated in Gaelic what he had said about the 
 tide and the wind : 
 
 ' Thill an sruth: Dh' fhalbh a' ghaoth. 
 
 ' There will be peace to-night," he added. 
 
 32
 
 Pharais 
 
 " It was but a sunset breeze, after all. There 
 will be no storm. I think now there will be a 
 calm. It will be bad for the herring-boats. 
 It is a long pull and a hard pull when the 
 water sleeps against the keel. A dark night, 
 too, most likely." 
 
 Lora rose, and slowly stepped on shore. 
 She took no notice of Ian's sudden garrulity. 
 She did not seem to see him even. 
 
 He looked at her with momentary resent- 
 ment: but almost simultaneously a pitiful light 
 came into his eyes. 
 
 " He will be here to-morrow," he mur- 
 mured, " and if not, then next day for sure." 
 
 Lora moved up the ledge in silence. 
 
 In the middle of the cove she stopped, 
 waved her hand, and, in a dull voice bidding 
 good-night, wished sound sleep to him : 
 
 " Beannachd leibh! Cadal math dhiubh!" 
 
 Ian answered simply, "Beannachd leibli!" 
 and turned to fasten the rope to the iron clamp. 
 
 The dew was heavy, even on the rough salt 
 spear-grass which fringed the sand above the 
 cove. On the short sheep-grass, on the rocky 
 soil beyond, it was dense, and shone white as a 
 shroud in a dark room. A bat swung this way 
 and that, whirling silently. The fall of the 
 wind still sighed in the bent rowan trees to 
 the west of the clachan, where the pathway 
 
 33
 
 Pharais 
 
 diverged from the shore. Against the bluff 
 of Cnoc-an-Iolair it swelled intermittently: its 
 voice in the hollows and crevices of the crag 
 broken up in moans and short gasps, fainter 
 and fainter. 
 
 Lora noted all this wearily as she advanced. 
 She was conscious, also, of the nibbling of the 
 sheep, quenching their thirst with the wet 
 grass : of the faint swish of her feet going 
 through the dew : of the dark track, like a 
 crack in black ice, made wherever she walked 
 in the glisten. But though she saw and un- 
 wittingly noted, her thoughts were all with 
 Alastair and with what had kept him. 
 
 In her remote life there was scarce room for 
 merely ordinary vicissitudes. It was not a 
 thing to ponder as ominous that one should go 
 out to sea after herring or mackerel and not 
 return that night or the morrow, or even by 
 the next gloaming, or second dawn ; or that a 
 man should go up among the hills and not 
 come back for long after his expected hour. 
 But that one could miss the great steamer was 
 a thing scarce to believe in. To Lora, who had 
 been so little on the mainland, and whose only 
 first-hand knowledge of the feverish life of 
 towns was derived from her one winter of 
 school-life at Rothesay and brief visits to 
 Greenock and Oban, it was difficult to realise 
 
 34
 
 Pharais 
 
 how any one could fail to leave by the steamer, 
 unless ill or prevented by some serious mis- 
 chance. The periodical coming of the Clans- 
 man symbolised for her, to a certain extent, 
 the inevitable march of time and fate. To go 
 or come by that steam-driven, wind-heedless 
 vessel was to be above the uncertainties and 
 vicissitudes to which ordinary wayfaring mor- 
 tals are subject. The'girl thought she knew so 
 much that to her all of what town-life meant 
 must be bare, because of her reading: know- 
 ing not that, with a woman whose heart aches, 
 a tear will drown every word writ in any 
 book, a sigh scatter the leaves into nothing- 
 ness. 
 
 Deep was the puzzle to her as she slowly 
 ascended the path which led to Mary Mac- 
 lean's cottage. She stopped once or twice, 
 half unconsciously, to smell the fragrance of 
 the bog-myrtle where the gale grew in tufts 
 out of the damper patches, or of the thyme as 
 it was crushed under her feet and made over- 
 sweet, over-poignant by the dew. 
 
 The peat-reek reached her nostrils from the 
 cottage, blent with the breaths of the cows 
 that still loitered afoot, munching the cool 
 wilding fodder. Her gaze, too, fell upon the 
 fire-lit interior, with a table overspread by a 
 white cloth, flushed by the glow that wavered 
 
 35
 
 Pharais 
 
 from betwixt the red-hot bars ; and, later, upon 
 the figure of Mrs. Maclean, who had come out 
 to meet her, or, more likely, had been there 
 ever since the ferry-boat had gone off upon 
 its useless errand. 
 
 " Are you wet, Lora ? Are you cold ? " she 
 asked, as the girl drew near. There was no 
 need to say aught of the bitter disappointment, 
 any more than to speak of the glooming of 
 the dusk: both were obvious facts beyond the 
 yea or nay of speech. 
 
 " I am very tired, Mary." 
 
 " Come in, dear, and have your tea. It will 
 do you good. Lora-mo-ghraidh, you should 
 not have gone out in the ferry-boat. It was 
 no use, and the sea was rough, and you might 
 have come to harm; and what would Alastair 
 Macleod be saying, to-morrow, if he found his 
 heart's-delight ill, and that I had stood by and 
 seen her do so foolish a thing? " 
 
 " Oh, Mary, do you really think he will be 
 here to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Surely." 
 
 ' But I fear he will wait now till the next 
 sailing of the Clansman." 
 
 ' We cannot say. Come in, my fawn, out 
 of the chill." 
 
 '' It is going to be a lovely night. The wind 
 falls fast; even now it is almost still. The 
 
 36
 
 Pharais 
 
 purple peace will be upon everything to-night. 
 I am restless : I do not wish to go indoors." 
 
 " No, no, Lora dear to me ! Come in and 
 have your tea, and then rest. You can rise at 
 daybreak, if you will, and go round the island, 
 lest he should be coming in any of the herring- 
 smacks." 
 
 " I want to speak to Ian." 
 
 " Ian has gone across to Ivor Maquay's ; he 
 will not be here to-night." 
 
 Lora looked suspiciously at the speaker. 
 Had she not left Ian a few minutes ago, and 
 was he not even now following her? She 
 stared about her, but saw no one. In the 
 gloaming she could just descry the black mass 
 of the wherry. Ian was nowhere visible. She 
 did not think of scrutinising the shadow of 
 the beached and long disused coble which lay 
 a few yards away. Had she done so, she might 
 have perceived the old islesman standing rigid. 
 He had overheard his kinswoman, and under- 
 stood. As soon as the two women had entered 
 the cottage, he moved swiftly and silently 
 away, and, traversing the clachan, was soon 
 swallowed up of the darkness. 
 
 After the meal was ended, Lora found her- 
 self overworn with excitement. All wish to 
 go out again went from her. From where she 
 lay resting, she watched Mrs. Maclean put 
 
 37 

 
 Pharais 
 
 away the things and then seat herself by the 
 fire. 
 
 For a long time neither woman spoke. A 
 drowsy peace abode upon the threshold. 
 
 The hot red glow of the peats shone steadily. 
 
 At first there had been a little lamp on the 
 table, but after a time Mrs. Maclean had ex- 
 tinguished it. Instead, she had thrown upon 
 the fire a log of pinewood. The dry crackle, 
 the spurt of the sap as it simmered in the 
 heat, the yellow tongues and sudden red fangs 
 and blue flames, gave the sound and glow 
 whereof a sweeter silence can be wrought into 
 what has been but stillness before. 
 
 An hour went by. With brief snatches of 
 talk, all made up of fears and hopes, another 
 hour passed. Then a long quietness again, 
 broken at the last by a low crooning song from 
 the elder woman, as she leaned to the fire and 
 stared absently into its heart. The song was 
 old: older than the oldest things, save the 
 summits of the mountains, the granite isles, 
 and the brooding pain of the sea. Long ago 
 it had been sung by wild Celtic voices, before 
 ever spoken word was writ in letters— before 
 that again, mayhap, and caught perhaps from 
 a wailing Pictish mother— so ancient was the 
 moving old-world strain, so antique the words 
 of the lullaby that was dim with age when it 
 
 38
 
 Pharais 
 
 soothed to sleep the child Ossian, son of 
 Fingal. 
 
 When the crooning died away, Lora slept. 
 With soft step Mrs. Maclean moved across 
 the room, and lightly dropped a plaid over the 
 girl's figure, recumbent in beautiful ease upon 
 the low bed-couch. 
 
 She returned slowly to her place by the fire. 
 After a while she was about to seat herself, 
 when she started violently. Surely that was 
 a face pressed for a moment against the 
 window ? 
 
 With a strange look in her eyes, she re- 
 proved herself for her nervous folly. She sat 
 down, with gaze resolutely fixed on the glow- 
 ing peats : nor would she have stirred again, 
 but for a sound as of a low moan. 
 
 The blood ran chill in her veins ; her mouth 
 twitched ; and the intertwisted fingers of her 
 hands were white and lifeless with the fierce 
 grip that came of her fear. 
 
 But she was not a woman to be mastered by 
 terror. With a quivering sigh she rose, looked 
 round the room, forced herself to stare fixedly 
 at the window, and then moved quietly to the 
 door. 
 
 As soon as she felt the air upon her brows 
 she became calm, and all dread left her. 
 
 " Is that you, Ian? " she whispered. 
 
 39
 
 Pharais 
 
 There was no one visible; no sound. 
 
 " Is that you, Alastair Macleod ? " 
 
 So low was the utterance that, if any 
 one had been there, he could scarce have 
 heard it. 
 
 To her strained ears it was as though she 
 heard a light susurrus of brushed dew : but it 
 might be a wandering breath of air among 
 the gale, or an adder moving through the 
 grass, or a fern-owl hawking under the 
 rowan-trees. 
 
 She waited a little; then, with a sigh of 
 relief, re-entered the cottage and closed the 
 door. 
 
 A glance at Lora showed her that the girl 
 was sleeping unperturbed. For some time 
 there after she sat by the fire, brooding over 
 many things. Weary, at last, she rose, cast a 
 farewell glance at the sleeper, and then slipped 
 quietly to her bed in the adjoining room. 
 
 Night lay passively upon the sea, upon the 
 isle, upon the clachan. Not a light lingered 
 in any cottage, save the fire-glow in that of 
 Mary Maclean: a hollow, attenuating beam 
 that stared through the dark unwaveringly. 
 
 Neither star nor moon was visible. The 
 clouds hung low, but without imminence of 
 rain for the isles, drawn inland as the vapours 
 were by the foreheads of the bens. 
 
 40
 
 Pharais 
 
 An hour later the door of the cottage 
 opened and closed again, silently. It was Lora 
 who came forth. 
 
 She walked hesitatingly at first, and then 
 more swiftly, not pausing till she reached the 
 little boulder-pier. There she stood motion- 
 less, listening intently. 
 
 The water lapped among the hollows, above 
 which the ebb-left shellfish gaped thirstily. 
 There was a lift among the dulse-heaps, as 
 though a finger stirred them and let loose 
 their keen salt smells. The bladder-wrack 
 moved with strange noises, sometimes start- 
 lingly loud, oftenest as if sea-things were be- 
 ing stifled or strangled. 
 
 From the promontory came a cry : abrupt, 
 strident — the hunger-note of a skua. The 
 thin pipe of the dotterel fell into the darkness 
 beyond the shallows where the sea-mist lay. 
 In the Kyle a muffled, stertorous breath, near 
 and twice as far away, told that two whales 
 were in the wake of the mackerel. 
 
 From the isle, no sound. The sheep lay 
 on the thyme, or among the bracken, still as 
 white boulders. The kye crouched, with misty 
 nostrils laid low to the damp grass, rough with 
 tangled gale. The dogs were silent. Even 
 the tufted canna hung straight and motionless. 
 The white moths had, one by one, fallen like 
 
 41
 
 Pharais 
 
 a fallen feather. The wind-death lay upon 
 all : at the last, too, upon the sea. 
 
 II 
 
 Slowly, as though a veil were withdrawn, 
 the cloudy dusk passed from the lift. The 
 moon, lying in violet shadow, grew golden : 
 while the sheen of her pathway, trailed waver- 
 ingly across the sea and athwart the isle, made 
 Innisron seem as a beautiful body motionlessly 
 adrift on the deep. 
 
 One by one the stars came forth — solemn 
 eyes watching for ever the white procession 
 move onward orderly where there is neither 
 height, nor depth, nor beginning, nor end. 
 
 In the vast stellar space the moon-glow 
 waned until it grew cold, white, ineffably re- 
 mote. Only upon our little dusky earth, 
 upon our restless span of waters, the light de- 
 scended in a tender warmth. Drifting upon 
 the sea, it moved tremulously onward, weav- 
 ing the dark waters into a weft of living 
 beauty. 
 
 Strange murmur of ocean, even when deep 
 calm prevails, and not the most homeless wind 
 lifts a weary wing from wave-gulf to wave- 
 gulf. As a voice heard in dream ; as a whisper 
 
 42
 
 Pharais 
 
 * 
 
 in the twilight of one's own soul ; as a breath, 
 as a sigh from one knows not whence, heard 
 suddenly and with recognising awe ; so is this 
 obscure, troublous echo of a tumult that is 
 over, that is not, but that may be, that 
 awaiteth. 
 
 To Lora it was almost inaudible. Rather, 
 her ears held no other sound than the babbling 
 repetitive chime and whisper of the lip of the 
 sea moving to and fro the pebbles on the nar- 
 row strand just beyond her. 
 
 Her eyes saw the lift of the dark, the lovely 
 advance of the lunar twilight, the miracle of 
 the yellow bloom — golden here and here white 
 as frost-fire — upon sea and land : they saw, 
 and yet saw not. Her ears heard the muffled 
 voice of ocean and the sweet recurrent whis- 
 pering of the foam-white runnels beside her : 
 they heard, and yet heard not. 
 
 Surely, in the darkness, in the loneliness, she 
 would have knowledge of Alastair. Surely, 
 she thought, he would come to her in the 
 spirit. In deep love there is a living invisible 
 line from soul to soul whereby portent of joy 
 or disaster, or passion of loneliness, or passion 
 of fear, or passion of longing may be conveyed 
 with terrifying surety. 
 
 How beyond words dreadful was this re- 
 moteness which environed her, as the vast 
 
 43
 
 Pharais 
 
 dome of night to a single white flower growing 
 solitary in a waste place. 
 
 Inland upon the isle, seaward, skyward, 
 Lora looked with aching eyes. The moonlight 
 wounded her with its peace. The shimmering 
 sea beat to a rhythm atune to a larger throb 
 than that of a petty human life. In the starry 
 infinitude her finitude was lost, absorbed, as a 
 grain of sand wind-blown a few yards across 
 an illimitable desert. 
 
 That passionate protest of the soul against 
 the absolute unheed of nature was hers: that 
 already defeated revolt of the whirling leaf 
 against the soaring, far-come, far-going wind 
 that knows nothing of what happens beneath 
 it in the drift of its inevitable passage. 
 
 With a sob, she turned, vaguely yearning 
 for the human peace that abode in the cottage. 
 As she moved, she saw a shadow, solidly 
 clear-cut in the moonlight, sweep from a rock 
 close by, as though it were a swinging scythe. 
 
 Instinctively she glanced upward, to see if 
 the cloud-counterpart were overhead. The 
 sky was now cloudless : neither passing vapour 
 nor travelling wild-swan had made that 
 shadow leap from the smooth boulder into the 
 darkness. 
 
 She trembled : for she feared she had seen 
 the Watcher of the Dead. At the wane of 
 
 44
 
 Pharais 
 
 the last moon, an old islesman had passed into 
 the white sleep. Lora knew that his spirit 
 would have to become the Watcher of Graves 
 till such time as another soul should lapse into 
 the silence. Was this he, she wondered with 
 instinctive dread — was this Fergus, weary of 
 his vigil, errant about the isle which had been 
 the world to him, a drifting shadow from 
 graveyard to byre and sheiling, from fold to 
 dark fold, from the clachan-end to the shore- 
 pastures, from coble to havened coble, from 
 the place of the boats to the ferry-rock ? Did 
 he know that he would soon have one to take 
 over from him his dreadful peace? Or was he 
 in no satiate peace, but anhungered as a beast 
 of prey for the death of another? And then 
 . . . and then . . . who was this other? Who 
 next upon the isle would be the Watcher of 
 the Dead? 
 
 With a low, shuddering breath, she sighed, 
 "Fergus!" 
 
 The fall of her voice through the silence 
 was an echo of terror. She clasped her hands 
 across her breast. Her body swayed forward 
 as a bulrush before the wind. 
 
 "Ah, Dial Dial" broke from her lips; 
 for, beyond all doubt, she saw once again the 
 moving of a darkness within the dark. 
 
 Yet what she saw was no shadow-man 
 
 45
 
 Pharais 
 
 weary of last vigil, but something that for a 
 moment filled her with the blindness of dread. 
 Was it possible? Was she waylaid by one of 
 those terrible dwellers in twilight-water of 
 which she had heard so often from the tellers 
 of old tales? 
 
 ' Toradh nu feudalach gun am faicinn," 
 she muttered with cold lips : " the offspring of 
 the cattle that have not been seen ! " 
 
 " Ah, no, no ! " she cried. The next mo- 
 ment, and with a sob of relief, she saw a 
 moonbeam steal upon the hollow and reveal 
 its quietude of dusk. She would have moved 
 at once from boulder to boulder, eager for 
 that lost sanctuary whence she had come — 
 when the very pulse of her heart sprang to 
 the burst of a human sob close by. 
 
 She stood still, as though frozen. A mo- 
 ment before, the breath from her lips was 
 visible : now not the faintest vapour melted 
 into the night-air. 
 
 Was she dreaming, she wondered, when the 
 stifling grip at her heart had mercifully re- 
 laxed? 
 
 No: there was no mistake. Blent with the 
 gurgle and cluck and whisper of the water 
 among the lifted bladder- wrack and in and out 
 of the pools and crannies in the rocks, there 
 was the piteous sound of a human sob. 
 
 46
 
 Pharais 
 
 All at once, everything became clear to Lora. 
 She knew that Alastair was near : she did not 
 even dread that he was present as a disem- 
 bodied spirit. He had reached the isle after 
 all, but in some strange sorrow had not sought 
 her straightway. 
 
 "Alastair!" she cried yearningly. 
 
 No one answered ; no one stirred ; nothing 
 moved. But the muffled sobbing was hushed. 
 
 " Alastair ! Alastair ! " 
 
 Slowly from a sand-drift beside the ferry- 
 rock a tall figure arose. For a few moments 
 it stood motionless, black against the yellow 
 shine of the moon. The face was pale ; that 
 of a man, young, with the thin lips, the shad- 
 owy eyes that in sunlight would shine sea- 
 blue, the high oval features, the tangled, curly, 
 yellow-tawny hair of the islesmen of the 
 ancient Suderoer, in whose veins the Celtic 
 and the Scandinavian strains commingle. 
 
 Alastair was as visible as though he were in 
 the noon-light. 
 
 Lora looked at him, speechless. She saw 
 that in his strained eyes, in his wrought fea- 
 tures, which told her he had drunken of sor- 
 row. His dishevelled hair, his whole mien 
 and appearance showed that he was in some 
 dire extremity. 
 
 " Alastair! " 
 
 47
 
 Pharais 
 
 He heard the low, passionate appeal, but at 
 first he did not stir. Then, and yet as though 
 constrainedly and in weariness, he raised and 
 stretched forth his arms. 
 
 Swift as a gliding shadow, Lora was beside 
 him, and clasped to his heart. 
 
 For a time, neither spoke. His heart beat 
 loud and heavily : against his breast her head 
 lay, with her breath coming and going like a 
 wounded bird panting in the green-gloom of 
 the thicket. 
 
 " O Alastair, Alastair, what is it? " she mur- 
 mured at last, raising her head and looking 
 into his pale, distraught face. 
 
 ' What made you come out in the dark, 
 Lora-mitirnean? " 
 
 " I could not rest. I was too unhappy. I 
 thought — I thought — no, I do not think I 
 dared to believe that you might come to-night 
 after all ; but something made me long to go 
 down to the sea. Did you see me only now, 
 dear heart ? " 
 
 "No, Lora." 
 
 For a moment she was still, while she gazed 
 fixedly at Alastair. 
 
 " Ah," she whispered at last, " then you 
 have been here all this night, and I not know- 
 ing it! Ah, Aluinn, it was your heart crying 
 to mine that made me rise and leave the cot- 
 
 48
 
 Pharais 
 
 tage and come out into the dark. But why 
 did you not come to me ? When did you come 
 to Innisron ? How did you come ? " 
 
 " Dear, I could not wait for the Clansman. 
 I left Greenock three hours earlier by the 
 Foam, James Gilchrist's tug; for he under- 
 took to put me ashore at the haven below 
 Craig-Sionnach. Thence I walked to Dun- 
 more. But I was not well, Lora; and I was 
 so long on the way that I missed the Clans- 
 man as well as the Dunmore herring-steamer. 
 Before nightfall, however, I persuaded Archi- 
 bald Macleod, of -Tighnacraigh, to bring me 
 here on his smack. I landed at the Rock of 
 the Seafold. It was already dusk, and my 
 heart was against yours in longing, my beau- 
 tiful gloom : yet over me came such a sorrow 
 that I could not bear the homing, and so 
 moved restlessly from shadow to shadow. I 
 felt as though it would be better for me to 
 deal with my sorrow alone and in the night, 
 and that it was more bearable since I was so 
 near you, and that any moment I could go to 
 you." 
 
 "Why, why did you not come, Alastair? 
 Oh, I longed, longed for you so! " 
 
 " Once I came close to the cottage, almost 
 happy since I knew that you were so near to 
 me. The red glow that warmed the dark 
 
 49
 
 Pharais 
 
 without comforted me. I thought I would 
 look in upon you for a moment; and if you 
 and Mary were awake and talking, that I 
 should let you know I had come. But I saw 
 that you lay in sleep ; and I had scarce time to 
 withdraw ere, as I feared, Mary saw me — 
 though see me, indeed, perhaps she did, for 
 in a brief while she opened the door and came 
 out, and would have discovered me but that I 
 moved swiftly to the shadow of the birk- 
 shaws. Then, after a little, I wandered down 
 by the shore. There was a voice in the sea — 
 calling, calling. It was so cool and sweet: 
 soft was the balm of the air of it, as the look 
 of your eyes, Lora, as the touch of your hand. 
 I was almost healed of my suffering, when 
 suddenly the pain in my head sprang upon 
 me, and I crouched in the hollow yonder, chill 
 with the sweat of my agony." 
 
 " O Alastair, Alastair, then you are no bet- 
 ter : that great doctor you went so far to see 
 has done you no good ? " 
 
 " And in the midst of my pain, Lora my 
 Rest, I saw you standing by the sea upon the 
 ferry-ledge. At first I took you for a vision, 
 and my heart sank. But when the moonlight 
 reached the isle and enfolded you, I saw that 
 it was you indeed. And once more my pain 
 and my sorrow overcame me ! " 
 
 50
 
 Pharais 
 
 " Alastair, I am terrified ! It was not thus 
 for you before you went away. Great as was 
 your pain, you had not this gloom of sorrow. 
 Oh, what is it, what is it, dear heart? Tell 
 me, tell me ! " 
 
 Slowly Alastair held Lora back from him, 
 and looked long and searchingly into her eyes. 
 
 She shrank, in an apprehension that, like a 
 bird, flew bewildered from the blinding light 
 that flashed out of the darkness — a vain be- 
 wilderment of foredoom. 
 
 Then, with a great effort, she bade him tell 
 her what he had to say. 
 
 Too well he knew there was no time to lose : 
 that any day, any moment, his dark hour would 
 come upon him, and that then it would be too 
 late. Yet he would fain have waited. 
 
 ;< Lora, have you heard aught said by any 
 one concerning my illness ? " 
 
 ' Dear, Father Manus told me, on the day 
 you went away, that you feared the trouble 
 which came upon your father, and upon your 
 father's father ; and oh, Alastair my beloved, 
 he told me what that trouble was." 
 
 " Then you know : you can understand ? " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " That which now appals me . . . now kills 
 
 me. 
 
 Alastair ! " 
 
 51
 
 Pharais 
 
 "Yes, Lora?" 
 
 " Oh, Alastair, Alastair, you do not mean 
 that . . . that . . . you too . . . you are . . . 
 are . . . that you have the . . . the . . . mind- 
 dark?" 
 
 " Dear heart of mine, this sorrow has come 
 to us. I " 
 
 With a sharp cry Lora held him to her, 
 despairingly, wildly, as though even at that 
 moment he were to be snatched from her. 
 Then, in a passion of sobbing, she shook in 
 his arms as a withered aspen-leaf ere it fall 
 to the wind. 
 
 The tears ran down his face ; his mouth 
 twitched; his long, thin fingers moved rest- 
 lessly in her hair and upon her quivering 
 shoulder. 
 
 No other sound than her convulsive sobs, 
 than his spasmodic breathing, met in the 
 quietude of whisper-music exhaled as an odour 
 by the sea and by the low wind among the 
 corries and upon the grasses of the isle. 
 
 A white moth came fluttering slowly toward 
 them, hovering vaguely awhile overhead, and 
 then drifting alow and almost to their feet. In 
 the shadow it loomed grey and formless — 
 an obscure thing that might have come out of 
 the heart of the unguarded brain. Upward 
 again it fluttered, idly this way and that : then 
 
 52
 
 Pharais 
 
 suddenly alit upon the hair of Alastair, poising 
 itself on spread wings, and now all agleam as 
 with pale phosphorescent fire, where the moon- 
 light filled it with sheen as of white water 
 falling against the sun. 
 
 The gleam caught Lora's eyes as, with a 
 weary sigh, she lifted her head. 
 
 A strange smile came into her face. Slowly 
 she disengaged her right arm, and half raised 
 it. Alastair was about to speak, but her eyes 
 brought silence upon him. 
 
 " Hush ! " she whispered at last. 
 
 He saw that her eyes looked beyond his, 
 beyond him, as it seemed. What did she see? 
 The trouble in his brain moved anew at this 
 touch of mystery. 
 
 "What is it, Lora?" 
 
 " Hush, hush ! . . . I see a sign from heaven 
 upon your forehead . . . the sign of the white 
 peace that Seumas says is upon them who 
 are of the company of the Beloved." 
 
 "Lora, what are you saying? What is it? 
 What do you see ? " 
 
 His voice suddenly was harsh, fretful. Lora 
 shrank for a moment ; then, as the white moth 
 rose and fluttered away into the dark, faintly 
 agleam with moonfire till it reached the 
 shadow, she pitifully raised her hand to his 
 brow. 
 
 53
 
 Pharais 
 
 " Come, dear, let us go in. All will be well 
 with us, whatever happens." 
 
 " Never . . . never . . . never ! " 
 
 " O Alastair, if it be God's will?" 
 
 "Ay, and if it be God's will?" 
 
 "I cannot lose you; you will always be 
 mine ; no sorrow can part us ; nothing can 
 separate us ; nothing but the Passing, and 
 that . . ." 
 
 " Lora ! " 
 
 For answer she looked into his eyes. 
 
 "Lora, it is of that, of the Passing: . . . 
 are you . . . are you brave enough not only to 
 endure . . . but to ... if we thought it well 
 ... if I asked you ... ? " 
 
 A deep silence fell upon both. Hardly did 
 either breathe. By some strange vagary of the 
 strained mind, Lora thought the throb of her 
 heart against her side was like the pulse of the 
 engines of the Clansman to which she had 
 listened with such intent expectation that very 
 evening. 
 
 From the darkness to the north came the 
 low monotone of the sea, as a muffled voice 
 prophesying through the gates of Sleep and 
 Death. Far to the east the tide-race tore 
 through the Sound with a confused muttering 
 of haste and tumult. Upon the isle the wind 
 moved as a thing in pain, or idly weary : lifting 
 
 54
 
 P karats 
 
 now from cranny to corrie, and through glen 
 and hollow, and among the birk-shaws and the 
 rowans, with long sighs and whispers where 
 by Uisghe-dhu the valley of moonflowers 
 sloped to the sea on the west, or among the 
 reeds, and the gale, and the salt grasses around 
 the claehan that lay duskily still on the little 
 brae above the haven. 
 
 " Lora . . . would you . . . would . . . ?" 
 
 Only her caught breath at intervals gave 
 answer. The short lisp and gurgle of the 
 water in the sea-weed close by came nearer. 
 The tide was on the flood, and the sand about 
 their feet was already damp. 
 
 The immense semicircle of the sky domed 
 sea and land with infinity. In the vast space 
 the stars and planets fulfilled their ordered 
 plan. Star by star, planet by planet, sun by 
 sun, universe by universe moved jocund in the 
 march of eternal death. 
 
 Beyond the two lonely figures, seaward, the 
 moon swung, green-gold at the heart with 
 circumambient flame of pearl. 
 
 Beautiful the suspended lamp of her glory 
 — a censer swung before the Earth-Altar of 
 the Unknown. 
 
 In their human pain the two drew closer 
 still. The remote alien silences of the larger 
 life around vaguely appalled them. Yet Lora 
 
 55
 
 Pharais 
 
 knew what was in his thought ; what he fore- 
 shadowed ; what he wished. 
 
 " It shall be as you will, Alastair, heart of 
 me, life of me," she whispered. Then, with 
 clasping arms, and dear entreaty, she urged 
 him homeward. 
 
 " Come, come home, Alastair, Aluinn. 
 Enough of sorrow to-night. Speak to me to- 
 morrow of all that is in your mind ; but to- 
 night . . . to-night, no more! My heart will 
 break. Come, dearest. Come, mo miiirnean! 
 Hark! the wind is crying in the corrie: it 
 is rising again on the other side of the isle: 
 and we are already chill — oh, cold, so 
 cold ! " 
 
 Hand in hand, they moved slowly upward 
 along the little pathway of mingled grass and 
 shingle which led to the clachan from the 
 ferry: he with bowed head, she with upward 
 face. 
 
 A dog barked from a byre, another answered 
 from a sheiling beyond. Suddenly there was a 
 rushing sound, and Ghaoth, Alastair's dog, 
 came leaping upon his master, whining and 
 barking with joy. He stooped and fondled 
 it; but in vain tried to quell its ecstasy in 
 seeing him again. 
 
 Whether aroused by the barking of Ghaoth, 
 or having awoke and found Lora absent from 
 
 56
 
 Pharais 
 
 the cottage, Mrs. Maclean had risen, lit a 
 candle, and now stood upon the threshold, 
 looking intently at the twain as they ap- 
 proached. 
 
 Among the islefolk many words are not 
 used. The over-arching majesty of the sky, 
 the surrounding majesty of the sea, the loneli- 
 ness of these little wind-swept spots of earth 
 isled in remote waters, leave a hush upon the 
 brain, and foster eloquent silences rather than 
 idle words. 
 
 Mrs. Maclean knew intuitively that some- 
 thing of disaster was in this nocturnal return 
 of Alastair: that he and Lora had met by 
 chance, or through a summons unknown to 
 her : and that now they came — to her, in their 
 youth, so tragically piteous under the shadow 
 of calamity — craving only for that impossible 
 boon of the young in sorrow : peace. 
 
 When they drew near to her, she turned 
 and placed the candle on the table. Then, 
 facing them, she came forward, led them in by 
 the hand, and closed the' door. She saw that 
 Alastair was hatless, and his clothes damp and 
 travel-stained ; so with quiet, home-sweet 
 words, she persuaded him to change his things 
 while she laid some food for him to break his 
 long fast with. 
 
 But though wearily he did the one, he would 
 
 57
 
 Pharais 
 
 have nothing of the other save a draught of 
 warm milk. 
 
 A heavy drowsiness was now upon him. He 
 could scarce uplift the lids from his eyes. 
 His voice, when he spoke at all, was so low 
 that it was barely audible. 
 
 After a silence, during which he had looked 
 long at the fire, and closed his eyes at the last, 
 with Lora's gaze hungrily set upon him, and 
 the dark, sweet gloom of Mrs. Maclean's, wet 
 with the dew of unshed tears, upon both of 
 the twain whom she loved so passing well, he 
 murmured huskily and confusedly : 
 
 ' By green pastures ... I will lay me down 
 to sleep. ... It calleth, calleth . . ." 
 
 Suddenly Mrs. Maclean arose. Taking 
 Lora's hand, she led her to the fireside and 
 motioned her to kneel beside Alastair. Then, 
 blowing out the candle-flame, she too knelt. 
 Only the fireglow now lit the room, filled with 
 brooding shadows in the corners and with 
 warm dusk where the two women kneeled and 
 the man slept. 
 
 With arms lifted as if in invocation, the 
 elder woman — her face wan under her grey 
 hair, though touched with an unreal glow 
 from the flaming peats — in a low, croon- 
 ing voice, repeated the ancient rest-words, 
 the ancient prayer of her people, said at the 
 
 58
 
 Pharais 
 
 covering up of the fire against the hours of 
 sleep : 
 
 " Smalaidh mis'n nochd an teine; 
 Mar a smalas Mac Moire. 
 Gu'm bu slan an tigh's an teine, 
 Gu'm bu slan a' chiudeachd uile. 
 Co bhios air an lar? 
 Peadair agus Pbl, 
 Co bhios air an phaire nochd ? 
 Moire mhin-gheal's a Mac. 
 Bial De a labhras, 
 Aingeal geal a dh' innseas — 
 Ga'r comlinadh's ga'r gleidheadh 
 Gus an tig an solus geal a maireach." 
 
 I will cover up the fire aright, 
 
 Even as directed by the Virgin's Son. 
 
 Safe be the house, and safe the fire, 
 
 And safe from harm be all the indwellers. 
 
 Who is that that I see on the floor? 
 
 Even Peter himself and Paul. 
 
 Upon whom shall this night's vigil rest? 
 
 Upon the blameless Virgin and her Son: 
 
 God's mouth has spoken it. 
 
 A white-robed angel shall be with us in the dark, 
 
 Till the coming of the sun at morn. 
 
 When she ceased, there was no sound save 
 the low sobbing of Lora and the quiet breath- 
 ing of the sleeper in the high-backed chair. 
 
 Having made the sign of the cross upon 
 her breast and over the fire, she covered up the 
 flame with ash and charred peat. Quietly, 
 
 59
 
 Pharais 
 
 then, she placed her strong arm around 
 Alastair, and half guided, half lifted him to 
 the bed in the adjoining room where he and 
 Lora were wont to sleep. The girl-wife fol- 
 lowed, and, with deft hands, unclad Alastair 
 and laid him gently in the bed. Swiftly dis- 
 robing herself, she lay down by his side, her 
 dark hair mingling on the pillow with his 
 tangle of dull gold. 
 
 The gleam still emitted between the bars 
 from beneath the covered peats passed into the 
 room through the open doorway and fell upon 
 the bed. 
 
 Alastair stirred ; opened his eyes ; looked 
 with wild, startled gaze at Lora, then at Mrs. 
 Maclean, who had again knelt, and with raised 
 arms had begun her " Blessing of Peace." 
 
 With a sigh he closed his eyes, and the ter- 
 ror passed from his face. Once or twice he 
 muttered parts of the lines of that ancient 
 sleep-prayer, familiar to him since his boyhood, 
 and before it was ended deep slumber had 
 come upon him : 
 
 " Laidhidh misc 'nochd 
 Le Moire 's le 'Mac, 
 Le mathair mo Righ, 
 'Ni mo dhion 'o dhroch-bheairt, 
 Cha laidh mise lets an olc, 
 'S cha laidh an t' olc learn; 
 Ach laidhidh mi le Dia, 
 60
 
 Pharais 
 
 'S laidhidh Dia Ma' rium. 
 
 Lamh dheas Dhe fo'm cheann, 
 
 Crois nan naoi aingeal learn. 
 
 'O mhullach mo chinn 
 
 Gu craican mo bhonn. 
 
 Guidheam Peadair, guidhcam Pdl, 
 
 Guidheam Moir-Oigh' 'sa Mac. 
 
 Guidheam an da ostal deug, 
 
 Gun mise 'dhol eug le'n cead. 
 
 'Dhia 'sa Mhoire na gloire. 
 
 'S a Mhic na oighe cubhraidh 
 
 Cumabh mise o na piantan dorcha, 
 
 'S Micheal geal' an cb 'ail m'anama." 
 
 This night I will lay me down to sleep 
 
 With Mary Virgin and her Son, 
 
 Even with the mother of my King, 
 
 Who protects me from all evil; 
 
 Nor shall evil lie down to sleep with me, 
 
 But I shall sleep with God: 
 
 And with me shall God lie down. 
 
 His right arm shall be under my head: 
 
 The cross of the Nine Angels be about me, 
 
 From the top of my head 
 
 To the soles of my feet. 
 
 I supplicate Peter, I supplicate Paul, 
 
 I supplicate Mary the Virgin and her Son, 
 
 I supplicate the twelve Apostles, 
 
 That evil befall us not this night. 
 
 Mary, in thy goodness and glory, 
 
 And Thou, Son of the sweet-savoured Virgin, 
 
 Protect us this night from all the pains of dark- 
 ness. 
 
 And thou, Michael, guardian of souls, abide with 
 us, watching. 
 
 6l
 
 Pharais 
 
 When she looked down, at the end of her 
 prayer, Mary saw that Lora's eyes also were 
 closed ; though by the muttering of the lips 
 she knew her dear one was not asleep. 
 
 Softly she closed the door behind her ; then, 
 passing by the fire, went into the third room 
 of the cottage. 
 
 Soon she too was in bed, softly repeating, 
 as the weariness of sleep came over her : 
 
 Cha laidh mise lets an olc, 
 'S cha laidh an t' olc learn. 
 
 Without, came the rising sound of the tide 
 among the pebbles on the shore, the incessant 
 chime of wave lapsing over wave on flat rocks. 
 The sough of the wind fell from the corries of 
 Craig-an-Iolair, and died in whispers among 
 the fern and dew-cold grasses. 
 
 So went the hours from silence into silence. 
 And in time came the dawn, and an ashen- 
 grey upon the sea, and a grey gloom upon each 
 leaf and every dusky frond and blade. But 
 when the black of the mainland became gold, 
 and a trouble of light moved, swiftly-throb- 
 bing, across the eastern water, Michael the 
 Watcher withdrew. 
 
 At the window of the room where Alastair 
 and Lora slept, the beautiful sunflood of the 
 new day poured in rejoicingly. 
 
 62
 
 Pharais 
 
 One long streamer of light fell upon his 
 yellow hair and kissed the eyelids of a veiled, 
 subsiding mind. Downward it moved, and 
 filled with its gleam the dark-brown hair which 
 lay across the white breast of Lora. Then, 
 surely, it passed beneath the flower of her 
 bosom and into her heart, and warmed it with 
 joy; for with a smile she awoke, murmuring, 
 
 " Pharais, Pharais." 
 
 Ill 
 
 Before the want of that day, the rumour 
 went among the scant population of In- 
 nisron that Alastair, son of Diarmid of Mac- 
 leod, was mad: that, in the phrasing of the 
 islesman, he had the mind-dark. 
 
 Men and women whispered the thing with 
 awe. In the West, something almost of a 
 hieratic significance is involved in the poetic 
 phrase that God has filled with dusk the house 
 of the brain. Not thus is spoken of the 
 violence of insanity — the mere insurgence of 
 delirium from the fever of hate, or from 
 jealousy, or love, or evil of the blood, or the 
 curse of drink. But that veil of darkness 
 which comes down upon the mind of man or 
 woman in the fullness of life, and puts an im- 
 
 63
 
 Pharais 
 
 permeable mist or a twilight of awful gloom 
 about the soul, is looked upon not only with 
 an exceeding tenderness, but with awe, and as 
 of a bowing of the head before a divine 
 mystery. 
 
 Yet the rumour was not true, for Alastair 
 Macleod, though he stood within the shadow, 
 had not yet sunk into the darkness. 
 
 As it had chanced, Mrs. Maclean was not 
 the only person who had seen him and Lora on 
 their return. 
 
 Late in the night Ian Maclean had come 
 back from the western side of the isle, and 
 was standing in the shadow of the byre when, 
 hand in hand, Lora and Alastair approached. 
 
 The old man had been unhappy, and, after 
 leaving his kinsman at Ardfeulan, had wan- 
 dered up among the corries. In the wail of 
 the wind along the heights, in the sough of it 
 in the little glens and shelving uplands, he 
 heard voices to which he would fain not have 
 listened, for they spoke of a terror that was 
 in the air. 
 
 The moment he saw Alastair's eyes, dark 
 within the moonlit pallor of the face, he knew 
 that his premonitions were no mere imagin- 
 ings. On his forehead he saw the shadow of 
 doom. 
 
 With a sigh he turned, and, having entered 
 
 64
 
 Pharais 
 
 the byre and gone to the part of it shut off 
 for his use, lay down upon his bed of fragrant 
 fern. But, weary as he was, he could not 
 sleep. 
 
 Again the vision came to him : and once 
 more he saw Alastair move blindly in an un- 
 familiar place, with the mist no longer up to 
 his waist only, but risen now to his throat, and 
 with thin tongues reaching upward still. 
 
 The long night went drearily past. When 
 the day was come, Ian rose and let out the 
 kye. The sweet freshness of the air was as 
 balm to his weariness. The wind blew cool 
 upon his brows, and a breath of the sea 
 mingled with the myriad suspiration of the 
 earth and gave him the intoxication of the 
 dawn. His eyes grew brighter, his step firmer, 
 his mien no longer that of profound dejection ; 
 and when Ghaoth came leaping toward him, 
 and barked about the half-amused, half-angry 
 cows — who stopped to plash their hoofs in 
 the thick white dew, against which the warm 
 breaths fell revolvingly like grey whorls of 
 steam, and to swing their great horns against 
 their flanks, wild and shaggy as the brown 
 hill-sides in autumn — then all the gloom of the 
 night went from him. 
 
 " Mayhap it was but a dream," he muttered : 
 " and who can tell the folly of the mind? " 
 
 65
 
 Pharais 
 
 Then, with Ghaoth's help, he got the steers 
 from the neighbouring shed and " Righ-geal," 
 the great tawny-shaggy bull, whose either horn 
 could have pierced right through and beyond 
 the biggest drover who ever crossed the Kyles 
 at Colintraive, and urged all the kine upward 
 to the higher pastures, where the thyme was 
 so sweet, close-clustered as it was among the 
 soft green hair of the isle-grass. 
 
 It seemed to him as though all the larks on 
 Innisron were singing at one time and just 
 there, everywhere around and above him. In 
 the birk-shaws, there was a mavis that was as 
 a fount wherefrom music spilled intoxicat- 
 ingly : by the burn, the merles called, recalled, 
 and called yet again, and over and over, sweet 
 and blithe, and with loud, reckless cries of 
 mirth and joy. On every gorse-bush, yellow 
 with bloom, fragrant almost to pain, and filled 
 with the murmur of the wild-bee and the high, 
 thin hum of the wood-wasp, a yellow-hammer 
 flitted to and fro, or sang its tweet — tzveet — 
 tweet — o-o-oh sweet ! — sweet ! 
 
 The sky was almost cloudless save for an 
 angry flush in the north-east — a deep, living 
 blue of infinite, though indiscernibly faint 
 gradation. Here and there, too, were thin, 
 almost invisible grey mare's-tails swept up- 
 ward, as though they were snow-dust or sea- 
 
 66
 
 Pharais 
 
 spray, before the flying feet of the Weaver of 
 the Winds. 
 
 As soon as Ian had reached the last dyke, 
 and had seen " Righ-geal " lead his impatient 
 following toward the uplands, he stood sway- 
 ing his grey head slowly to and fro, with his 
 right hand moving automatically in rhythmic 
 accord, while he repeated the familiar " Rann 
 Buacbailleac," or Rune on the driving of the 
 cattle to the pasture : 
 
 i 
 
 "Siubhal beinne, siubhal baile, 
 
 Siubhal gu re fada farsuinn; 
 
 Buachaille Mhic De m'ar casaibh, 
 
 Gu mu slan a thig sibh dachaidh, 
 Buachaille Mhic De m'ar casaibh 
 Gu mu slan a thig sibh dachaidh. 
 
 ii 
 " Comraig, Dhia agus Chalum-Chille, 
 Bhith m'ar timchioll a fabh's a lilleadh, 
 Agus nan or-chiabh down! 
 
 Agus Banachaig nan basa min-gheal, 
 Bride nan or-chiabh down! " 
 
 Travel ye moorland, travel ye townland, 
 Travel ye gently far and wide, 
 
 God's Son be the Herdsman about your feet, 
 
 Whole may ye home return. 
 
 God's Son be the Herdsman about your feet, 
 
 Whole may ye home return. 
 
 67
 
 Pharais 
 
 ii 
 The protection of God and of Columba, 
 Encompass your going and coming; 
 
 And about you be the milkmaid of the smooth 
 
 white palms, 
 Bridget of the clustering hair, golden brown, 
 And about you be the milkmaid of the smooth 
 
 white palms, 
 Bridget of the clustering hair, golden brown! 
 
 Turning aside, the shepherd searched here 
 and there among the boulders and split rocks 
 which everywhere obtruded from the sea of 
 heather. For a time his quest was unre- 
 warded; but just as he was about to relinquish 
 it he gave an abrupt exclamation. He had 
 seen the Torranan, that rare plant, of which 
 he had often heard, but had never found : and, 
 for sure, he would never have sought it there, 
 for it was said to be a plant of the sea's lip — 
 that is to say, of the shore, within reach of 
 the tide-breath. 
 
 Muttering over and over, " Buainams' thu 
 thorranain! " — Let me pluck thee, Torranan, 
 — he gained the precious bloom at last, and 
 then, holding it before him, half spoke, half 
 chanted this ancient incantation, known in the 
 isles as the " Eolas an Torranain," a spell of 
 good service to keep the cows from the harm 
 of the evil eye, and also to increase their milk : 
 
 68
 
 Pharais 
 
 "Buainams' thu thoranain 
 
 Le'd uile bheannachd' s le'd uile bhuaidh — " 
 
 Let me pluck thee, Torranan ! 
 With all thy blessedness and all thy virtue, 
 The nine blessings came with the nine parts, 
 By the virtue of the Torranan. 
 The hand of St. Bride with me. 
 I am now to pluck thee. 
 
 Let me pluck thee, Torranan! 
 With thine increase as to sea and land ; 
 With the flowing tide that shall know no ebbing 
 By the assistance of the chaste St. Bride, 
 The holy St. Columba directing me, 
 Gentle Oran protecting me, 
 And St. Michael, of high-crested steeds, 
 Imparting virtue to the matter the while, 
 Darling plant of all virtue, 
 I am now plucking thee! 
 
 All the time the old man had been carefully 
 disengaging the cream-white, dome-shaped 
 flower, he had crooned over and over : 
 
 " Lamh Bhride learn, 
 Tha mi 'nis ga'd bhuain! " 
 
 The hand of St. Bride with me 
 I am now to pluck thee! 
 
 So, too, now — now that he had the Tor- 
 ranan safe at last, he kept repeating: 
 
 69
 
 Pharais 
 
 " 'Cuir buaidh anns an ni, 
 Tha mo lus lurach a nis air a bhuain ! " 
 
 Darling plant of all virtue, 
 I am now plucking thee! 
 
 But the line that was on his lips for long 
 that day — even after he had given the flower 
 to Mary Maclean, with assurance that it was 
 gathered during the lift of the tide, was 
 Ri lionadh gun tra'adh — " With the flow- 
 ing tide that shall know no ebbing." Over 
 and over he said this below his breath. Ri 
 lionadh gun tra'adh; strange words these: 
 what was the hidden thing in them? What 
 was the lionadh, the flowing tide : was it life 
 or death? 
 
 But now the rare bloom was found : he was 
 glad of that. He doffed his weather-worn 
 bonnet, and placed the flower in the hollow 
 of it: then, calling Ghaoth from the already 
 scattered kye, he turned and made his way 
 back to the clachan. 
 
 When he entered Mrs. Maclean's cottage, 
 where his breakfast of porridge was ready, he 
 made and received the usual salutation of 
 blessing: and then sat down in silence. 
 
 The room was full of sunlight — so full that 
 Mrs. Maclean had hung a screen of bracken 
 from an iron hook, so that it shielded the 
 
 70
 
 Pharais 
 
 peat-fire and let the life of the flame burn 
 unchecked. 
 
 He did not look at Alastair; and, indeed, 
 all the morning-blitheness had gone out of the 
 eyes of the old man. Not that any there 
 noticed his taciturnity. Mrs. Maclean moved 
 softly to and fro. Alastair sat broodingly in 
 the leathern chair before the fire: Lora on a 
 stool at his feet, with her right hand clasped in 
 his left and her eyes fixed on his face. On the 
 table the porridge was untouched, the new 
 bread uncut, the warm milk grown tepid. 
 
 With a sigh, Alastair rose at last. Crossing 
 the room, he went to the east window and 
 stared forth unseeingly, or, at any rate, with- 
 out sign of any kind. Then, restlessly, he 
 began to pace to and fro. Repressing her 
 tears, Lora seated herself at the table and 
 tried to eat, hopeful that she might thus in- 
 duce him to do likewise. Mrs. Maclean fol- 
 lowed her example, but ate in silence. She 
 had almost ended, when Lora saw that she 
 had abruptly laid down her spoon and was 
 looking intently at Ian. 
 
 The old man now followed every motion of 
 the invalid with a look as of one fascinated. 
 When, suddenly, Alastair turned, went to the 
 door and crossed the threshold, Ian rose and 
 followed. 
 
 71
 
 Pharais 
 
 A few seconds later he came back, his with- 
 ered face almost as white as his hair. 
 
 Mrs. Maclean met him ere he could speak. 
 
 ;< Not a word before her," she whispered. 
 " Meet me at the byre : I shall be there in a 
 minute or two." 
 
 But just then Lora rose and went out. 
 
 " Ian Maclean, what is it? " 
 
 " Mary, my kinswoman, he is not alone." 
 
 "Not alone?" 
 
 " I have seen the other." 
 
 She knew now what he meant. He had seen 
 the shadow-self, the phantasm of the living 
 that, ere death, is often seen alongside the one 
 who shall soon die. Mrs. Maclean knew well 
 that this shadowy second-self simulated the 
 real self, and that even all the actions of the 
 body were reproduced with a grotesque veri- 
 similitude. But she was also aware how, 
 sometimes, one may learn from the mien of 
 the phantasm what is hidden in the aspect of 
 the doomed. 
 
 " Last night," Ian went on in a dull voice, 
 " I had the sight again. I saw the mist of 
 death as high about him as when a man is 
 sunken in a peat-bog up to the eyes." 
 
 " Well ? I know you have more to say." 
 
 " Ay." 
 
 " Speak, Ian ! " 
 
 72
 
 Pharais 
 
 With a long, indrawn breath, the old man 
 resumed in a slow, reluctant voice. 
 
 " When I came in, a little ago, I saw the 
 sorrow there was on every face. My vision, 
 too, came back upon me, and I had trouble. 
 I meant to eat and go out quickly. But when 
 Mr. Alastair began to move about, I saw that 
 he was not alone. I knew the other at once. 
 There could be no mistake. In dress, in 
 height, in face, in movement, they were the 
 same. But there was a difference." 
 
 Mrs. Maclean shuddered slightly, and her 
 lips opened as though she were about to speak. 
 With a gesture, however, she signed to Ian to 
 continue. 
 
 " Ay, there was a difference. I hoped 
 against my eyes ; but when I followed him 
 yonder I saw what I saw, and what killed my 
 hope." 
 
 " Speak, speak, Ian ! " 
 
 : ' In all things, the same but one, and that 
 was in the eyes, in the expression. Those of 
 Mr. Alastair were dull and lightless, and 
 brooding low; those of the other were large 
 and wild, and stared in terror and amaze ; and 
 on the face of the thing the Fear lay, and 
 moved, and was alive." 
 
 "O Ian, Ian, what does it mean?" 
 
 " It means this, Mary, daughter of Don- 
 
 73
 
 Pharais 
 
 nacha, what, sure, you know well : that not 
 only is the shadow of death near this house, 
 but that upon Alastair Mac Diarmid is the 
 mind-dark that lay upon his father and upon 
 his father's father." 
 
 " The curse of Michael be upon this evil, 
 Ian ! " 
 
 " Even so, Mhoire nighean Donnacha." 
 
 " His father was the third of his race in 
 succession, who, soon or late, fell under that 
 shadow. And we all know, sure we all know, 
 that after the third generation the veil is with- 
 drawn. This thing is an evil dream of yours, 
 Ian Maclean ! " 
 
 " It is an evil doing of some one," muttered 
 the old man, with sombre eyes. 
 
 " Perhaps "— 
 
 But before Mrs. Maclean could say what 
 was in her mind, Alastair and Lora entered. 
 
 With downcast eyes Ian passed out, giving a 
 furtive, terrified look behind him ere he closed 
 the door. 
 
 It was through the old islesman that the 
 rumour of Alastair Macleod's madness went 
 abroad. 
 
 Long before the stormy afternoon which fol- 
 lowed the beautiful youth of that day, with its 
 ominous morning-red in the north-east, had 
 
 74
 
 Pharais 
 
 waned to gloaming, there was not a soul on 
 Innisron who did not know of the sorrow. 
 
 Yet no one came near out of a cruel sym- 
 pathy : no one spoke heedless words either of 
 question or solace to Mrs. Maclean ; for none 
 could be said to the two most concerned, 
 neither Alastair nor Lora having been seen 
 throughout the day. 
 
 Nevertheless, a deep resentment prevailed 
 against one person upon the island. Not only 
 had the spring gone ill with the fishing, but 
 the nets had been torn and trailed in a way 
 that suggested something beyond the blind 
 malice of wind and wave and the currents of 
 the deep sea and the savage dog-fish. Several 
 cows had ceased to give milk; hens had 
 ceased to lay; and Gregor McGregor's white 
 mare had dropped a dead foal, the first time 
 such a thing had happened on the isle. And 
 now that, unforeseen and in the heyday of 
 youth and health, the worst of all troubles had 
 come upon Alastair Macleod, many recalled 
 how his father, Macleod of Dunvrechan, who 
 had died on Innisron, had not only once de- 
 nounced old Ealasaid MacAodh as a woman 
 of the evil eye, but had cursed her ere he died, 
 and attributed his misery to a blight of her 
 working. 
 
 As one spake to another, the same thought 
 
 75
 
 Pharais 
 
 came into each mind : that the old widow who 
 lived at Craig-Ruaidh, at the head of the Glen 
 of the Dark Water, had put her malice upon 
 Alastair Mac Diarmid. 
 
 Some one, in a group by the ferry, reminded 
 her hearers that, by a mischance, every one 
 on the isle save Widow MacAodh had been 
 invited to the feast in the little mission-house, 
 when " Lora nighcan maighstir Tormaid " was 
 wedded; and how it was well known that old 
 Ealasaid had been full of anger and pain at 
 the slight, and had since scarce spoken with 
 any one save Mrs. Maclean, with whom no 
 bitterness was ever long to endure. 
 
 " Ay, ay, it's her doing — it's her doing," 
 was muttered all round ; " she has put the spell 
 of the evil eye upon him — foreigner that she 
 is." 
 
 Many years had gone by since Duncan ban 
 MacAodh, a Hebridean, who had settled in 
 Innisron, brought thither a wife out of remote 
 St. Kilda. Long since he had gone to his rest, 
 and lay among the few dead under the great 
 runic cross at the extreme of Ardfeulan, on 
 the west of the isle ; yet he was still " the man 
 from Uist," as his widow was still the " out- 
 lander." 
 
 " Ian," said Pol Macdonald, one of the old- 
 est of the fishermen, " you too are said to 
 
 76
 
 Pharais 
 
 have the thing in yon, though you always look 
 through both eyes, and with good will to man 
 and beast. Let you, and two others of us, go 
 to-night to Widow Ealasaid's, do upon her and 
 find out if she is accursed : . . . and then . . . 
 and then . . ." 
 
 No one spoke, though a veiled consenting 
 glance went between Macdonald and Ian and 
 a young islesman, Ronald Macrae, who lived 
 over by Ardfeulan. 
 
 It was not a subject to discuss further in 
 that hour of uncertainty. One or two mem- 
 bers of the group had already edged away, 
 when Kathia Macdonald suddenly drew atten- 
 tion to the appearance of the first three of the 
 returning herring-boats, anxiously expected 
 for over an hour past. 
 
 The brown-sailed wherries came in under 
 the lee of the isle in a smother of foam. Al- 
 ready a snarling north-easter was racing over 
 the sea, still smelling of the ling and bracken it 
 had flattened as it tore over the summits of the 
 mainland hills. 
 
 The water was of a shifting emerald near 
 the haven ; of a dark bottle-green beyond ; and, 
 out in the open, black, fretted and torn with 
 staring white splashes and a myriad-leaping 
 surge. 
 
 The race of the sea-horses had begun, and 
 
 77
 
 Pharais 
 
 no one on Innisron was at ease till the last 
 boat had come safely round from Ardgheal, 
 the point whence on the yestereve Lora had so 
 eagerly watched for the coming of her hus- 
 band. 
 
 A fiery sunset disclosed the immense and 
 swirling procession of clouds high over the 
 isle — cloud not only racing after cloud, but 
 often leaping one upon the other as flying 
 sheep in panic. Toward the east, the vapours 
 were larger and darker: the cohorts more 
 densely massed. Above the mainland stretched 
 one vast unbroken phalanx of purple-livid 
 gloom, out of the incessant and spasmodically 
 convulsive travail in whose depths swept mon- 
 strous cloudbirths. 
 
 As the night fell, there was audible beyond 
 the hills the noise of a baffled thunderstorm — 
 a tempest which had been caught among the 
 mountains, and could no more lift itself over 
 the summits than a screaming and wrestling 
 eagle could tear itself from a stag in whose 
 hide its talons had become irremovably 
 gripped. 
 
 Above the peaks and along the flank of the 
 mass of livid gloom, spears of lightning were 
 swung against the wind ; and with splinter and 
 flash, there was a rain of whirled lances as 
 against some unseen assault from below. 
 
 78
 
 Pharais 
 
 The tumult soared, hurled downward, and 
 fell upon Innisron. The isle-folk listened in 
 the dark with awe. Roar and crash, and a 
 frightful, terrifying howling followed every 
 blast, as of a volcano belching forth avalanche 
 after avalanche, and shaking to the valleys the 
 debris of all the hills. Roar upon roar, crash 
 upon crash, howl upon howl : with the strident 
 raucous scream of the wind, yelling a paean of 
 triumph as it leaped before the javelins of the 
 lightning and tore in its ruinous might far out 
 across the heaving, swaying, moaning sea. 
 
 It was a night for all who fare by or upon 
 the deep waters to remember with awe: for 
 those whose lives, and kin, and gear had gone 
 scatheless, to recollect with thanksgiving: for 
 those whose weal went with it, to recall with 
 bowed heads or wet eyes. 
 
 An hour or more after nightfall, three fig- 
 ures moved with the wind across the isle: 
 blurred shadows astir in the tempest-riven 
 dark. Ronald Macrae carried a lantern; but 
 speedily laid it down by a cairn, for the flame 
 could not live. 
 
 He and Ian and Pol were grimly silent, not 
 only on the path through the wind-swept 
 heather, but when under shelter from a bight 
 of hillside or overhanging crag. The business 
 
 79
 
 Pharais 
 
 that took them out in that tempest lay heavy 
 upon them. 
 
 If, out of her own mouth, or by sign or deed 
 of her own, Ealasaid should convict herself 
 of the use of the evil eye, her doom would be 
 fixed. Even in the bitterness of superstition, 
 however, the islesmen were not bent upon the 
 extreme penalty, the meed of those who deal 
 in witchcraft. The dwellers on Innisron, as 
 all who live among the outer isles in general, 
 are too near the loneliness of life and death 
 to be wanton in the taking away of that which 
 is so great in the eyes of man and so small in 
 the eyes of God. 
 
 The worst they intended was to make Eala- 
 said bring her own doom upon her: then, on 
 the morrow, her sheiling would be burned to 
 the ground and the ashes scattered to the four 
 quarters, while she herself would be exiled 
 from the island under ban of cross, mystic 
 word, and the ancient Celtic anathema. 
 
 So wild was the wind and dark the way, 
 that a full hour passed before they reached the 
 Glen of the Dark Water, and heard the savage 
 ramping and charging of the endless squad- 
 rons of the waves against the promontory of 
 Ardfeulan. 
 
 As they drew near the little cottage, a lonely 
 dwelling on the brae which sloped to the glen, 
 
 80
 
 Pharais 
 
 they saw that the occupant had not yet gone to 
 bed, for a red gleam of light stole comfortingly 
 across the forlorn dark. 
 
 With a significant touch on the shoulder of 
 each of his companions, Ian led them to within 
 a yard or two of the window. 
 
 " Hush," he whispered, in a momentary lull ; 
 " make no noise as we look in. She might 
 hear, and blast us with her evil eye. Perhaps 
 she is even now talking with some warlock or 
 fiend." 
 
 Trembling, the three men huddled under the 
 wall. At last, slowly, and with hearts wildly 
 a-throb, they raised themselves and looked 
 within. 
 
 The room was bare in its clean poverty. On 
 the rickety wooden table was a bowl with a 
 little unfinished porridge in it. A yard away 
 was an open Gaelic Bible, with a pair of horn 
 spectacles laid across the open page. At a 
 spinning stool between the table and the peat- 
 fire was an old woman, kneeling, with her 
 hands clasped and her face upraised. On the 
 poor, tired, worn features was a look of 
 pathetic yearning, straining from a white and 
 beautiful peace. 
 
 So rapt was she that she did not see a hand 
 move the outer latch of the window, or feel 
 the sudden breath of the night-air. 
 
 81
 
 Pharais 
 
 Then those without, waiting to hearken to 
 sorcery more appalling than the savagery of 
 the tempest, heard old Ealasaid repeat this 
 prayer : 
 
 " Tha 'n la n is air falbh uainn, 
 Tha 'n oidhdie 'tighinn orm dliith; 
 'S ni mise luidhe gu dion 
 Fo dhubhar sgiatl: mo ruin. 
 O gach cunnart 's o gach has, 
 'S o gach namhaid th' aig Mac Dhe, 
 
 nadur dhaoine borba, 
 
 'S o choirbteachd mo naduir ft in, 
 Gabhaidh mis' a nis armachd Dhe, 
 Gun bhi reubta no brisd', 
 'Sge b' oil leis an f satan 's le phdirt 
 Bi'dh mis' air mo gheard a nis." 
 
 The day is now gone; 
 Dark night gathers around, 
 And I will lay me safely down (to sleep) 
 Under the shadow of my Beloved One's wing. 
 Against all dangers, and death in every form, 
 Against each enemy of God's good Son, 
 Against the anger of the turbulent people, 
 And against the corruption of my own nature, 
 
 1 will take unto me the armour of God — 
 That shall protect me from all assaults: 
 And in spite of Satan and all his following, 
 I shall be well and surelv guarded. 
 
 \J a"- 
 
 When, after an interval of speechless prayer, 
 
 the lonely old woman rose painfully to her feet, 
 
 82
 
 Pharais 
 
 she noticed the open window, and heard the 
 sough of the wind without. 
 
 With a tired sigh, she crossed the room to 
 close the inside latch. But, at the window, she 
 stood irresolute, held by the noise of the sea 
 beating against the clamour of the wind. She 
 stooped, and peered forth. 
 
 Not a thing was visible. Suddenly a broad 
 wavering gleam of sheet-lightning lit up the 
 whole brae. Almost, she fancied, she could 
 have sworn she saw three human figures, with 
 bowed heads, moving across the brow of the 
 slope. 
 
 She could not know that three men, stricken 
 with shame and remorse — remorse which 
 would ere long bloom into the white flower of 
 repentance, to be worn lovingly by all on the 
 isle — were stealing homeward from a vain and 
 wicked errand. 
 
 With a shudder, she crossed herself, fear- 
 ing that the figures she had imagined, or 
 had really seen, were the three dreadful Ac- 
 cursed who drove the spear into Christ's 
 side and the nails into His hands and feet, 
 and with mocking offered Him the bitter 
 sponge. 
 
 Slowly repeating: 
 
 " O gach cunnart 's o gach bas, 
 'S o gach namhaid th' aig Mac Dhe," 
 
 83
 
 Pharais 
 
 she quenched with charred peat the flame of 
 her fire, and was soon in a child-like rest 
 " under the shadow of the wing of her Be- 
 loved One." 
 
 When midnight came upon the isle, the 
 worst violence of the storm was over. Never- 
 theless, upon the sea was the awfulness of des- 
 olation, the rumour of a terrible wrath. 
 
 All slept at last: the innocent Ealasaid, the 
 foolish seekers of evil, the isle-folk one and all 
 — except two. 
 
 Alastair and Lora lay in each others' arms 
 as children terrified in the dark. 
 
 That afternoon his madness had come upon 
 him for a while ; and he had smiled grimly at 
 he knew not what, and laughed while the tears 
 streamed from the eyes of Lora and Mary ; 
 and moaned betimes ; and cried out against the 
 calling of the sea ; and closed his ears against 
 the frightful wailing of a kelpie in the tarn 
 beyond the byre ; and, at the last, shook as in 
 an ague before the fire, fearful of some infor- 
 mulate terror, but with such a crown of sorrow 
 on his forehead that the two women bowed 
 their faces in their hands, speechless with 
 grief: with such a horror in his eyes that 
 Ghaoth shrank from him with bristling fell 
 and upcurled, snarling lip. 
 
 84
 
 Pharais 
 
 But with the night came yet another merciful 
 lifting of the veil. 
 
 While the storm raged at its worst, the three 
 kneeled, and Mrs. Maclean read from the 
 beautiful Gaelic Scripture. Then, with all the 
 tenderness of her childless passion of mater- 
 nity, she prayed for God's balm and peace and 
 the healing of His hand. 
 
 When, in time, she went to her own room, 
 Alastair and Lora talked for long in a low 
 voice. 
 
 On the day he had first heard that the seed 
 of life had taken root in her womb, and knew 
 that a child was to be born of their great love, 
 he had known a thrill of such rapture that he 
 could scarce see Lora for the blinding of the 
 tears of joy. 
 
 Beautiful she was to all : to him, lovely and 
 tender as twilight and dear beyond words : but 
 at that moment, when he learned from her own 
 lips of her only half explicable trouble, he 
 knew he had passed into a Holy of Holies of 
 love and reverent passion such as he had but 
 vaguely dreamed of as possible. 
 
 But now, on this wild night of storm with- 
 out and more awful dread within, he recalled 
 with horror what had been driven from his 
 mind. 
 
 Bitter as was the doom he and Lora had to 
 
 85
 
 Pharais 
 
 face, tenfold bitter was it made by the thought 
 that they were to bring into the world yet an- 
 other soul shrouded in the shadow of his own 
 intolerable ill. 
 
 And so it was that, at the last, Alastair and 
 Lora Macleod, knowing his madness was at 
 hand and could be cured of no man, and that 
 their lives were spilled out as lees from a cup, 
 and that they were witlessly dooming the un- 
 born child to a heritage of grief, gave solemn 
 troth to each other that on the morrow they 
 would go forth hand in hand, and, together in 
 death as in life, lay themselves beneath that 
 ever-wandering yet ever-returning wave which 
 beats day and night, and week by week, and 
 year by year, and without end for ever, about 
 the sea-gathered graveyard on the remote west 
 of Tnnisron. 
 
 Then was a great peace theirs. For the last 
 time they laid themselves down on their bed : 
 for the last time twined their arms around each 
 other, while on the same pillow their heads lay 
 side by side, the hair about his forehead wet 
 with her falling tears: for the last time they 
 kept vigil through the terror of the dark — an 
 awful terror now, with the wrath of the sea 
 without, with the shadow of Death within 
 the room, with the blackness of oblivion 
 creeping, creeping from chamber to chamber 
 
 86
 
 Pharais 
 
 in the darkened house of a dulled, subsiding 
 brain. 
 
 Ere dawn, Alastair slept. Lora lay awake, 
 trembling, longing for the day, yet praying 
 God to withhold it; sick with baffled hope, 
 with the ache of weariness, with the sound of 
 the moan and hollow boom of the sea. More 
 deep and terrible in her ears grew that mid- 
 night Voice, reverberant in the room as in the 
 whorl of a shell : a dreadful iterance of men- 
 ace, a dirge that confusedly she seemed to 
 know well, a swelling chant, a requiem. 
 
 IV 
 
 An hour after sunrise there was not a cloud 
 in the sky. The first day of June came 
 clad in the fullness of summer. Sea and land 
 seemed as though they had been immersed in 
 that Fount of Life which wells from the hol- 
 low of the Hand which upholdeth Tir-na-h' 
 Oighe, the isle of eternal youth. 
 
 The low island-trees had not suffered as had 
 those on the mainland : yet everywhere were 
 strewn branches, and, on the uplands, boughs 
 wrenched away, and often hurled far from the 
 parent tree. 
 
 But upon all the isle there was now a deep 
 
 87
 
 Pharais 
 
 quiescence. In the warm languor, even the 
 birds sang less wildly clear, though the high, 
 remote, falling lark-music floated spirally 
 earthward, poignantly sweet. An indescribably 
 delicate shimmer of haze lay on the heights and 
 pastures, and where the corries sloped jaggedly 
 seaward, each with a singing burn splashing or 
 wimpling adown its heart. From the uplands 
 came the lowing of the kine, the bleating of 
 the ewes and lambs, the rapid whirring gurgle 
 of the grouse among the heather. The wailing 
 of curlews rose and fell ; the sharp cries of the 
 cliff-hawks beat against Craig-Ruaidh. High 
 overhead, as motionlessly in motion as the 
 snow-white disc of the moon lying immeasur- 
 ably more remote within the vast blue hollow 
 of the sky, an eagle poised on outspread wings, 
 and then, without visible effort or movement, 
 drifted slowly out of sight like a cloud blown 
 by the wind. 
 
 Only upon the sea was something of the 
 tumult of the past night still a reality. 
 
 Around the isle, and in the wide Sound be- 
 tween it and the mainland, the " white sheep " 
 moved in endless procession, no longer wildly 
 dispersed and huddled and torn by the wolves 
 of the tempest. Oceanward the sea-horses 
 swept onward magnificently, champing and 
 whirling white foam about their green flanks, 
 
 88
 
 Pharais 
 
 and tossing on high their manes of sunlit rain- 
 bow gold, dazzling-white and multitudinous far 
 as sight could reach. 
 
 Clamour of gulls, noise of waves, lisp and 
 chime and flute-call of the shallows among the 
 rock-holes and upon the whispering tongues of 
 the sea-weed — what joy, and stir, and breath 
 of life! 
 
 Hand in hand, in the hot noon, Lora and 
 Alastair went idly along the sheep-path leading 
 from the clachan to the promontory of Ard- 
 gheal. The smell of the brine from the sea 
 and wrack-strewn shore, the sun-wrought frag- 
 rance of the grass and thyme, of bracken 
 and gale, of birch and hawthorn and trailing 
 briar, of the whole, beautiful, living, warm 
 body of the earth so lay upon the tired 
 senses with a healing as of balm, that even 
 the tears in Lora's eyes ceased to gather, leav- 
 ing there only a softness as of twilight-dew in 
 violets. 
 
 It was to be their last walk in the sunshine 
 of that day— their last participate in the sun- 
 shine of life. 
 
 All the morning had been spent by Alastair 
 in writing and brooding. Once again he had 
 talked over with Lora that projected deed, 
 which to them seemed the one right and fitting 
 end to the tragedy of circumstance. She had 
 
 89
 
 Pharais 
 
 promised that even if the darkness came down 
 upon his mind irretrievably she would fulfill 
 her troth with him. Great love casteth out 
 fear ; but even if this had not been so with her, 
 she bore in mind the menace of what he had 
 said about the child. 
 
 She, too, had spent a little of that last morn- 
 ing in writing, though her letter was not to 
 go across the sea to the mainland, but to be 
 left with old Ian to give to Mary on the 
 morrow. 
 
 It was close upon noon when she saw that 
 Alastair's gloom was upon him again, though 
 he was now as quiet as a child. Taking his 
 hand, she led him forth, heedful to avoid the 
 clachan, and vaguely wishful to visit once more 
 that little eastern haven of Ardgheal where, 
 but two days ago, she had longingly awaited 
 Alastair's return, and where, months before, he 
 had first won her love. 
 
 He seemed to take pleasure in the sight of 
 the sea he loved so well, and in the songs of 
 the birds, and to be vaguely displeased because 
 Ghaoth would not leap to his caress as usual, 
 or else would crouch at his feet with startled 
 eyes and low whine. 
 
 When Lora spoke, he answered seldom ; but 
 when he did, she knew that he understood. 
 Once or twice he looked at her strangely ; and 
 
 90
 
 Pharais 
 
 once, with a thrill of awe and dread, she saw 
 that it was unrecognisingly. 
 
 She caught the fragment of an Eolas, a spell, 
 as his lips moved ; and the fear was upon her 
 because of the mystery behind the words : 
 
 '"S i'n t-suil a chi, 
 'S e'en cridlte a stnuainicheas , 
 'S i'n teanga 'labhras: 
 'S mise'n Triuir qu tilleadh so ortsa, 
 
 Lora-ino-bean, 
 An ainm an AtJiar, a Mhic, 's an 
 Spioraidh Naoitnh!" 
 
 'T is the eye that sees, 
 
 'T is the heart that thinks, 
 
 'T is the tongue that speaks : 
 
 I am the Three to turn this off to you, 
 
 Lora, my wife: 
 In the name of the Father, of the Son, 
 
 and of the Holy Ghost. 
 
 With a sob, she turned and put her arms 
 about him. Never had he seemed so fair in 
 her sight — tall and comely as a young pine, of 
 a beauty beyond that of any man she had ever 
 seen. No wonder that her father, familiar 
 lover of the Ossianic ballads, had been wont, 
 remembering the beauty of the second son of 
 Usnoth, lord of Etha, to call Alastair Ailthos. 
 
 " Dear, my dear one, Ailthos, Alastair ! " she 
 
 9i
 
 Pharais 
 
 cried, clinging close. " Look at me ! Speak 
 to me ! Do you not know me ? " 
 
 Slowly he turned his eyes upon her, and 
 after a brief perplexity the shadow went out 
 of them, and he smiled gently. 
 
 " Let us go home, my fawn," he whispered. 
 " I am tired. It would be too sad to go down 
 to Ardgheal." 
 
 He had already caught sight of the smoke of 
 a steamer beyond Dunmore Point ; and fearing 
 that it might be the Clansman — for he thought 
 the hour much later than it was — he hoped to 
 spare Lora another needless pang. Moreover, 
 his growing dread of seeing any one was 
 stronger than ever upon him. 
 
 So they turned thus soon even in that last 
 sunshine, and entering the cottage, sat before 
 the smouldering peat-fire ; he brooding darkly, 
 Lora dreaming through her slow-welling tears, 
 and both . . . waiting. 
 
 Though, at dusk, a heavy sea still ran, it was 
 partly due to the surge of the ground-swell and 
 to the turbulence of the tide, for there was 
 but little wind even away from the shelter of 
 the isle, and what there was came mostly in 
 short, sudden puffs and wandering breaths. 
 
 In the quietude of the gloaming, it was as 
 though the sea called all round Innisron as a 
 
 92
 
 Pharais 
 
 beast of prey stalks 'about a high sheepfold, 
 growling, breathing heavily, ravening. 
 
 After the supper, eaten frugally and in 
 silence, Lora and Alastair listened once again 
 to the peat-prayer and the Blessing of Peace 
 of Mrs. Maclean ; then, not daring to say any 
 word to her but that of a husky farewell for 
 the night, and fearful even of meeting the 
 glance of her quiet eyes, they went to their 
 room, there to sit silently awhile in the dark- 
 ness, hand in hand. 
 
 No one saw them leave the cottage an hour 
 later: not a soul heard them as they passed 
 through the clachan. 
 
 The road they chose was that sheep-path 
 through the heather which led to Ardfeulan by 
 the Glen of the Dark Water. Each knew the 
 way well, otherwise their faring westward 
 would have been difficult, for the sky was 
 veiled by a thin mist and the moon was not 
 visible. 
 
 They walked in silence ; sometimes Lora in 
 advance, but, whenever practicable, together, 
 and hand in hand. 
 
 At last they reached the Glen of the Dark 
 Water, and perceived through the gloaming 
 the sheiling of Ealasaid MacAodh. This they 
 skirted, and then entered a sloping hollow, 
 at the base of which was audible the hoarse 
 
 93
 
 Pharais 
 
 murmuring of the sea. Lora knew the place 
 
 IL A week ago she had been there with 
 
 and remembered that the whole slope 
 
 was a m; moonflowers, tall, white, and 
 
 that the green stems could 
 
 hardly en.* 
 
 The wan glimnv - "em was perceptible 
 the milky way on a night when a 
 faint fro<-t-mi-t prevail-. Around, there was 
 nothing e Ac. Not a tree grew in that 
 
 place: not a crag r< I of the death- 
 
 white bloorr The low-hanging mi-t-cloud 
 led all things. It v. hough the grave 
 
 had been :. and thi the gloom 
 
 the Deat! land that lie- beyond. Only 
 
 there is eterr ice: here, the dull menace 
 
 •he sea made a a murmur about the 
 
 cure c 
 
 ntered the valley of moonflowers, 
 
 dimly seeing their way a few yards beyond 
 
 them, and hearkening to the inwash and re- 
 
 '^ence of the tide moving along the extreme 
 
 f the land, a sei akable 
 
 dread came over Ala-tair and Lora. 
 
 They stood still, hardly daring to breathe, 
 -emembered something: they 
 
 tall, creai marguerite, native to the 
 
 i the Hebrides, is known to I 
 .ders as the M
 
 Pharais 
 
 knew not what, save that the tragic memory 
 was linked with reminiscence of a valley of 
 moonflowers ?een in a dark twilight. Wa- it 
 all a dream, coincident in their minds? Or 
 had life once before, in r-ome unremembered 
 state, wrought tragic issues for them by a 
 valley of white flowers seen in the darkri' 
 with a deeper darkness around, a veiled 
 above, and the hoarse, confused prophesying 
 of the sea beyond ? 
 
 As thc_ >d, the moon — about an hour 
 
 ri.~en — glimmered through the veil of cloud. 
 As with a hand, the rift was slowly made; but 
 though the light was now clearly visible, it 
 still gleamed through filmy shrouds of vapour. 
 There was no shape, no central luminous spot 
 even : only a diffused ?heen which spread for 
 a great span northward and southward, though 
 it illumed nothing beneath save the long 
 sloping hollow filled with moonflowers. The 
 blooms rose aim' »t to the knees of the two 
 silent and trembling figures. For some in- 
 scrutable reason, the advance of light had not 
 brought any comfort to either: rather, their 
 vague terror increased almost unendurably. 
 
 The sea called below. Lora shuddered, and 
 drew back a step or two. 
 
 A long, wavering, greenish light appeared 
 high above the south-west. A heet-light- 
 
 95
 
 Pharais 
 
 ning fled shudderingly northward, it lapsed 
 into ashen tremors before it was swallowed up 
 of the darkness, as a wounded sea-bird in the 
 deep. 
 
 In that brief gleam, Alastair turned and 
 looked into Lora's eyes. 
 
 She moved to his side again, and once more 
 took his hand. Then, slowly, and still without 
 word one to the other, they moved downward 
 through the hollow. 
 
 There was not a sound about them save the 
 susurrus of their feet going through the moon- 
 flowers. From the glen alone came any break 
 in the inland stillness, the noise of water run- 
 ning swiftly from ledge to ledge. In the dark- 
 ness where the sea was, there broke the 
 fluctuating moan and boom of ocean. From 
 far across the wave came a thin, forlorn sound 
 that was the crying of the wind. 
 
 Minute by minute, as they waded through 
 that death-white wilderness, the moon wove 
 the cloud-shroud into thinner veils, till at last, 
 as the two figures emerged upon the shore by 
 the side of a precipitous scaur, they were of a 
 filmy gossamer that no longer obscured the 
 golden-yellow globe that wheeled solemnly 
 through the appalling upper solitudes of the 
 night. 
 
 The tide, at the last reach of the ebb for 
 
 96
 
 Pharais 
 
 nearly an hour past, was now on the flood: 
 though the first indeterminate babble of re- 
 turning waters was scarce different from the 
 lapsing ebb-music in aught save a gurgling 
 swiftly repetitive undertone. 
 
 The scaur by whose side they stood was hol- 
 low, and was known as the Cave of the Sea- 
 Woman. It could be reached dry-shod, or 
 nearly so, only at low-water, and even then 
 only during calm, or when the wind did not 
 blow from the south or west. For years be- 
 yond record it had been almost unvisited, for 
 the cavern was a place of deadly peril except 
 just before and after the extreme ebb. But 
 after the death of two of his sons — one in the 
 effort to swim outward against the inrush of 
 the tide ; the other by falling, or being swept 
 backward to the deep chasm that lay at the 
 far end of the cave — old Macrae, of Ardfeulan 
 Farm near by, had caused rude steps to be cut 
 in the funnel-like hollow rising sheer up from 
 the sloping ledge that lipped the chasm and 
 reached the summit of the scaur. 
 
 The smell of the brine from the dripping 
 boulders smote shrewdly upon Alastair and 
 Lora as they stood at the weedy mouth of the 
 cavern. Then for the first time that night they 
 turned their backs upon the sea, and moved 
 slowly across the long, flat slabs of rock. 
 
 97
 
 Pharais 
 
 It was not dark at the entrance to the Cavern 
 of the Sea-Woman, for the moonlight moved 
 within it as the hand of a blind man groping 
 blankly in an unfamiliar place. The arch of 
 the rock was clear, and even the frondage of 
 fern and sea-plants suspended from its lower 
 curve; also, beneath, a mass of mossed crag, 
 just beyond the highest reach of the tides. 
 Among this dark crag-vegetation grew strange 
 plants ; but none stranger or so rare as the sea- 
 grape, or mermaid's-fruit of the islanders. No 
 one on Innisron knew its proper designation, 
 and it had become known at all as the sea- 
 grape only because some student of rare things 
 discovered and wrote about it under that name, 
 as perhaps the culminating treasure-trove of 
 the botanist in the Scottish West. It is a plant 
 which clings as a tendril, choosing only the 
 summit of high rocks or boulders in some 
 sunless place where it can breathe the ooze 
 from dead or dying sea-weed, and can feel the 
 salt air reach it with a chilly touch. It lies low, 
 with its thin, moist, ash-grey stems ; its round, 
 pale-green, transparent leaves faintly spotted 
 with livid blotches; and its infrequent clusters 
 of small, juicy berries of a hue of dusky 
 yellow. 
 
 The isle-folk regard it with awe. Though 
 the fruit is poisonous, and a deadly draught 
 
 98
 
 Pharais 
 
 can be distilled from the leaves, a few berries 
 would not suffice to kill. To eat sparingly of 
 the sea-grape is not to invite death necessarily, 
 but to bring about a stupor so deep that for an 
 hour or more no familiar sound can reach the 
 ear, no ordinary shock vibrate along the nerves, 
 no common pain affect the body. If the eater 
 of the mermaid's-fruit be left undisturbed, he 
 will not stir for twelve or even fifteen hours, 
 though the first death-like trance does not pre- 
 vail beyond an hour, or at most two: while, 
 if forcibly aroused, he is so weak in body and 
 so dazed in mind that he cannot long be kept 
 awake without peril to the brain, and indeed 
 to life itself. 
 
 It was because of this fruit of oblivion that 
 Alastair and Lora had sought the Cave of the 
 Sea-Woman. 
 
 They had feared not so much their own 
 instinctive evasion of death as that, in the final 
 struggle, they might not go down into the 
 shadow together. 
 
 The idea that the Silence should come upon 
 them unawares — that, arms about each other 
 in a last embrace, the wave should encroach 
 upon their deep unheeding slumber — had given 
 them a strange elation. The thought was Ala- 
 stair's. Though he was not a native of Innis- 
 ron, he had often visited it from Dunvrechan 
 
 99
 
 Pharais 
 
 even before he had come to love Lora, and 
 was familiar with each of the treacherous 
 caves and all the desolate, boulder-strewn, un- 
 inhabited south-western side of the island, as 
 well as with everything in animate or inani- 
 mate nature which was to be found therein. 
 Not only had he often heard of the sea-grape 
 which grew almost inaccessibly in some of the 
 caverns on the western side, but he knew 
 where in the Cave of the Sea-Woman it was 
 to be obtained with little difficulty. 
 
 Letting Lora's hand drop gently to her side, 
 he climbed the rough, broken ledges to the 
 right, and swiftly returned holding in his hand 
 a cluster of limp leaves from which hung 
 snakily several stems of the dusky-yellow fruit. 
 
 Lora looked at the berries curiously, and yet 
 with a strange indifference. With that awful 
 menacing sound of the sea beyond, with that 
 more awful murmur of dread in her heart, 
 with that rising tide of death all about them, 
 it mattered little to her that Alastair laid such 
 stress on those small, poisonous things, those 
 petty messengers of a mere oblivion of the 
 senses. 
 
 Just beyond where they stood, and at the 
 beginning of those long, flat, inward-sloping 
 ledges which formed the floor of the cavern 
 till the abrupt ending over the dark chasm at 
 
 ioo
 
 Pharais 
 
 the extreme end, was a bed of soft white sand, 
 shelving from one of the ledges past and un- 
 derneath another, and then among rocks cov- 
 ered with bladder-wrack and adder's-tongues 
 and other sea-weed, with tangled masses of the 
 long, trailing dead-man's-hair. 
 
 Still without speech, here Alastair and Lora 
 lay down, side by side. 
 
 There is an ebb in the tide of human hope 
 that must reach a limit. When this limit is 
 attained there is too great weariness for any 
 further revolt, for any protest, for anything 
 but dull acquiescence. 
 
 Slowly Alastair stripped a few of the dusky 
 berries from the plant and held them in the 
 hollow of his hand to Lora. 
 
 Taking them, she leaned forward, looking 
 intently upon his face, but failing to see into 
 his eyes, because of a deeper shadow therein 
 than that which environed them. 
 
 " Alastair," she whispered. 
 
 He made no answer; but wearily raised his 
 hand to his mouth, and with his tongue 
 crushed against his palate the acrid juice of 
 the sea-grapes. 
 
 " O Alastair ! speak to me ! speak to me ! " 
 
 He turned slowly. Then suddenly he put 
 out his arms, and gathered her to his breast. 
 
 " My beautiful gloom — Lora — my Rest — my 
 
 IOI
 
 Pharais 
 
 Joy — O you who are my Pharais — all the 
 Pharais I care for now or dream of — if there 
 be indeed a pitiful God, He will have mercy 
 upon us. If we do wrongs we sin believing 
 that we are doing the right, the sole right 
 thing. But sweet it is — O Lora, sweet and 
 dear at the last, after all our dark bewildered 
 pain, to be here and know that all is over now, 
 and that we two go into the Silence together: 
 and if there be any waking, that together we 
 shall wake. Mo ghraidh, mo muirnean, my 
 dear one, what peace there is for you and me 
 that I die thus: free from that crushing, 
 crushing pain and darkness that has filled my 
 brain." 
 
 " Alastair ! O my dear love — dearest — 
 shall we — shall we meet again after this 
 dreadful night? Shall there be any day for 
 us? I cannot die — oh, I cannot die in this 
 awful darkness . . . thus . . . We are both so 
 young . . . and I . . ." 
 
 She ceased abruptly. 
 
 A low splashing sound, with long-drawn 
 suffocating surge and susurrus, told that the 
 sea had begun to creep forward with stealthy 
 swiftness. 
 
 It was not the menace of the tide, however, 
 that froze the words upon her lips. 
 
 Alastair had begun to croon, in a drowsy, 
 
 1 02
 
 Pharais 
 
 yet strained, uncertain voice, a snatch of 
 fisher-lore. 
 
 " Alastair ! Alastair ! Alastair ! " 
 
 He gave a low laugh, as he turned on his 
 side, and with wandering fingers played idly 
 with the sand. 
 
 " Alastair ! . . . my husband ! . . . Beloved 
 . . . Alastair ! . . . Oh, say farewell to me at 
 the least. . . . Do not turn from me ! ' ! 
 
 " It called — called — called : and she cried 
 to me, Come, my Beloved : and then I knew 
 Lora was dead. Why do you laugh at me? 
 She is dead, I tell you: dead, dead, dead! 
 She, my beautiful Lora — my dream — my joy 
 — she who to me was Pharais itself : she is 
 dead! " 
 
 In the grip of supreme woe, a woman has a 
 heroism of abnegation beyond all words to 
 tell of it. 
 
 Her grief rose within Lora as a phantom, 
 and chilled her to the very heart and to the 
 very brain. But with a great effort she 
 stirred, leaned over and plucked some of the 
 fatal fruit and swallowed it : for she had 
 crushed in her hand the berries he had given 
 her. 
 
 Then, having risen, with deft hands she 
 pulled toward her some long strings of dead- 
 man's-hair and rope-weed ; and, with those 
 
 103
 
 Pharais 
 
 which were firmly affixed to rocks or heavy 
 stones, she wove a girdle about the waist of 
 Alastair, and so round her own. 
 
 She could scarce see to finish her task, for 
 the moon had passed upward into the denser 
 cloud, and the faintly luminous veils of vapour 
 beneath it were now scarce distinguishable 
 from the obscurity all around. 
 
 The insistent wash of the tide was coming 
 steadily nearer. She could feel the cold breath 
 of its moving lip. 
 
 Absolute darkness prevailed ; while, with 
 shaking hands, having unloosed her long, black 
 hair, she tied it firmly in two places with the 
 curly tangle of him whom she loved so passing 
 well in death as in life. 
 
 Not a gleam fell from the veiled moon. Not 
 a thing was visible save a faint phosphorescent 
 line that moved slowly inward. Lora could 
 not see Alastair's face, not even his body, not 
 even the two shaking hands she held over him 
 while she prayed inaudibly, and with a suffo- 
 cating, bewildering pain at her heart, at her 
 lungs, in her head. 
 
 No sound came from the isle. The noise of 
 the falling stream in the glen was merged in 
 the confused clamour of the tide-race. Shore- 
 ward, there was that awful tidal whisper. 
 Seaward, the march of wave after wave, of 
 
 104
 
 Pharais 
 
 billow after billow, in vast processional array ; 
 squadron after squadron, battalion after bat- 
 talion, of the innumerable army of the deep: 
 and among them all, over them all, beneath 
 them all, a Voice, loud, reverberant, menacing, 
 awful as brooding thunder, terrible as the 
 quaking of the dry land when the hills o'er- 
 topple the cities of the plain: a Voice as of 
 the majesty of Death, swelling through the 
 night with all the eternal pain, the forlorn 
 travail, the incommunicable ache of all the 
 weary, weary World. 
 
 Then, ere all remembrance died for her, 
 Lora knew that Alastair slept and was at 
 peace. 
 
 She stole her arm round his neck and held 
 him close, but was too weak now to lean over 
 and kiss those white lips, parted as a child's 
 in dreamless slumber. 
 
 It was her last pain: the last unavailing 
 bitterness of woman's woe. 
 
 Thereafter she lay still, vaguely hearkening 
 the tide run up the deep channel beyond the 
 little isle of sand, already damp with the under- 
 ooze. 
 
 She listened to the slipping of the water 
 along the ledges. A wave came out of the 
 darkness and stalked through the gloom as a 
 wild beast to its lair. Ledge over ledge she 
 
 105
 
 P harms 
 
 heard it swiftly move : then suddenly there was 
 a blank ... a hoarse muffled noise . . . the 
 hollow reverberation of the billow as it fell 
 heavily into the black unfathomed gulf wherein 
 at the flood was swept all that drifted into 
 the cave. 
 
 A windy sigh arose in the cavern. The tide 
 moved upward, feeling along the walls with 
 stealthy, groping hands. A faint phosphores- 
 cence appeared momently, now here, now 
 there. 
 
 The second channel, to the left, suddenly 
 brimmed. The water spilled over upon the 
 sandy tract beyond. Then a long rolling wave 
 raced inward, leaped along one of its ledges, 
 poised a moment, and, breaking into a seething 
 foam in its fall, tore this away and that the 
 weedy bonds which bound the sleepers. 
 
 Beyond, in the darkness, the loud moan, 
 the deep, monotonous boom of the sea filled 
 the whole vast void of the night. 
 
 V 
 
 The loud and terrifying violence of the 
 sea throughout that day; .the oppressive 
 gloom of that night; the weight of undis- 
 charged electricity which everywhere brooded ; 
 
 106
 
 Pharais 
 
 all made sleep impossible for Ealasaid Mac- 
 Aodh. 
 
 So ill was she when evening set in, that she 
 had moved her things from the bed in the 
 second of the two rooms of which the sheiling 
 consisted, so as to sleep in the box-bed in the 
 larger, within sight and feel of the fire-glow. 
 
 She had not slept there since her husband 
 died. Perhaps this was because that, even 
 after the lapse of years, she could not endure 
 the solitudes of memory. They had been 
 lovers in their youth, she and her Hebridean : 
 they had been lovers during their brief mar- 
 ried life, ere he, after the too frequent wont of 
 the islesmen, found death in the wave where- 
 in he sought the means of life: and when his 
 drifted body had been recovered, and laid in 
 the island soil, she had remained his lover still. 
 Doubtless, she thought of him even yet with 
 his yellow hair and laughing eyes ; perhaps of 
 herself, too, as lithe of limb and with soft, 
 fair skin as unwrinkled and hair as brown and 
 supple as when he had first caused the trouble 
 of a new and strange tide in the calm waters 
 of her girl's heart. 
 
 To sleep in the bed where she had lain by 
 his side, where a child had been born to her 
 and had died just as with glad pain she had 
 recognised in the little one the eyes of its 
 
 107
 
 Pharais 
 
 father, may have seemed to her a cross of suf- 
 fering which she was unable to take up and 
 bear. 
 
 Or, it may be, there lurked darkly in her 
 mind the ancient secret Celtic dread of sleep- 
 ing in the bed where any of one's own blood- 
 kin has died : the dread of the whisper that is 
 on the pillow in the dark hours, of the hand 
 that gropes along the coverlet, of the chill 
 breath that comes without cause and stirs the 
 hair as it falls suddenly upon the cheek of the 
 awakened sleeper. 
 
 On this night, however, she dreaded not 
 only her own weakness, but the dark. Vaguely, 
 she wondered how she had for so long a time 
 slept away from the comforting light and 
 warmth of her peat-fire. 
 
 She was so old, so weary, she thought piti- 
 fully. Would Duncan be sure to know her 
 again ? Why was she kept so long there, wait- 
 ing for the summons that never came? Had 
 God forgotten her ? No kin had she : not one 
 to claim her body for the place of sleep when 
 her dark hour came. Useless were her days 
 to all: to herself, each day a rising sorrow; 
 each night a setting grief. 
 
 Yet that infinite patience of the poor was 
 hers, that poignant pathos of womanhood in 
 childless and husbandless old age, which to 
 
 108
 
 Pharais 
 
 the very end endures — till the last thread has 
 been used in the weaving of the Crown of 
 Sorrow. 
 
 Beautiful this austere Diadem worn by aged 
 and lonely women : sweet-eyed bearers of 
 crowns among the myriad procession of the 
 weary poor of all the world, all going glorious- 
 ly apparelled and wreathed with green garlands 
 which fade not in the sight of Him who lead- 
 eth His feeble folk to kingship and honour. 
 
 For a brief while she lay brooding, with dull 
 old eyes fixed upon the red heart of the peats. 
 Then the gaze withdrew slowly, and the lids 
 closed ; as though a bird, flying softly through 
 the twilight, had passed beneath the low-hung 
 leaves over its nest. 
 
 She could not have been long asleep, for the 
 glow was still ruddy upon the floor, when she 
 was startled by a sudden barking and whining. 
 She sat up, listening intently. She could hear 
 no step, no voice. The whining terrified her. 
 If the noise were that of a dog at all, and 
 not of Luath or some other phantom hound, 
 whose dog was it, and why its sudden appear- 
 ance at her door at that hour of night — its 
 eager, unceasing clamour? 
 
 But when, with louder and louder barks and 
 an impatient scraping, the unwelcome visitor 
 showed he was not to be denied, she rose, put 
 
 109
 
 Pharais 
 
 on her things, and then, having wrapped a 
 shawl about her head and lit a lantern which 
 she lifted from a hook, opened the door. 
 
 For a moment, she thought that nothing was 
 there. Then her ears caught the sound of 
 panting breath, and something wet and warm 
 touched her suspended left hand. 
 
 With timid, yet caressing voice, she lured the 
 dog across the threshold. The moment she 
 could see clearly, she recognised him as 
 Ghaoth, the white-breasted, tawny-haired, am- 
 ber-eyed collie that belonged to Alastair Mac- 
 leod. 
 
 The dog would not bide. His whining never 
 ceased, save when it was interrupted by loud, 
 eager barks. To and fro he ran, and at last 
 sprang out into the night again, only to return 
 a few moments later in a state of excitement 
 bordering on frenzy. 
 
 " Some evil must have happened to Alastair 
 Macleod," Ealasaid muttered, as after a brief 
 hesitation she took the lantern and followed 
 Ghaoth. 
 
 To her dismay, the dog tried to lead her 
 toward the hollow of the moonflowers. Could 
 Alastair possibly be .there, or on the shore be- 
 yond? Why, if he were down there, lying 
 helpless, the tide would be upon him shortly, 
 and then his doom would be certain. Again, 
 
 no
 
 Pharais 
 
 of what avail was she, so old and frail, and 
 now with some new weakness upon her? She 
 feared she had not the strength to move down- 
 ward in the dark through that dense jungle of 
 white blooms : still less to climb homeward 
 again. But while she pondered, she saw that 
 Ghaoth leaped no more in the direction of the 
 valley, but along the grassy ridge which led to 
 the summit of Craig-Geal, so perilous by night 
 because of the sloping, precipitous hole which 
 gave entrance to the funnel-like passage issuing 
 from the Cave of the Sea-Woman. 
 
 " Ah," she cried, as it flashed upon her that 
 Alastair had fallen, or been hemmed in in the 
 cavern by the tide, " God help him if he is 
 there!" 
 
 With panting breath she hurried along the 
 ridge, heedless now of Ghaoth, who had sud- 
 denly darted off to the left and disappeared 
 among the moonflowers. She had not gone 
 far, however, before she stopped. What use 
 to hurry onward, if all she could do was to 
 shout down into the darkness — a cry that 
 would likely never be heard, and if heard 
 would be of no avail to the hearer? 
 
 No sooner did she realise the uselessness of 
 her errand than she turned, and, with shaking 
 limbs and labouring breath, made her way 
 along a sheep-path which led to the opposite 
 
 III
 
 P harms 
 
 brae of Craig-Ruaidh, where Angus Macrae 
 and his son Ranald lived. 
 
 So exhausted was the old woman by the time 
 she had reached the farm and aroused the in- 
 mates, that two or three minutes passed before 
 she could explain. 
 
 Ranald Macrae saw at once that one of two 
 things had happened : either that Alastair had 
 wandered to the cave in his madness, and there, 
 ignorant or oblivious of the steps cut in the 
 hollow columnar passage at the far end, been 
 cut off by the sea ; or else that he had wittingly 
 made his way there, with intent to drown him- 
 self in the Kelpie's Pool — an abyss that never 
 gave back what it swallowed. 
 
 It was during this hurried explanation to his 
 father that Ealasaid learned for the first time 
 the truth of what had reached her as a vague 
 rumour in the mouth of a herd-boy. Eager as 
 she was to be of help, she was now too weak 
 to accompany the men, even if it were possible 
 for her to keep pace with them, which it was 
 not, as they had started off at a run. 
 
 She knew that old Macrae's advice was 
 right : that she could best help by going home 
 at once, and making preparation to receive 
 Alastair if he were still alive. There was no 
 room for him at the farm, where Ranald's wife 
 had given birth to a child two days before. So 
 
 112
 
 Pharais 
 
 with little Pol, the herd-boy, she set out once 
 more, leaning often upon the lad's shoulder ; 
 and wondering if, after all, God were going to 
 let her be of some service before he led her 
 through the blind way till her hand should slip 
 into that of her husband. As she went, she 
 muttered to herself part of a rune now almost 
 lost among the people, an ancient sian — that 
 part of the Tuaithcal, beginning Clogaid na 
 salainte mu d'cheann: 
 
 "The helmet of Salvation about your head, 
 The ring of the Covenant about your neck, 
 The priest's breastplate about your breast; 
 If it be rout on the rear, 
 The shoes of the Virgin to take you swiftly away. 
 
 Charm of the Three in one on you 
 
 From crown of head to sole of foot, 
 
 And the charm of the pater of the seven paters 
 
 A-going anti-sunwise and sunwise, sunwise and 
 
 anti-sunwise, 
 To protect you from behind, 
 From wound and from slaying, 
 Till the hour and time of your death." 
 
 Before they left the farmstead, the Marcraes 
 had provided themselves with lanterns, a long 
 rope, and a pine torch dipped in tar. 
 
 As they neared the summit of Craig-Geal, 
 they could hear the frenzied barking of Ghaoth 
 
 "3
 
 Pharais 
 
 in the darkness down by the sea — loud when 
 caught on an eddy of wind and borne upward, 
 scarce audible when overborne by the moan 
 and boom and ever recurrent breaking surge of 
 the advancing tide. 
 
 At the dark circular exit of the cavern, they 
 waved lanterns and shouted themselves hoarse : 
 but without seeing aught, or winning response. 
 
 Angus Macrae silently drew back, rose, and 
 lit the pine torch. Flaring abruptly into the 
 dark before a gust of wind, it was like a blood- 
 red wound in the flank of some vast black 
 creature of night. 
 
 Having fastened the torch to the rope, he 
 swung it far down the narrow funnel, up 
 which came the smell of wrack and sea-damp 
 and an obscure, muffled sound. 
 
 Still there was nothing visible. No shout 
 followed the sudden glare. 
 
 The old man stood silent, craning forward 
 with brooding eyes ; for now he was thinking 
 of the two sons he had lost. With a shudder, 
 he moved slowly back and turned to Ranald. 
 
 " Will you go down ? " 
 
 " Ay, father, that I will : if you will breathe 
 the holy word before me and after me. The 
 kelpie . . . the Sea-Woman . . . won't catch 
 me, for I am sure of hand and foot." 
 
 " So your brother Seumas thought." 
 
 114
 
 Pharais 
 
 Ranald hesitated, looked at the cave-mouth, 
 then at his father. 
 
 " Is it true Seumas died in that way ? " 
 
 " It is true. The tide hemmed him in, and 
 a heavy sea foamed at the mouth of the cavern. 
 There was no chance but to gain some ledge 
 high above the Sea-Woman's Pool. He did 
 gain a hold on a ledge, for long afterward we 
 found his knife on it. Then the accursed kel- 
 pie rose out of her lair and took him by the 
 legs, and pulled him down, and tore him, and 
 broke the bones of him — my son, my son, my 
 beautiful Seumas ! " 
 
 As the old man spoke, his voice had grown 
 louder, his tone more intense; and at the last 
 the memory of his loss so wrought upon him 
 that, with a sudden cry, he dashed forward and 
 whirled one of the lanterns into the dark, echo- 
 ing chasm. 
 
 " Let me go, let me go," he cried, as his son 
 tried to withhold him. " If she must have one 
 of us again, let it be me ! Let go, boy ! You 
 have your wife and child: and I am old, and 
 have lost Seumas and Andras and the mother 
 who bore them ! " 
 
 Without a word, Ranald desisted. The old 
 man went on his knees, crawled forward, and 
 pulled up the flaming torch. Then, having fas- 
 tened the rope round his waist and secured a 
 
 115
 
 Pharais 
 
 lantern to his belt, he slipped over the edge 
 and began the descent, cautiously feeling his 
 way with his feet as he went. 
 
 As he reached further and further into the 
 darkness, he wondered why he heard no more 
 the barking of Ghaoth. A grim thought came 
 into his mind : the dog had been caught by the 
 Sea-Woman, and was even now drifting round 
 and round in her pool, strangled, with glazed, 
 protruding eyes. 
 
 At last, both sight and sound told him that 
 he was nearly over the abyss — sight and sound, 
 and his careful counting of the steps in his 
 descent. 
 
 The tidal wash, the heavy lapse and then 
 heavier resurge, with the rush and cataract- 
 roar of the seas as they fell far down into the 
 chasm, assailed his ears continuously. Peering 
 down, he could see the foam upon the flood, 
 as it swept ravening round the cave and then 
 fell headlong into the abyss, above which was 
 a misty pulsating whiteness, the send and spray 
 of tons of whirled water. 
 
 There was almost no need to descend 
 further, he thought. The strongest swimmer, 
 if caught in that inrush, would be swept irre- 
 sistibly into the horrible caldron where the 
 Sea-Woman brewed her spells of storm and 
 disaster. 
 
 116 .
 
 Pharais 
 
 There was but one chance for Alastair ; if, in 
 truth, he were in the cave at all and still alive. 
 A little way below where the islesman stood, 
 there were three or four broad ledges of which 
 even the lowest would still be unswept by the 
 sea. He dreaded to descend ; for it was on the 
 first of those ledges that his son, Seumas, had 
 been dragged, screaming, into the abyss. With 
 a muttered prayer, however — a prayer that was 
 half an incantation — he once more slowly 
 crawled downward. 
 
 When he came to the third ledge, he stopped, 
 crouched, and peered downward and forward. 
 
 For a moment his brain swung. 
 
 What was it that he saw? What fantasy 
 was this? What horrible caprice of his eyes? 
 Had Ghaoth slain the kelpie, and was he now 
 perishing there with his teeth fixed in the neck 
 of the Sea- Woman ? 
 
 For Ghaoth, and no other, was the dog that 
 crouched on the lowest ledge ; and a woman 
 it was who lay beside him, upheld at the neck 
 by his strong teeth. 
 
 He saw the gleam in the dog's eyes, fixed 
 upon him unwaveringly He understood their 
 appeal. Slowly he unfastened and raised his 
 lantern. 
 
 When he recognised Lora, he knew intui- 
 tively what had happened. With uplifted arm, 
 
 117
 
 Pharais 
 
 he let the light fall all around — above weedy, 
 sea-swept boulders, and the dark, inward-mov- 
 ing flood, broken here and there into a seethe 
 of foam that shone ghastly white in the lan- 
 tern-glow. 
 
 There was no sign of Alastair. 
 
 It was clear he was either already swept 
 into the chasm, or had been sucked seaward in 
 the undertow. 
 
 With utmost care, Macrae stepped on to the 
 lowest ledge. 
 
 Stooping, he looked intently in Lora's white 
 face. Then he put his hand to her heart. He 
 fancied he felt it beat, but could not be sure. 
 Drawing a flask from his pocket, he poured 
 some of the contents down her throat, then 
 upon her temples and breast, with rough hand 
 laving the spirit across the bosom, which, cold 
 as it was, had not the unmistakable chill of 
 death. A new strength came to the old man. 
 He had lost all fear now, and had no other 
 thought but to save this poor creature who had 
 already looked on the face of Death, and nigh 
 perished with the horror of it. 
 
 Taking her in his arms, he was swiftly se- 
 curing her to his body by the rope, when he 
 was startled to see Ghaoth, who had at once 
 let go his hold, leap into the surge and swim 
 seaward. 
 
 118
 
 Pharais 
 
 The dog went to its doom, he knew, in a 
 vain quest for Alastair. With a moment's sigh, 
 he turned to what he had to do. 
 
 An arduous and perilous climb it was ere the 
 old islesman at last neared the summit, and 
 felt Ranald grasp him by the shoulder and help 
 him and his burden over the edge. 
 
 He would have swooned from the long strain 
 upon him, had not his son hastily put the flask 
 of whisky to his mouth and imperatively bid 
 him drink. 
 
 As soon as he could breathe freely once 
 more, he recounted what had happened. The 
 young man wanted to go down at once into the 
 cave and seek for Alastair, in the hope that he 
 might still be swimming in the open, or be 
 somewhere afloat, and that Ghaoth might 
 reach him and bring him to the spot where 
 the dog had guarded Lora — almost from the 
 moment, though of course neither Macrae nor 
 his son knew aught of this, when the first 
 ledge-sweeping wave broke upon the sleepers 
 and reft asunder their impotent weedy bonds. 
 
 But of this project Angus Macrae would 
 hear nothing further. Was his son mad, he 
 asked him, to believe that Alastair could still 
 be alive, since, he was visible nowhere? 
 
 ' No," he added, " he is in the deep sea by 
 now, or lies gripped by the Woman in her 
 
 119
 
 Pharais 
 
 hole. But, Ranald, if to search for his body 
 you are so fain, you can go down later. May- 
 be you will find the dog, though I think 
 neither you, nor I, nor any one else will ever 
 see dog or man again. Meanwhile, take up this 
 poor soul and carry her to Widow Ealasaid's. 
 
 " She is big with child," whispered the 
 young man, as, awe-struck, he wrapped Lora 
 in his warm plaid and raised her in his arms. 
 
 " Ay : God have pity on this lost ewe and 
 her poor, wee lammie. Be careful, Ranald, 
 be tender — ay, as tender as if she were your 
 own Cairistine, and the babe that is now mov- 
 ing within her were blood of your blood and 
 bone of your bone." 
 
 In silence, and as swiftly as possible, the 
 two men, with their still more silent burden, 
 crossed the slopes of the ridge and ascended 
 the grassy, boulder-strewn brae. In due time, 
 they were met at the door by Ealasaid. 
 
 With a low, crooning wail, the old woman 
 helped to lay Lora on the bed in the inner 
 room. She had already warmed the clothes, 
 and had poured boiling water in a tub, with 
 hot flannels for swathing All island-women 
 act thus on any hint of accident, for the hun- 
 ger of the sea is the cause of nearly every dis- 
 aster for them and their loved ones. Besides 
 — had not Duncan Ban once been brought 
 
 1 20
 
 Pharais 
 
 home, and all this and more done for him, 
 though the chill upon him was not that of the 
 sea only? 
 
 Suddenly she saw there was no time to lose. 
 
 " Quick, quick, Pol," she cried : " take a 
 lantern and run like the wind across to the 
 clachan, and tell Mrs. Mary Maclean that she 
 is to come here at once, for Alastair Macleod 
 is dead, and his wife is lying here in labour, 
 and that the last pains may come upon her 
 speedily." 
 
 The boy hesitated a moment, glanced at his 
 grandfather, and then fled into the night, heed- 
 less of any lantern, and sure-footed as a goat. 
 
 Finding that he could be of no use, and that 
 Mrs. MacAodh wished only his father to re- 
 main, Ranald Macrae slipped quietly away: 
 and in a brief while had reached the cave en- 
 trance, descended, and searched vainly for any 
 trace of either Alastair or the dog. 
 
 To Ealasaid's unceasing care Lora owed her 
 life. The old woman seemed to have grown 
 years younger. A new strength was in her 
 arm, a new light in her worn eyes, a new spirit 
 in her frail body. With deft hands, she 
 rubbed the skin aglow, wrapped warm flan- 
 nels about the limbs, breathed into breast and 
 back, soothed the convulsive strainings of the 
 sides and heavy womb, fed the unconscious 
 
 121
 
 Pharais 
 
 sufferer with sips of broth and warmed spirit, 
 and often the while kissed the poor faintly 
 quivering lips. It seemed to her as if her 
 heart swam in tears; but with the unnoticed 
 heroism of women, she let no grief overmaster 
 her, no flagging of mind or body usurp her 
 will. 
 
 In the outer room Angus Macrae sat, intent 
 at first upon the keeping up of the fire and 
 the fulfilment of Ealasaid's divers commands. 
 Then, nigh an hour later, when through the 
 open doorway he heard a strange moaning 
 from the inner room, he sat down by the low, 
 rude table and, taking the Gaelic Bible which 
 lay there, began in a slow, monotonous voice 
 to read from the page which caught his eye 
 as he opened the book: 
 
 "I returned, and saw under the sun, that the 
 race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, 
 neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to 
 men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of 
 skill; but time and chance happeneth to them 
 all. For man also knoweth not his time: as the 
 fishes that are taken in an evil net, and as the 
 birds that are caught in the snare, even so are the 
 sons of men snared in an evil time, when it falleth 
 suddenly upon them." 
 
 As he read steadfastly onward through this 
 moving last chapter of Ecclesiastes, his voice 
 
 122
 
 Pharais 
 
 rose, and took a rhythmic chant, and filled the 
 room, as a rising wind fills a valley set among 
 the hills. 
 
 But when he read : 
 
 "As thou knowest not what is the way of the 
 wind, nor how the bones do grow in the womb of 
 her that is with child; even so thou knowest not 
 the work of God who doeth all " 
 
 he stopped abruptly, for he heard a sound at 
 the outer door, and guessed, even before he 
 saw her, that the comer was Mrs. Maclean. 
 
 Angus rose, and took her hand. Then, see- 
 ing the speechless sorrow in her eyes, he let 
 go his hold of her, and, bowing his head, did 
 not lift up his eyes again till Mary had entered 
 the inner room. 
 
 He knew that, with those two women there, 
 all would go well with Lora, if it were or- 
 dained that she was to live. But he feared 
 that death was already entered in at the door ; 
 and he knew not what passionate sorrow 
 might come upon and undo those who minis- 
 tered to the woman, who even now was in 
 those pains of labour that ere morn should 
 end in the birth of a child. Long he sat 
 brooding. Then, weary of his vigil, once 
 more he began to read, resuming with the 
 verse where he had been interrupted: 
 
 123
 
 Pharais 
 
 "Even so, thou knowest not the work of God 
 who doeth all. 
 
 "In the morning sow thy seed, and in the evening 
 withhold not thine hand: for thou knowest not 
 which shall prosper, whether this or that, or whether 
 they both shall be alike good." 
 
 Looking up, he saw Ealasaid standing at the 
 door, a wonderful light on her old face. 
 
 " It lives," she said simply. " Mary said 
 that the child would certainly be born dead ; 
 but it lives. She says now it has the shadow 
 upon it, and must die ere long; but they told 
 me that my own little blossom was strong, and 
 would live : . . . and even as they were wrong, 
 wrong also may Mary Maclean be." 
 
 Hearing a call, she turned, and went within. 
 
 The old ilsesman muttered for a while, with 
 bent head and closed eyes. Then he began to 
 read again : 
 
 " Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing 
 it is for the eyes to behold the sun." 
 
 " Hush ! " 
 
 It was Mary who spoke. She had that in 
 her face which made him rise. 
 
 " Hush, Angus Macrae. Truly, the eyes 
 are the delight of the body, but this is not 
 the time for the bitterness of that saying. 
 Never for this child, that is born in the shadow 
 
 124
 
 Pharais 
 
 of death, and can itself live but a brief while, 
 shall there be the sweet light of which you 
 speak, nor the pleasantness of beholding the 
 sun, nor the way of the day betwixt rise and 
 set." 
 
 "Is the child blind?" 
 
 " Ay . . . blind . . . blind." 
 
 "And weakling?" 
 
 " Ay." 
 
 "And she?" 
 
 " God hath given her strength to endure." 
 
 " Does she know all that has happened? " 
 
 " If she did, she would be with Alastair. 
 Her mind is dazed. She is as one distraught. 
 My friend, read no more to-night. Go home 
 now, and God be with you. Bring on the mor- 
 row what tidings you have." 
 
 Soon after the departure of the old man, 
 a great stillness fell upon the house. Lora 
 slept in a stupor like unto death. The child 
 lay upon her breast, as a frail flower drifted 
 there by a chance wind. Ealasaid sat by the 
 bed watching. Mary knelt against it, crying 
 silently. 
 
 Toward dawn, Mrs. Maclean rose, and 
 looked out upon the chill dusk. When she 
 came back, she kneeled again ; and, in a low 
 voice, repeated a strange Celtic " Prayer of 
 Women " : 
 
 125
 
 Pharais 
 
 O Spirit, that broods upon the hills 
 
 And moves upon the face of the deep, 
 
 And is heard in the wind, 
 
 Save us from the desire of men's eyes, 
 
 And the cruel lust of them, 
 
 And the springing of the cruel seed 
 
 In that narrow house which is as the grave 
 
 For darkness and loneliness . . . 
 
 That women carry with them with shame, and 
 
 weariness, and long pain, 
 Only for the laughter of man's heart, 
 And the joy that triumphs therein, 
 And the sport that is in his heart, 
 Wherewith he mocketh us, 
 Wherewith he playeth with us, 
 Wherewith he trampleth upon us. 
 Us, who conceive and bear him ; 
 Us, who bring him forth ; 
 Who feed him in the womb, and at the breast and 
 
 at the knee: 
 Whom he calleth Mother, 
 And Mother again of his wife and children: 
 When he looks at our hair, and sees it is white; 
 And at our eyes, and sees they are dim; 
 And at our lips, straitened out with long pain; 
 And at our breasts, fallen and seared as a barren 
 
 hill; 
 And at our hands, worn with toil; 
 And, seeing, seeth all the bitter ruin and wreck of 
 
 us — 
 All save the violated womb that curses him — 
 All save the heart that forbeareth . . . for pity — 
 All save the living brain that condemneth him — 
 All save the spirit that shall not mate with him — 
 All save the soul he shall never see 
 
 126
 
 Pharais 
 
 Till he be one with it, and equal; 
 
 He who hath the bridle, but guideth not; 
 
 He who hath the whip, yet is driven; 
 
 He who as a shepherd calleth upon us, 
 
 But is himself a lost sheep, crying among the hills! 
 
 O Spirit, and the Nine Angels who watch us, 
 
 And Thy Son, and Mary Virgin, 
 
 Heal us of the Wrong of Man: 
 
 We, whose breasts are weary with milk, 
 
 Cry, cry to Thee, O Compassionate! 
 
 Ealasaid trembled. She had never heard 
 words such as these before, and was afraid; 
 yet even more of the strange intensity in the 
 voice of Mrs. Maclean, in the shine of her 
 usually quiet eyes. 
 
 " God be with you, Mary Maclean." 
 "And with you, Ealasaid MacAodh." 
 Therewith Mrs. Maclean arose, looked at 
 Lora to see if she still slept, and then went 
 into the adjoining room, where she seated her- 
 self before the hot glow of the peats; and, as 
 the day broke, read below her breath in the 
 third chapter of the Book of Job. 
 
 Weeks passed, and there was no word of 
 Alastair. For twenty days after the coming 
 of the child, Lora lay distraught, knowing no 
 one about her, though oftentimes looking long 
 and lovingly in the eyes of Mary, whose face 
 had won again an exceeding peace, and who 
 
 127
 
 Pharais 
 
 went, as of yore, girt about with a beautiful 
 silence as with a garment. 
 
 But on the last day of the third week, Lora 
 awoke in her right mind. Mary had given the 
 frail, blind babe to young Cairistine Macrae to 
 suckle. This was well; for had Lora looked 
 upon it on that day, she would have died. 
 
 Nevertheless, in a brief while thereafter she 
 knew all. It seemed strange, both to Mary 
 and Ealasaid, that she did not appear greatly 
 to care. She had that in her heart which 
 would have enlightened them ; but grief, as 
 well as madness or evil, has its cunning, and 
 so she veiled her purpose in absolute secrecy. 
 
 Not a sign of Alastair ! This was what she 
 could not accept. Till his body, or some trace 
 of it, were found, she said she would not re- 
 turn with Mary to her home. Nothing, how- 
 ever, repaid the most scrupulous search : no 
 clew was gained — unless the discovery of the 
 body of Ghaoth, caught in a trawling net 
 one night a mile seaward, could be called a 
 clew. 
 
 On that day of agony when she had at last 
 looked on the face of her child, and knew it 
 stricken with frailty and blind for all its days, 
 and heritor perhaps of that curse which had 
 caused her to sin and incur this punishment, 
 she had made a covenant with herself to go 
 
 128
 
 Pharais 
 
 down as soon as she could to the shore, at low 
 tide, and with her child follow Alastair into 
 that abyss in the cavern where she felt assured 
 he had been swept by the sea. 
 
 Two weary weeks passed before an oppor- 
 tunity came. One afternoon Mary went 
 across Innisron, so as to reach the clachan and 
 meet the Clansman for somewhat she ex- 
 pected : and as she was to come back with 
 Ranald Macrae, and he was not to return till 
 after dark, Lora felt secure. 
 
 Early in the evening, she sent Ealasaid on a 
 message to Parian Macalister's wife, who lived 
 in a cottage about a mile along the shore be- 
 yond the promontory of Ardfeulan. 
 
 It was a lovely evening in mid-July. The 
 moon was at the full, and made a golden dust 
 upon the isle and a glory of pale gold upon the 
 sea. 
 
 As she went once more down the hollow of 
 the moonflowers — not so dense now as then, 
 and many withered by the heat of the sun and 
 the month-long drought — she stopped again 
 and again, overcome by the heat even of the 
 dusk. 
 
 In her ears was the bewildered, plaintive cry 
 of the lapwings : and, as an undertone, the low, 
 soft chime — the long, sweet ululation of the 
 myriad-swung bell of the sea. 
 
 129
 
 Pharais 
 
 She was weary when she reached the shore. 
 An unspeakable horror of the cavern came 
 upon her, and she turned and went slowly 
 toward the long sandy tract that stretched 
 beyond the base of the hollow. There she 
 laid the child gently down in the soft sand 
 at her feet, and seated herself on a low 
 rock. 
 
 After all, was it worth while to seek Death, 
 when Death had already whispered that the 
 little one was to be his own so soon, and had 
 stealthily removed all but the last barriers 
 that guarded her own poor life? 
 
 Would God not be even more wroth with 
 her — punish her even more heavily; though 
 this, indeed, seemed impossible? 
 
 How lovely that vast ocean veiled in violet 
 dusk, save where lit gloriously with moon- 
 light : how full of alluring peace, she thought 
 that wave-whisper all around her. 
 
 Surely the music was woven into a song 
 that was dear and familiar in her ears? 
 
 She turned her head away from the sea, 
 and looked idly along the sand : though, as 
 she did so, the vague strain ceased. 
 
 Then Lora stood, trembling in a great awe, 
 and with a passionate hope in her eyes, in her 
 heart, at the very springs of life. 
 
 In the moonshine, she saw a tall figure 
 
 130
 
 Pharais 
 
 moving slowly toward her, naked-white, and 
 walking with a proud mien. The erect body, 
 the flashing eyes, the grace and beauty, were 
 those of a king — of a king among men: and 
 as a king the naked figure was crowned, with 
 moonflowers and yellow sea-poppies woven 
 into his gold-sheen hair. 
 
 Suddenly he saw her. He stood as though 
 wrought in impassioned stone. The moonshine 
 fell full upon his white skin, upon the beauty 
 of his face, upon the flower-tangle wherewith 
 he had crowned himself. 
 
 Then, without a sound, he turned and fled 
 like the wind, and vanished into the gloom 
 that lay beyond the dusk. 
 
 And Lora, lifting the child and staggering 
 homeward, knew that she had seen Alastair. 
 
 VI 
 
 It was not till many weeks later that the 
 way of Alastair's escape from death became 
 known. 
 
 On that dark night when he had lain down 
 to die, the wave which fell across Lora and 
 himself, and tore asunder the bonds she had 
 woven, was followed by no other for a time: 
 otherwise, the end of both would have been 
 
 131
 
 Pharais 
 
 attained. But so great was the shock, that 
 his apathy of mind and body was rudely 
 broken. The tired blood stung in his veins; 
 the instinct of life was as a flame of fire that 
 consumed all the stupor due to the sea-fruit 
 he had eaten — an instinct that wrought him 
 to a passion of effort. 
 
 Shaken and trembling, he staggered to his 
 feet. Nothing but a profound darkness be- 
 yond, behind, above: a darkness filled with 
 the voices of the wind, the seething tide, wave 
 falling over wave, billow leaping after billow 
 and tearing it into a yeast of foam — itself to 
 stagger the next moment, and struggle and 
 strangle furiously in a cloud of spray ere 
 flung a dead mass upon the shore. 
 
 He had no remembrance of Lora, of what 
 had brought them here, of the grave that was 
 ready where the Sea-Woman watched. 
 
 But fear was left to him : and when he was 
 aware of something moving across the ledges 
 to his left, and heard it splash through the 
 tide-wash in its effort to reach him, he gave 
 a terrified cry, and dashed seaward to escape 
 the grip of the kelpie. 
 
 Stumbling, he fell heavily forward. But it 
 was into deep water; and, powerful swimmer 
 as he was, he fought the surge, and so was not 
 thrown back upon the rocks till, unwittingly, 
 
 132
 
 Pharais 
 
 he was caught in a cross-current and swept 
 southward on the backs of the reeling sea- 
 horses. 
 
 A horrible tumult was in his ears. The 
 darkness was upon him as a heavy hand. As 
 idle flotsam, the waves swung him backward 
 and forward. 
 
 A deathly cold beset his limbs; then utter 
 weariness. His hands ceased to propel, and 
 only automatically and instinctively kept him 
 afloat. 
 
 Yet even now, at the last extremity, when 
 memory was no more, terror remained. 
 
 There was something swimming near, some- 
 thing moving toward him through the dark. 
 
 The next moment he threw up his hands, 
 overcome by the sickness of fear and a fatigue 
 that he could no longer withstand. As he 
 sank, he was conscious of a body surging up 
 against his; of a hot breath against his face; 
 of a gasping whine against his ear. Then in 
 a flash he recognised, or by instinct divined, 
 that it was Ghaoth who had followed into the 
 darkness, and was there to save him. 
 
 The dog had indeed followed, having but 
 an hour ago escaped from the byre where Ian 
 Maclean had risen from his sleep to let him 
 out because of his ceaseless whining. He had 
 raced across the island, and along Alastair's 
 
 133
 
 Phar ais 
 
 and Lora's track, till he found them where 
 they lay. Thence, after seeing the two whom 
 he loved lying silent and motionless in a way 
 that made him whine with fear, and knowing, 
 as faithful dogs do know, that he must win 
 help without delay, he had sped back to the 
 nearest cottage. Once convinced that old 
 Ealasaid was following to succour those whom 
 he had left, he had sprung away again through 
 the moonflowers, and had reached the en- 
 trance to the cave after fierce baffling with the 
 tide-race. Just as Alastair had risen and was 
 staggering toward the sea, Ghaoth had caught 
 sight of him, and had plunged without hesi- 
 tation into the black bewilderment of waters 
 which had swallowed up the friend whom he 
 loved with his life. 
 
 Fortunately, the spent swimmer was still 
 near the shore — nearer, even, than when he 
 had first fallen ; for he was now close to the 
 headland of Craig-Geal, and was already in 
 shallow water, which swung on to a long shelf 
 of sand lying against the entrance to another 
 of the innumerable caverns of that side of the 
 island. But here the sea, though at full-flood 
 it covered the sand and moved its hungry 
 lip for a few feet within, did not enter, as 
 a beast of prey halting unassuaged at the en- 
 trance to its lair. 
 
 134
 
 Pharais 
 
 Ghaoth had gripped him by the hair of his 
 neck, and was now struggling to reach the 
 shore. Man and dog were still flung to and 
 fro by the waves; but the living sport of the 
 sea was no longer separate. With Ghaoth's 
 help, Alastair made renewed, if despairing, 
 efforts. 
 
 Suddenly his feet touched the ground for 
 a moment. Then, with a staggering rush, hav- 
 ing shaken himself free of the dog, he gained 
 the shore, stumbled blindly up the low shelve 
 of the sound, and fell unconscious among the 
 soft, powdery grit, midway in the wide, half- 
 roofless hollow known as the Cave of the Su- 
 laire, from the solan geese which often con- 
 gregated there in the blinding snow-storms of 
 winter. 
 
 Ghaoth stood panting beside him awhile. 
 At last, with a low whine, the dog pressed his 
 muzzle against the white face in the white 
 sand ; turned aside, whined again, and came 
 back with lolling tongue. Then, suddenly, he 
 sprang away into the darkness, and back into 
 the drowning surge, with all his loyal, loving 
 heart — beautiful love of the dumb animal-soul 
 that God heedeth and cherisheth no less than 
 that other wandering fire He hath placed in 
 the human — eager to baffle with drift and bil- 
 low till he reached the cavern once more, in 
 
 135
 
 Pharais 
 
 time to save Lora, of whose body he had 
 caught a glimpse as he dashed after Ala- 
 stair. 
 
 In time, and no more. He had not long 
 rescued Lora, who, also, had been partially 
 roused by the shock of the breaking wave. 
 She had been half-standing, half-leaning 
 against the higher ledge, to which, with diffi- 
 culty and in blind instinct, she had clung ; but, 
 as Ghaoth reached her, she sank wearily and 
 lay back against the dog, dreaming she had 
 waked in terror, but was now safe in Ala- 
 stair's arms. 
 
 It was thus that Angus Macrae discovered 
 them. Long afterward the islesman recalled 
 how he had seen the dog leap back into the 
 darkness. Whether Ghaoth failed to reach the 
 Cave of the Sulaire, and was carried seaward 
 by a current ; or whether his strength failed 
 him in his last effort, and he was swung life- 
 lessly from wave to wave; whatever the first 
 word of his fate was, the last was the finding 
 of his sea-mangled body in the trawl-net of 
 a fisherman more than a mile oceanward from 
 Innisron. 
 
 When Alastair woke, an hour or more after 
 dawn, he remembered nothing of what had 
 happened. His memory, though not killed, 
 
 136
 
 Pharais 
 
 was clouded by his madness; and, doubtless, 
 the shock of what he had gone through, with 
 the action of the mermaid's fruit, had further 
 weakened it. 
 
 He rose and looked about him wonderingly. 
 Around, were the precipitous rocks ; beyond, 
 the sea stretched far into the morning mists, 
 calm, with a silver sparkle in the south-east 
 and turquoise-blue elsewhere, except in green 
 straits under the shadow of the isle, till it 
 faded into opal and dove-grey where the veils 
 of mist slowly dispersed, re-wove, lifted, in- 
 wove, and sank to the wave again, or sailed 
 indefinitely away. 
 
 Though he could still recall nothing of the 
 past night, he recognised, as soon as he 
 stepped from the cave and went down by the 
 sea-marge, the head-land of Craig-Ruaidh and 
 that of Craig-Geal just behind him. His one 
 wish was to hide, so that none should see him. 
 His fantasy led him to seek remote places, 
 and to fear the face of his fellows. 
 
 Turning toward the sun, he looked scruti- 
 nisingly along the coast. Somewhere beyond 
 Craig-Geal, he remembered vaguely, there 
 was another hollow which led to a series of 
 intricate and unexplored caves, perilous places 
 of evil repute among the islanders. 
 
 If he were to go there . . . but at that 
 
 ^37
 
 Pharais 
 
 moment his wandering gaze lighted upon 
 an object moving black in the shine of the 
 sea. 
 
 Was it a whale sunning itself, or a pollack 
 moving idly after the liath ? Then he saw that 
 it was a boat — one of many torn from moor- 
 ings or swept from the beach by the recent 
 gale. 
 
 So methodical were his actions, that none 
 seeing him would believe his mind was so 
 darkly veiled, that his reason was only par- 
 tially in exercise. 
 
 Having taken off his coat, he wrapped it 
 round a heavy stone and threw the bundle far 
 into the sea. Then he thrust his boots into a 
 cranny in a fissured boulder that at full flood 
 was covered. 
 
 A few seconds later he was in the water, 
 swimming swiftly toward the derelict. 
 
 While he neared the boat, amid a sheen of 
 sparkling foam as he urged his way through 
 the sun-dazzle which lay upon that part of the 
 sea, he broke intermittently into a mournful 
 Gaelic chant, but with words so incoherent, 
 and with interjections so wild and strange, 
 that the fishermen on a coble, hid in the mist 
 a few fathoms away, believed they listened to 
 a sea-kelpie, or to that vague object of their 
 profoundest dread known as " the thing that 
 
 138
 
 Pharais 
 
 hides beneath the boat." They were south- 
 ward bound ; but at that forlorn wailing they 
 hauled down their flapping sail, and, with their 
 oars, made all haste northerly to their island 
 or mainland haven. Not a man among them 
 would have persevered in that voyage on that 
 day. 
 
 Alastair heard the sound of the oar-wash, 
 and ceased his fitful chant. It must, he 
 thought, be dead seamen rowing to and fro, 
 looking for the newly drowned to take their 
 places as warders of the treasures and keep- 
 ers of the secrets which lie among the weed- 
 tangle and sunless caverns of the deep. At 
 the thought, he laughed loud, but mirthlessly ; 
 and the echo of his laughter, falling against 
 the ears of the fishermen, added to their hor- 
 ror and consternation. 
 
 With his hands gripping the gunwale, he 
 swayed for some time to and fro, fascinated 
 by the lustrous green beneath the keel — green 
 in the sunlit spaces as leaves of the lime in 
 April, and in the lower as emerald lapsing into 
 jade, and then as jade passing into the gloom 
 of pines at dusk. 
 
 At last he raised himself on the water, bend- 
 ing the gunwale low, and half fell, half 
 crawled into the boat. Indifferently, he no- 
 ticed that it was named Fionnaghal. Clearly 
 
 139
 
 Pharais 
 
 it had drifted away from moorings; for not 
 only were oars and sail-enveloped mast lying 
 taut under the thwarts, but a rope trailed from 
 the bow far down into the water. 
 
 He rowed for some time. At last, becoming 
 weary, or perhaps puzzled by the mists which 
 crept behind and all around him, he desisted. 
 A flurry of air struck his right cheek. In- 
 stinctively he put up the palm of his hand to 
 feel if the wind were coming from the south- 
 east or the south-west. Then, adjusting the 
 mast and setting the sail, he seated himself at 
 the tiller. 
 
 Eddy followed eddy, and soon a breeze blew 
 freshly from the south-east. By the time the 
 Fionnaghal was three or four miles to the 
 north-west of Innisron, there was not a mist 
 upon the sea. Immeasurably vast it stretched ; 
 blue, or glittering in a diamond-sparkle sheen, 
 or wimpling over in violet hollows, with the 
 white lambs beginning to collect and leap mer- 
 rily onward in the pathway of the sun. 
 
 Alastair became drowsy with the warmth of 
 the glow upon his back and the chime of the 
 sea-music. Long before noon he slept. For 
 hours the boat went idly adrift. 
 
 When he woke, he saw an island less than 
 half a mile to starboard. Looking northward, 
 he could descry nothing but sea ; to the west- 
 
 140
 
 Pharais 
 
 ward, nothing but sea ; nothing but sea to the 
 southward. Far eastward, a dim blue line of 
 hills rose above the horizon : here and there — 
 lying apparently against it, and scarce bigger 
 to his eye than the gannets and sea-mews 
 which flew overhead — two or three patches of 
 amethyst. These were the isles he had left, 
 though he did not recognise them : Ithona, 
 most westerly ; Innisron, remote in the south- 
 east ; I-na-Trilleachan-trahad, lost in its north- 
 erly purple-greys. 
 
 Though the words brought no meaning to 
 him, or awakened nothing beyond mere visual 
 reminiscence, his lips, as he looked at the 
 island he was now approaching, framed its 
 name, " I-M6nair." 
 
 Heedless of the fact that he was running 
 straight upon a shore set with reefs like gi- 
 gantic teeth, he tautened the sail and let the 
 boat rush forward, and was almost havened 
 when, with a grinding rip, the Fionnaghal 
 stopped, filled, leaned over, and hung upon a 
 jagged reef, as a dead body suspended on the 
 horn that has gored it. 
 
 Alastair was thrown forward by the shock. 
 Bruised and stunned, he lay motionless for a 
 few seconds while the water poured over him. 
 Then, rising and casting a keen glance around, 
 he stepped on to the reef, sprang thence to a 
 
 141
 
 Pharais 
 
 rock nearer the shore, and thence to the shore 
 itself. 
 
 As he left the boat, it split. The larger half 
 went drifting on the tide. 
 
 He sat down to watch idly for the disap- 
 pearance of the few planks which remained. 
 Suddenly, without cause, he rose, stared 
 wildly at the sea and along the shore on eithe r 
 hand, and then moved rapidly inland — often 
 casting furtive glances behind him, now on 
 the one side, now on the other. 
 
 No other lived on I-M6nair than a shepherd 
 and his wife; and they only through the sum- 
 mer months. Sometimes weeks passed by 
 without their seeing another soul : without 
 other sign of the world of men than the smoke 
 of a steamer far upon the horizon, or the 
 brown patches in the distance when the her- 
 ring-trawlers ventured oceanward. 
 
 No wonder, then, that Fearghas Mclan 
 gave a cry of astonishment, that was partly 
 fear, when he saw a man walking swiftly 
 toward him ... a man who appeared to 
 have dropped from the clouds; for, look- 
 ing beyond the stranger, the shepherd could 
 see no sign of trawler, wherry, or boat of any 
 kind. 
 
 " Dionaid, Dionaid," he cried to his wife, 
 who had come to the door of the cottage to 
 
 142
 
 Pharais 
 
 see if he were at hand for his porridge; 
 " Trothad so . . . bi ealamh, bi ealamh : 
 quick, quick, come here." 
 
 They stood together as Alastair slowly drew 
 near. When he was close, he stopped, looking 
 at them curiously, and with an air as if he 
 wondered who they were and why they were 
 there. 
 
 "What is your name?" he asked quietly, 
 looking at the shepherd. 
 
 " C'ainm' tha ort? " he repeated, as the man 
 stared at him in surprise and something of 
 alarm. 
 
 " Fearghas Mclan." 
 
 " And yours ? " he asked of the woman. 
 
 " Dionaid Mclan." 
 
 " Co tha sin ? " he added abruptly, pointing 
 to the cottage : " who is there ? " 
 
 " No one." 
 
 " I thought I saw some one come out, look 
 at us, and go in again." 
 
 Fearghas and Dionaid glanced at each other 
 with eyes of dread. 
 
 "C'ainm' tha ort?" asked the former, in 
 turn. 
 
 Alastair looked at him, as if uncomprehend- 
 ingly ; and then, in a low, dull voice, said that 
 he was tired ; that he was hungry, and thirsty, 
 and wet. 
 
 143
 
 Pharais 
 
 1 Tha mi gle sgith ; tha an t acras orm ; tha 
 am pathadh orm ; tha mi fliuch." 
 
 " How did you come here ? " 
 
 " Tha mi gle sgith." 
 
 "Did you come in a boat? Where is the 
 boat you came in ? " 
 
 " Tha mi gle sgith." 
 
 'What is your name? Are you of the 
 isles?" 
 
 " Tha mi gle sgith." 
 
 ' What do you want with us here, on I- 
 Monair, where we do no wrong, O stranger 
 who carry your sorrow in your eyes ? " 
 
 ' Tha mi gle sgith. Tha mi fliuch. Tha an 
 t' acras orm. Tha mi gle sgith — tha mi gle 
 sgith — tha mi gle sgith." 
 
 Alastair spoke in a strange, dull voice. It 
 would have terrified Fearghas and Dionaid 
 more, but that the stranger was so gentle in 
 his manner, and had a look upon his face that 
 awed while it reassured them. 
 
 " God has sent him," said Dionaid, simply. 
 ' The poor lad has not waked — he is in a 
 dream. God do unto us as we do unto this 
 waif from the sea. In His good time He will 
 whisper in the closed ears, and the man will 
 wake, and tell us who he is, and whence he 
 came, and whither he would fain go." 
 
 " So be it, Dionaid. You have said the 
 
 144
 
 Pharais 
 
 word, and a good word it is. When this man's 
 hour has come, God will deliver him. Mean- 
 while, let us call him Donncha, after the boy 
 we lost nigh upon six-and-twenty years ago, 
 who might have been as tall and comely as 
 this stranger that is now a stranger no more, 
 but of us and one with us." 
 
 And so it was that, from that day, Alastair 
 Macleod, unsought by any, and unrecognised 
 because no one came near who might have 
 known or guessed who he was, abode on I- 
 Monair with Fearghas the shepherd and his 
 wife Dionaid. 
 
 He dwelt in peace. Through the long days 
 he wandered about the shores. Often, in the 
 gloaming, he sat on a rock and stared long- 
 ingly across the waters for he knew not what, 
 for some nameless boon he craved witlessly; 
 stared yearningly through the dusk for some- 
 thing that lay beyond, that, though unseen, 
 brought a mist into his eyes, so that when he 
 reached the peat-fire again, where Dionaid 
 Mclan awaited him, he often could not see to 
 eat for a while for the blur of his slow-falling 
 tears. 
 
 Week succeeded changeless week. The sheep 
 ceased to look up as he passed. The yellow- 
 hammers in the gorse sang even when he 
 
 145
 
 Pharais 
 
 stopped brooding by the bush whereon they 
 flitted from branch to branch, looking at him 
 with quiet eyes. 
 
 It was in the sixth week, after a time of 
 storm which had lapsed into another long spell 
 of exquisite summer, that the dream came to 
 its end. 
 
 Late one afternoon, a herring-trawler lay 
 off I-M6nair. The skipper, a kinsman of 
 Fearghas, came ashore to give and learn what 
 news there was. 
 
 Alastair had come back about the usual time 
 from one of his day-long rambles, and, as he 
 approached the door, his quick ear had caught 
 the sound of an alien voice. 
 
 Whether he overheard the shepherd tell his 
 friend, in turn for the strange and moving tale 
 of Alastair MacDiarmid Macleod, of Innis- 
 ron, of the strange visitor he and his wife 
 nourished, with the surmise that he, Donncha, 
 might be no other than the missing man; or 
 whether some other suggestion concerning his 
 removal or identification alarmed him, no one 
 ever knew. 
 
 But, in the cloudy dark of that night, when 
 Rory Mclan and his two mates, Dughall and 
 Eoghann, were drinking the crude spirit from 
 Fearghas' illicit still, Alastair slipped into the 
 small boat in which they had come ashore, and 
 
 146
 
 Pharais 
 
 rowed softly away into the obscure and lonely 
 wilderness of the sea. 
 
 Truly, as Dionaid said, God must have 
 whispered in the closed ears, and told him 
 whither to guide the boat, and when to rest 
 while he let it drift, and when to take up the 
 oars again. For, betwixt dawn and sunrise, 
 the fugitive, oaring slowly out of a pearly 
 haze, came abruptly upon the south-west of 
 Innisron. 
 
 With a cry of gladness, he leaned forward, 
 shading with his right hand his eager eyes. 
 He had recognised familiar features of shore 
 and headlands. The whim took him to cap- 
 size the boat and swim ashore. In sudden ex- 
 citement, he sprang to his feet. The little 
 craft rocked wildly. The next moment Ala- 
 stair had left the upturned keel to drift in the 
 grey sea like a water-snake, and was swim- 
 ming swiftly across the two or three hundred 
 yards which lay between the island and the 
 place where he had fallen. 
 
 When he reached the shore, he wandered 
 slowly to and fro, his new-born energy having 
 lapsed into a vague unrest. Aimlessly he 
 leaned now against one boulder, now against 
 another. At last, the chill of his dripping 
 clothes gave him active discomfort. He looked 
 doubtfully on the slopes, then at the sea, then 
 
 147
 
 Pharais 
 
 again at the slopes. With the strange im- 
 pulsiveness of his disease, he turned abruptly ; 
 with swift, stumbling steps, crossed the shore; 
 passed the ridges covered with sea-grass, and 
 entered the shaws beyond. Thence he walked 
 quickly up the corrie behind Craig-Geal. When 
 he gained the upper end, the sunrise shone full 
 upon him. Flinging first one wet garment 
 from him, and then another, he was speedily 
 naked — beautiful in his fair youth, with his 
 white skin and tangle of yellow hair, which, 
 as the sun-rays blent with it, seemed to spill 
 pale gold. 
 
 He laughed with pleasure ; then raced to 
 and fro for warmth. When tired, he stooped 
 to pluck the thyme or tufts of gale. For a 
 while, he wandered thus circle-wise, aimlessly 
 happy. 
 
 The day came with heat, and hourly grew 
 hotter. Alastair was glad to lie down in a 
 shady place by a burn, and drowse through 
 the long, warm hours. As the afternoon 
 waned into gloaming, he rose, and, forgetful 
 of or unheeding his discarded clothes, wan- 
 dered idly northward by one of the many 
 sheep-paths. It was late when, having woven 
 for himself a crown of moonflowers into 
 which he inserted afterward a few yellow sea- 
 poppies, he made his way down to the sea, 
 
 148
 
 Pharais 
 
 and hungrily ate of what shell-fish he could 
 gather — briny cockles from the sand, and 
 whelks and mussels from the rocks. 
 
 At the coming of the moonlight across the 
 water, he laughed low with joy. It was only 
 in the darkness he heard the Voice in the sea 
 which called, called, called, and terrified him 
 so even while it allured him. The waves, dan- 
 cing and leaping in the yellow shine and break- 
 ing into a myriad little cups and fleeting hol- 
 lows, sang a song that filled him with joy. 
 
 Then it was that, with erect head, flashing 
 eyes, and proud mien, crowned with moon- 
 flowers and sea-poppies, and beautiful in the 
 comeliness of his youth, Alastair appeared be- 
 fore the startled eyes of Lora, who, for the 
 second time, had come down to that shore to 
 woo and win Death. 
 
 When, late that night, Mary Maclean re- 
 turned, she found Lora in Ealasaid's arms, 
 sobbing and moaning hysterically. 
 
 It was long ere she was able to learn the 
 exact truth, and at first she doubted if Lora 
 were not suffering from a hallucination. But 
 as the young mother grew calm, and took up 
 her frail babe and kissed it with tears, Mary 
 was won to believe in at least the possibility 
 that the vision was, if not of Alastair in the 
 
 149
 
 Pharais 
 
 body, at any rate the wraith of him, allowed 
 to be seen of Lora out of God's pity of her 
 despair. 
 
 The night was too far gone for anything to 
 be done straightway; but she promised to go 
 forth with Lora at sunrise and see if that 
 white, flower-crowned phantom walked abroad 
 in the day, and was no mere fantasy of the 
 moonshine. 
 
 She had fallen asleep when, at dawn, Lora 
 aroused her. 
 
 Without a word, she rose from the chair, 
 wrapped a shawl about her, and then, kissing 
 Lora gently, looked at her with quiet, ques- 
 tioning eyes. 
 
 "What is it, Mary?" 
 
 " You still believe that you saw Alastair 
 . . . Alastair in the body?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then had you not better take the child 
 with you? I will carry the little one. If he 
 should see it — perhaps he would. . . ." 
 
 " You are right, dear friend. God has put 
 that thought into your mind." 
 
 A few minutes later, the two women passed 
 out into the cold, fresh morning; Mary going 
 first with the child, and keeping, wherever 
 practicable, to the sheep-paths or to the barren 
 ledges that ran out every here and there from 
 
 l5o
 
 Pharais 
 
 the heather and bracken, and this because of 
 the dews which lay heavily, giving a moon- 
 white sheen to the grass, and sheathing every 
 frond and leaf and twig as with crystal, glis- 
 tening rainbow-hued. 
 
 They took a path that trailed above the hol- 
 low of the moonflowers, and led deviously 
 shoreward by the side of Craig-Geal. 
 
 When they reached the summit of the 
 grassy brae, where the path diverged, they 
 looked long in every direction. Nowhere 
 could they discern sign of any human being. 
 Not a soul moved upon the upland moors; 
 not a soul moved upon the boulder-strewn, 
 rowan-studded slopes ; not a soul moved by 
 the margin of that dead-calm sea, so still that 
 even the whisper of its lip was inaudible, 
 though the faint aerial echo of the crooning of 
 its primeval slumber-song slipped hushfully 
 into the ear. 
 
 They were half-way down toward the shore 
 when Mrs. Maclean, holding up a warning 
 hand, stopped. 
 
 " What is it, Mary ? " Lora whispered. " Do 
 you see anything? Do you see him?" 
 
 " Look ! " and, as she spoke, Mary pointed 
 to a dip in the little glen. 
 
 Under a rowan, heavy with clusters of 
 fruit, as yet of a ruddy brown touched here 
 
 151
 
 Pharais 
 
 and there with crimson, a white figure 
 stooped, leaning over one of the pools wherein 
 the falling burn slept and dreamed awhile ere 
 it leaped again from ledge to ledge, or slipped 
 laughing and whispering through time-worn 
 channels. 
 
 He was like some beautiful creature of an 
 antique tale. Even as a wild deer, he stooped 
 and drank; looked questioningly through the 
 rowans and birches, and then across the 
 bracken where the sun-rays slid intricately in 
 a golden tangle; then, stooping again, again 
 drank. 
 
 The sunlight was warm about him. His 
 shoulders and back gleamed ivory-white, 
 dusked flickering here and there with leaf- 
 shadows. A shadowy green-gloom lay upon 
 his curved breast and against his thighs, from 
 the sheen of the water passing upward through 
 the dense fern that overhung the stream. 
 
 " It is the young god," thought Mary ; " the 
 young god who, Seumas the Seer says, was 
 born of human hope, weaned with human 
 tears, taught by dreams and memories, and 
 therewith given for his body, Beauty . . . and 
 for his soul, Immortal Joy." 
 
 But aloud she murmured only, " It is he 
 — the Beautiful One — of the Domhan 
 Tdir!" 
 
 152
 
 P harms 
 
 Lora did not look at her ; but below her 
 breath whispered, " It is Alastair." 
 
 Swiftly and silently, they moved forward. 
 
 So intent was Alastair, after he had 
 quenched his thirst, upon what he saw or im- 
 agined in the pool beneath him, that he did 
 not hear their steps till they were but a few 
 yards away. 
 
 " Alastair! " 
 
 He lifted his head and listened. 
 
 " Alastair! " 
 
 The sudden fear passed from his eyes. A' 
 smile came into them, and his lips parted : 
 
 ' Lora . . . Lora bhan . . . Lora, my 
 beautiful gloom . . . my fawn . . . my little 
 one. . . ." 
 
 As he spoke, with low, caressing, yearning 
 voice, he looked into the heart of the pool 
 again, and stretched forward his arms long- 
 ingly. 
 
 A sob behind him fell upon his ears. Star- 
 tled, he sprang back. 
 
 For more than a minute, he looked intently 
 at Lora and Mrs. Maclean. Then, slowly, 
 some reminiscence worked in his brain. Slow- 
 ly, too, the dark veil began to lift from his 
 mind ; slightly, and for a brief while at most. 
 
 " Mary ! " 
 
 153
 
 Pharais 
 
 Mrs. Maclean made a step toward him, 
 but stopped. The peace that was about her at 
 all times breathed from her, and lay upon him. 
 The benediction of her eyes upheld him. 
 
 Quietly she spoke, with her right hand 
 pointing to the sobbing woman at her side. 
 
 "Alastair . . . this is Lora, who has sought 
 you far, and now has found you." 
 
 "Lora? Lora is dead! She is a beautiful 
 spirit, and sleeps in that pool under the rowan. 
 She walked with me last night in the moon- 
 shine. She has a beautiful child that is our 
 child. It is now a song, singing in the sun- 
 shine. I heard it at dawn, when I was listen- 
 ing to the stars calling one to another. It is 
 a song of joy about the doorway of Pharais. 
 I saw the golden doors open a brief while 
 ago — the doors of Pharais. Our little child 
 danced in the glory as a mote in a sunbeam. 
 But Lora is dead." 
 
 " Hush ! Lora is not dead, but liveth. Lora 
 is here. See, her tears run for you — her 
 bosom heaves for you — her arms reach for 
 you!" 
 
 Slowly the dreamer advanced. He would 
 not come quite close at first, but there was a 
 wonderful new light in his eyes. 
 
 "Alastair! Alastair! It is I, Lora! Come 
 to me ! Come to me ! " 
 
 154
 
 Pharais 
 
 " If, indeed ... if, indeed, you are Lora 
 . . . Lora, my joy . . . where is our child 
 whose soul I heard singing in the sunshine 
 over against Tigh-na-Pharais ? " 
 
 Without a word, and swiftly, Lora took her 
 poor blind blossom from Mary, and held the 
 child toward him. 
 
 " It is God's gift to us, Alastair," she added 
 at last, seeing that he came no nearer, and 
 looked at the child wonderingly. 
 
 He advanced slowly, till his breath fell upon 
 Lora's hands, and made her heart strain with 
 its passion. Stopping, he stretched forth his 
 right hand and gently touched the sleeping 
 face. A sun-ray fell upon it. Then a smile 
 grew upon the little parted lips, as the spirit 
 of a flower might grow and bloom bodiless in 
 dreamland. 
 
 Alastair smiled. With soft, caressing hand, 
 he smoothed the child's face and little, uplifted 
 arm. Then he took it gently from its mother, 
 kissed it, handed it to Mary. 
 
 And having done this, he opened his arms 
 and said one word : " Lora ! " 
 
 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 swift- 
 
 155
 
 Pharais 
 
 ly 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. Con- 
 cerning these, he could listen to little and 
 speak less ; and, again and again, his strug- 
 gling 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 be- 
 fore he entered into the silence he might live 
 
 156
 
 P karats 
 
 many months ; and he longed to leave Innis- 
 ron. 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. Mac- 
 lean never dreamed of parting from these her 
 children. 
 
 And thus it was arranged, ere dusk came 
 and filled with violet shadows all the hol- 
 lows that lay betwixt the cottage and the 
 sea. 
 
 Three days thence, late on a hot afternoon 
 scarce cooled by the breeze that moved sound- 
 lessly though steadily over the upland crags of 
 Innisron, a company of islanders was met at 
 the little western haven betwixt Ardfeulan 
 
 157
 
 Pharais 
 
 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 Ellii, lay with her brown sail flap- 
 ping idly. In the stern sat Lora, with her 
 child at her breast, and beside her Mrs. Mac- 
 lean. 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 Ellu that was 
 to voyage across it, and those who were going 
 away for ever from Innisron, 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 
 
 158
 
 Pharais 
 
 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 Icibh. 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 Ellii. 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, 
 Eaiasaid 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 ceo air a' bheinn, 
 O, oi, oi, tha druchd air an Jheur!" 
 
 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 Ellii moved out from the haven. 
 
 Lora and Mary sat with bowed heads. 
 
 Alastair had turned and was staring seaward, 
 
 159
 
 Pharais 
 
 where a glory of gold and scarlet was gathered 
 against the going down of the sun. 
 
 " O, oi, oi, tha cbo air a' bheinn, 
 O, oi, oi, tha driichd 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 Ellu 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 therafter 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. 
 
 1 60
 
 Pharais 
 
 When that, too, had ceased, there was no 
 sound that the sea heard not nightly, save 
 the sobbing of the woman Ealasaid. 
 
 VII 
 
 Week after week, month after month, 
 until nigh the end of the fourth, passed by 
 on Ithona: and they who dwelt there took 
 no heed of the passage of the days. 
 
 There are no hours for those who are be- 
 yonder the rumour of that " time or chance " 
 of which the Preacher speaks. Day grows out 
 of night, and in night fulfilleth itself again: 
 the stars succeed the diurnal march of the sun, 
 and hardly are they lost in his glory ere they 
 come again. Scarce distinguishable are the 
 twilight of the dawn and the twilight of the 
 eve: and even as the coming and going of 
 these similar shadows are the appearance and 
 evanishing of the shadows whom we know for 
 our fellowmen, so little differing one from the 
 other, individual from individual, people from 
 people, race from race. 
 
 And even as a shadow, to those who abode 
 on Ithona, was that world they had seen so 
 little of, but of which they had yet known 
 enough. 
 
 161
 
 Pharais 
 
 In that remote island, solitary even among 
 the outer isles of which it was one of the most 
 far-set in ocean, there was little to break the 
 monotony of the hours. No steamer drew 
 near, save at long intervals. The coast-guard 
 cutter arrived intermittently, but sometimes 
 not for months, coming like an alien seabird, 
 and as a strange bird of the seas going upon 
 its unknown way again. Few even of the her- 
 ring-trawlers sailed nigh, except in the late 
 summer, when the mackerel came eastward in 
 vast shoals. 
 
 Morning and noon, afternoon and evening, 
 night and the passing of night, dawn and sun- 
 rise: these were the veils that seemed to cur- 
 tain off this spot of earth. Storm followed 
 calm ; calm succeeded storm ; the winds came 
 and went ; the tides rose and fell. In summer, 
 the rains from the south ; in autumn, the rains 
 from the west; in winter, the rains from the 
 north. Change followed change, but orderly 
 as in processional array. The poppies red- 
 dened the scanty fields of rye ; the swallows 
 and martins haunted the island-ways; the wild 
 rose bloomed, as with white and pink sea- 
 shells made soft and fragrant. Then a little 
 while, and the ling grew purple at the passing 
 of the roses ; the hawks swung in the wind 
 when the swallows had vanished ; the campions 
 
 162
 
 Pharais 
 
 waved where the poppies had fallen ; the grey 
 thistle ursurped the reaped grain. In summer, 
 the Weaver of Sunshine rested there; there, 
 during the equinox, the Weaver of the Winds 
 abode; in winter, the Weaver of the Snow 
 made a white shroud for the isle and wove a 
 shimmering veil for the dusking of the sea. 
 And as one spring was like another spring, 
 and one autumn like another autumn, so was 
 one year like another year, in the coming and 
 in the going. 
 
 Save for the encroaching shadow of death, 
 there was nothing to mark the time for the 
 dwellers on Ithona. Mary was aware that not 
 Alastair only, but Lora, was becoming frailer 
 week by week. Lora, as well as Mary, knew 
 that the child's face grew more wan and thin 
 almost day by day. Old Seumas Macleod was 
 weary at heart with the pity of all that he saw. 
 Only Alastair was happy, for he dreamed ; and 
 his dream was of the loveliness of earth and 
 sea and sky, of the pathway that came down 
 from heaven at sunrise and led back at night- 
 fall through the avenue of the stars to the very 
 gates of Pharais. More happy, too, grew the 
 others as the autumn waned, and the golden 
 peace of St. Martin's aftermath lay upon sea 
 and land; for their eyes saw more anfl more 
 through the dreaming eyes of Alastair, more 
 
 163
 
 Pharais 
 
 and more clearly they heard strains of the mu- 
 sic that haunted his rapt ears. 
 
 Daily he went about clad with dream: a 
 strange sweetness in his voice, a mystery upon 
 his face. His eyes no longer brooded darkly; 
 there was in them a bright light as of a cloud- 
 less morning. 
 
 If, months ago, God had filled with dusk the 
 house of the brain, it was now not the dusk of 
 coming night, but of the advancing day. Fan- 
 tasies beset him often, as of yore, but never 
 with terror or dismay. The moorland tarn 
 held no watching kelpie : instead, he heard the 
 laughter of the fairies as they swung in the 
 bells of the foxglove ; the singing of an angel 
 where the wind wandered among the high cor- 
 ries; whispers and sighs of fair spirits in the 
 murmur of leaves, or falling water, or chime 
 of the waves. 
 
 Sometimes Lora walked or lay beside him 
 for hours, listening to his strange speech about 
 the things that he saw — things too lovely for 
 mortal vision, but ultimately as real to her as 
 to him. Hope came back to her; and then 
 Peace; and, at the last, Joy. 
 
 When not with Lora, he loved well to be 
 with Mary or with Seumas. 
 
 In the eyes of the former he would some- 
 times look for a long time, seeing there the 
 
 164
 
 P karats 
 
 secret home of peace, and perhaps, deeper, the 
 unveiled beauty of the serene and lovely soul. 
 
 Seumas he had loved from childhood. The 
 old islesman had never once been on the main- 
 land ; though in his youth he had sailed along 
 its endless coasts. Tall and strong he was, de- 
 spite his great age ; and his eyes were the eyes 
 of a young man who hears his first-born laugh- 
 ing and crooning against its mother's breast. 
 Ignorant as he was of the foreign tongue of 
 the mainland, ignorant of books, and unable 
 to read even a verse in the Gaelic Scriptures 
 of which he knew so many chapters by heart, 
 he was yet strong in knowledge and wise in the 
 way of it beyond most men. For he knew all 
 that is to be known concerning the island and 
 the surrounding sea, and what moved thereon 
 and lived therein ; and, in his humbleness and 
 simplicity, he saw so deep into the human 
 heart and into the mystery of the soul, that 
 he was not ashamed to know he was man, nor 
 to pray to God to guide him through the 
 shadows. 
 
 It was from Seumas that Alastair, in boy- 
 hood and youth, had learned much, not only 
 of his store of legends and ancient runes and 
 old Celtic poetry, but also of that living poetry 
 which makes the heart of the Gael more ten- 
 der than that of other men, and his brain more 
 
 165
 
 Pharais 
 
 wrought with vision. From him he had first 
 heard how that for one to have died is to have 
 " gone into the silence " ; that for an old man 
 or woman to pass away in extreme age is to 
 " have the white sleep " ; that for a fisherman 
 to drown is for him to have " the peace of the 
 quiet wave." 
 
 Seumas had filled his brain with lovely 
 words — lovely in themselves and their mean- 
 ing; but he had made his clansman a poet by 
 one thing that he did and said. 
 
 For once, after Alastair had returned to the 
 West, from the University in St. Andrew's, he 
 went to Ithona to stay for some weeks. At 
 sunrise on the morrow of his arrival, on his 
 coming out upon the grass which sloped to the 
 shore a few yards away, he saw Seumas stand- 
 ing, with his wide, blue bonnet in his hand, 
 and the sun shining full upon his mass of white 
 hair — not praying, as at first Alastair thought, 
 but with a rapt look on his face, and with 
 glad, still-youthful eyes gazing lovingly upon 
 the sea. 
 
 " What is it, Seumas ? " he had asked ; and 
 the old islesman, turning to him with a grave 
 smile, had answered : 
 
 " Morning after morning, fair weather or 
 foul, after I have risen from my prayers and 
 ere I have broken my fast, I come here and 
 
 1 66
 
 Pharais 
 
 remove my hat and bow my head, with joy 
 and thanksgiving, before the Beauty of the 
 World." 
 
 From that day, the world became a new 
 world for Alastair. 
 
 In the quietude of dusk — and day by day the 
 dusk came sooner and the dawn later — Mary 
 would sometimes sing, or Seumas repeat some 
 favourite Ossianic duan, or chant a fugitive 
 song of the isles. But, toward the close of 
 November, a silence fell more and more upon 
 all. Each had grown a little weary with the 
 burden of life: all knew Who it was that was 
 coming stealthily across the waters, and for 
 whom first. 
 
 It was on the dawn of December that the 
 child died. It seemed to lapse from life as an 
 ebbing wavelet from a pool. 
 
 The evening before, Alastair had carried the 
 little one to the shore. He had never under- 
 stood that the child's eyes were sealed, and 
 often thought that it slept when it was really 
 awake. When he came to a favourite pool of 
 his, that at low tide was wont to flush with 
 any red light spilled across the wave he held 
 his tiny burden up laughing and crooning to it. 
 
 " Look, my pretty one," he would murmur, 
 " that red light is the blood of your elder 
 
 167
 
 Pharais 
 
 brother. Fair is He, the white Christ. He 
 has put that there to show that He loves you." 
 Or, again, he would kneel, and with one hand 
 warily move aside the bladder-wrack and other 
 sea-weeds; and then, pointing into the trans- 
 lucent water, would tell the blind sleeper to 
 look into the heart of the pool and he would 
 see, far down beyond a vast vista of white 
 columns, flight after flight of shining golden 
 stairs, which led at last to a great gate flashing 
 like the sea in the noon-dazzle. And at the 
 gate was a little child like unto himself, sing- 
 ing a sweet song; and just within the gate 
 was a beautiful spirit, whose face was that of 
 Lora, and who could not sing as the little child 
 did, because, though she was clad with joy as 
 with a robe, in her eyes there was still a last 
 lingering mist of human tears. 
 
 " And in Pharais, my bonnie," he would add 
 whisperingly in the child's unheeding ear, " in 
 Pharais there are no tears shed, though in the 
 remotest part of it there is a grey pool, the 
 weeping of all the world, fed everlastingly by 
 the myriad eyes that every moment are some- 
 where wet with sorrow, or agony, or vain re- 
 gret, or vain desire. And those who go there 
 stoop, and touch their eyelids with that grey 
 water ; and it is as balm to them, and they go 
 healed of their too great joy : and their songs 
 
 1 68
 
 Pharais 
 
 thereafter are the sweetest that are sung in the 
 ways of Pharais." 
 
 Often Lora or Mary would be with him 
 when he was thus speaking ; for each was fear- 
 ful lest some day he should discover that his 
 little nan was blind, and could never even open 
 the sealed lids. 
 
 But on that last twilight of November Ala- 
 stair seemed to have been impressed by the 
 passive stillness of the child, and to be trou- 
 bled when he looked at it. He had kissed the 
 eyes again and again, but they had not opened ; 
 he had whispered loving words in the tiny 
 ears, but they had not hearkened. 
 
 All that night he was restless, and rose often 
 to look at the two sleepers in the bed opposite 
 his own. Just before dawn, he looked for the 
 last time. He was satisfied now. The little 
 one smiled . . . but it was because that in the 
 soundless, breathless passage from one dark- 
 ness to another, it had heard a sweet voice at 
 last, and at last had, with suddenly illumined 
 eyes, beheld a new glory. 
 
 So white and still was it that, when the cold 
 of the tiny hands against her bosom awoke 
 Lora, she lay looking upon it for a while, rapt 
 in a new and strange awe. Then, having 
 aroused Mary, she went to Seumas, and 
 brought him into the room. Mary had already 
 
 169
 
 Pharais 
 
 waked Alastair, and he sat holding the small 
 white hody on his knees, stroking it gently. 
 
 When Lora told him that their baby was 
 dead, and asked him if he knew what she said, 
 he did not reply ; but a tear rolled down his 
 cheek, and he put his hand to his heart as 
 though to still the ache of his inarticulate pain. 
 
 But after Mary had read from the Book of 
 Psalms, and prayed in a low voice, all rose 
 and passed out into the sunshine; and Ala- 
 stair, already oblivious of his loss, went down 
 by the shore, and smiled with pleasure at the 
 leap and fall, and chime and whisper, and 
 sweet, low laughter of the sunny waters. 
 
 About a hundred yards inland from the cot- 
 tage, a gigantic pointed stone rises from out 
 of the heather. It is known among the isles 
 as Fingal's Bolt, though neither Fionn nor his 
 son, Ossian, ever threw that huge, flat-sided, 
 fang-like rock. A few rude lines and even 
 letters are still discernible on the side next the 
 sun ; but there is probably none who could de- 
 cipher that old-world rune, carved in bygone 
 ages by the hand of a Druid. 
 
 Of all places in the island, except the rocky 
 headlands whose flanks were laved by the sea, 
 this Stone of the Past, as Seumas called it, 
 was that most frequented by Alastair. At its 
 base he had listened, as a boy, to the tales of 
 
 170
 
 Pharais 
 
 the old islander; beneath it, his fantasy now 
 persuaded him, was one of the hidden ways 
 that led to that House of Paradise of which 
 he so often dreamed. 
 
 There the four silent mourners met that af- 
 ternoon to fulfil the wish of one among them, 
 who loved to think that his little uan would 
 come back some moonshine night or in a still 
 dawn, and, taking their hands, lead his father 
 and mother by that secret pathway through 
 Domlian Tuir to Tir-na-h'Oigh, whence, in 
 good time, they would arise and go up into 
 Pharais. 
 
 Lora had already been on the spot with Seu- 
 mas. While the latter had dug the place of 
 sleep, she, with white chalk picked from the 
 shore, had printed in large, heavy letters these 
 words upon the seaward side of the stone : 
 
 " Take unto Thy compassion this little one, 
 and us who follow." 
 
 There were no words spoken as Mary, 
 kneeling, took the child from Lora's arms, and 
 laid it, wrapped in a white sheet filled with 
 fragrant gale, in the wood-shored grave that 
 had been reverently prepared. 
 
 The afternoon had grown chill. Seaward, a 
 gray mass had risen as if out of the waste of 
 waters. 
 
 All were still kneeling — while Seumas laid 
 
 171
 
 Pharais 
 
 turf and heather above the small wooden lid 
 covering the narrow house that would give the 
 body sanctuary for a time — when the snow 
 began to come down. 
 
 There was no wind, so the flakes fell light 
 as feathers, grey in the gathering dusk as the 
 down that falls from the wind-swept breasts 
 of wild swans in their flight to or from the 
 Polar seas. 
 
 Denser and denser it came; soundless at 
 first, but after a while with a faint rustling and 
 whirling, as though the flakes were wings of 
 invisible birds of silence. 
 
 The grey gloom thickened. Already the sea 
 was obscured. Its voice was audible the more 
 loudly ... a calling voice ; but dull, listless, 
 melancholy with ancient, unforgotten pain and 
 all its burthen of immemorial lore. 
 
 The four mourners rose. The two women, 
 with bowed heads, murmured words of prayer 
 and farewell. Seumas, crossing himself, mut- 
 tered : " Deireadh gach comuinn, sgaoileadh ; 
 deireadh gach cogaidh, sith " — " the end of all 
 meetings, parting; the end of all striving, 
 peace." Alastair looked eagerly through the 
 snow-dusk lest the child should come again at 
 once and go by them unseen. 
 
 By the time they reached home, there was a 
 thick twilight all about them. A little later, 
 
 172
 
 Pharais 
 
 looking out into the night, they saw the flakes 
 drift over and past them like a myriad of 
 winged things hurrying before a wind that 
 pursued, devouring. The island lay in a white 
 shroud. At the extreme margin, a black, pul- 
 sating line seemed to move sinuously from left 
 to right. 
 
 Suddenly a deeper sound boomed from the 
 sea, though no wind ruffled the drifts which al- 
 ready lay thick in the hollows. Till midnight, 
 and for an hour beyond, this voice of the sea 
 was as the baying of a monstrous hound. 
 
 None in the homestead slept. The silence, 
 broken only by that strange, menacing baying 
 of the waves as they roamed through the soli- 
 tudes environing the isle, was so intense that 
 sometimes the ears echoed as with the noise of 
 a rush of wings, or as with the sonorous sus- 
 pensions between the striking of bell and bell 
 in monotonously swung chimes. 
 
 Then again, suddenly, and still without the 
 coming of wind, the sea ceased its hoarse, an- 
 gry baying, and, after lapse within lapse till 
 its chime was almost inaudible, gave forth in 
 a solemn dirge the majestic music of its in- 
 most heart. 
 
 At last, after long vigils, all slept, though 
 none so deeply, so unawakeningly as Lora. 
 
 Three hours before dawn the snow ceased 
 
 173
 
 Pharais 
 
 to fall. An icy sparkle glittered league after 
 league oceanward, as the star-rays pierced the 
 heaving flanks and bowed heads of the sea- 
 horses which had abruptly sprung up before 
 the advancing ground-swell. 
 
 The cold was the cold of the Black Frost — ■ 
 bitter, sharp as a sword, nigh unendurable. 
 
 Shortly after dawn, Alastair awoke, shiv- 
 ering. He rose, threw some more peats 
 on the fire; and then, having dressed and 
 wrapped his plaid about him, and softly 
 opened and closed the door, stepped out into 
 the snow. 
 
 His breath caught with the cold, and a 
 greater weakness even than that customary of 
 late made him reel, then lean against the wall 
 for a few minutes. 
 
 Soon his faintness passed. The exceeding 
 beauty of sunrise over that vast stretch of 
 waters, over the isle in its stainless white 
 shroud, filled him with an exalted joy. There- 
 after, for a time, he walked to and fro ; some- 
 times staring absently seaward, again glancing 
 curiously at his shadow — scarce more insub- 
 stantial than he himself had grown within the 
 last month, and particularly within the last few 
 days — as it lay upon or moved bluely athwart 
 the snow. 
 
 After a brief space, a rapt look came into 
 
 174
 
 Pharais 
 
 his face. He turned, and gazed expectantly at 
 the door. 
 
 No one coming forth, he entered, and, with 
 a loving smile, crossed to Lora's bed. 
 
 " Sweetheart ... my white flower . . . 
 come. It is so beautiful. Pharais has opened 
 to us at last. I can see the steps gleaming gold 
 within the yellow shine of the sun. Beyond, I 
 saw a mist of waving wings. Come, Lora. 
 . . . Come ! " 
 
 Cold and white was she as the snow. Alas- 
 tair bent, kissed her lips, but was so wrought 
 by his vision that he did not notice the chill 
 of them, nor see the blue shadow in the pallor 
 of the face. 
 
 "Ah, midmean, mo muirnean, see, I will 
 carry you," he murmured suddenly. 
 
 He stooped, lifted the beautiful dead body 
 he had loved so well, and, staggering beneath 
 the weight, half carried, half dragged it to the 
 snow-slope beyond the door. Gently he placed 
 Lora down. Then, going for and returning 
 with a deer-skin, laid her upon it, and sat 
 down beside her. 
 
 For a brief while, he waited patiently for 
 her awakening. Then his eyes wandered 
 again, now fixed upon the majesty of the sea, 
 reaching intolerably grand from endless hori- 
 zons to horizons without end ; now upon the 
 
 175
 
 Pharais 
 
 immense dome of the sky, where, amid the 
 deepest blue, high in the north-west the moon 
 turned a disc of pale gold out of an almost 
 imperceptible flush, and confronted the flash- 
 ing, blazing sunfire that, in the south-east, 
 moved swiftly upward. 
 
 Suddenly he leaned forward ; his lips 
 parted; his eyes agleam with the inner flame 
 that consumed him. 
 
 " Lora . . . Lora, my fawn," he whispered. 
 " Look ! The gates are opening ! Dear, all is 
 well at the last. God has given me back to 
 you. My trouble is healed. Speak to me, 
 dear ; too great is my happiness ! " 
 
 No sound: no movement of the hands: no 
 stir of the closed eyelids. 
 
 " Lora ! " 
 
 It was strange. But he would be patient. 
 
 Idly he watched a small, grey snow-cloud 
 passing low above the island. 
 
 A warm breath reached the heart of it, and 
 set the myriad wings astir. Down, straight 
 down above the isle and for a few fathoms 
 beyond it, they fluttered waveringly. 
 
 The fall was like a veil suspended over 
 Ithona : a veil so thin, so transparent, that the 
 sky was visible through it as an azure dusk; 
 and beneath it, the sea as a blue-flowing lawn 
 whereover its skirts trailed; while behind it, 
 
 176
 
 Pharais 
 
 the rising sunfire was a shimmer of amber- 
 yellow that made every falling flake glisten 
 like burnished gold. The wind was utterly 
 still; the sky cloudless, but for that thin, 
 evanishing veil of dropping gold. 
 
 The sea lay breathing in a deep calm all 
 around the isle. But, from its heart that never 
 slumbers, rose as of yore, and for ever, a 
 rumour as of muffled prophesyings, a Voice of 
 Awe, a Voice of Dread. 
 
 177
 
 THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS
 
 TO 
 
 Dum. juga montis aper, jluvios dum piscis amabit, 
 Dumque thymo pascentur apes, dum rore cicadae ; 
 Semper honos, nomenque tuum, laudesque manebunt.
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 The wind sighed through the aisles of the 
 hill-forest. Among the lower-set pines there 
 was an accompanying sound as of multi- 
 tudinous baffled wings. This travelling voice 
 was upon the mountain in a myriad utterance. 
 Round the forehead of Ben Iolair it moved as 
 an eagle moves, sweeping in vast circles : the 
 rhythm of its flight reiterated variously against 
 walls of granite, gigantic boulders, and rain- 
 scooped, tempest-worn crags and pinnacles. 
 Lower were corries, furrows that seemed to 
 have been raked into the breast of the hill in 
 some olden time when the solitudes were not 
 barren. Therein the wind slid with a hollow, 
 flute-like call. This deepened into an organ- 
 note of melancholy, when glens, filled with 
 birchen undergrowth and running water, were 
 aloud with the rumour of its passages. Upon 
 the heights, upon the flanks, upon all the sun- 
 swept mass of Iolair, the rushing noise of its 
 
 181
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 pinions was as the prolonged suspiration of 
 the sea. Beyond the forest of pines it swooped 
 adown the strath, and raced up the narrow 
 neck of the Pass of the Eagles, and leaped on- 
 ward again athwart and over the slopes of 
 Tornideon that, gigantic in swarthy gloom, 
 stood over against Ben Iolair. 
 
 In the heart of the pinewoods it was meshed 
 as in a net. The sighing of it through the 
 green-gloom avenues, warm with the diffused 
 ruddiness of the pine-bark, was as the sound 
 of distant water falling from infrequent ledge 
 to ledge in a mountain gorge. Intent by the 
 fringe of the forest, or even upon the under- 
 slopes still flooded with afternoon sunlight, 
 one might have heard its rising and falling 
 sough as it bore downward beneath the weight 
 of the branches, or slipped from bole to bole 
 and round ancient girths. 
 
 Here and there a hollow was still as deep 
 water. Not a sigh breathed upon the mossy 
 ground, thickly covered in parts with cones 
 and the myriad-shed needles of the pines. Not 
 a murmur came from the spell-bound trees. 
 The vast boughs hung motionless in the silent 
 air. Sometimes the upper branches stirred, 
 but while the shadow-haunted plumes ruffled 
 as with a passing breath, it was with a slow, 
 solemn, soundless rhythm. 
 
 182
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 In one of those sanctuaries of peace, where 
 the forest was thinner and everywhere lumi- 
 nous with the flowing gold of the setting sun, 
 a child danced blithely to and fro, often clap- 
 ping her hands, but without word or sound, 
 and with her wild-fawn eyes ceaselessly alert 
 yet unquestioning and unsmiling. 
 
 In that solitary place she was doubly alone. 
 No eyes were there to espy her, save those of 
 the cushats and a thrush whose heart beat 
 wildly against her callow brood. She was like 
 the spirit of woodland loneliness : a lovely 
 thing of fantasy that might recreate its beauty 
 the next moment in a medley of sun-rays, or 
 as a floating golden light about the green boles, 
 or as a windflower swaying among the tree- 
 roots with its own exquisite vibration of life. 
 So elemental was she, then and there, that if 
 she herself had passed into the rhythm of her 
 rapt dance and so merged into the cadence of 
 the wind among leaves and branches, or into 
 the remoter murmuring of the mountain burns 
 and of the white cataracts even then leaping 
 into the sun-dazzle and seeming never to fall 
 though for ever falling — if this change had 
 been wrought, as the swift change from 
 shadow-gloom to sun-gloom, nothing of it 
 would have seemed unnatural. She was as 
 absolutely one with nature as though she were 
 
 183
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 a dancing sunbeam, or the brief embodiment 
 of the joy of the wind. 
 
 As the child danced, a human mote in that 
 vast area of sun-splashed woodland, the light 
 flooded in upon her scanty and ragged dress 
 of brown homespun, from which her arms and 
 legs emerged as the white chestnut-buds from 
 their sheaths of amber. Her skin was of the 
 hue and smoothness of crudded cream, where 
 not sunburnt to the brown of the wallflower. 
 Dark as were her heavily lashed eyes, her 
 hair, a mass of short curls creeping and twist- 
 ing and leaping throughout a wild and tangled 
 waviness, was of a wonderful white-like yel- 
 low, as of the sheen of wheat on a windy Au- 
 gust noon or the strange amber-gold of the 
 harvest-moon when rising through a sigh of 
 mist. She was beautiful, but rather with the 
 promise of beauty than beauty itself — as the 
 bud of the moss-rose is lovely but has a fairer 
 loveliness in fee. Though her face was pale, 
 its honeysuckle-pallor was so wrought by the 
 sun and wind that her cheeks had the glow of 
 sunlit hill-water. In every line, in every con- 
 tour of her body, in every movement, every 
 pose, a beautiful untutored grace displayed it- 
 self. A glimpse of the secret of all this win- 
 someness opened at times in the eyes. These 
 were full of a changing light. The " breath " 
 
 184
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 was upon her: on her rhythmic limbs, on her 
 flowing hair, on her parted lips. 
 
 To and fro, flickeringly as a leaf shadow, 
 the small body tripped and leapt. Sometimes 
 she raised her arms when with tossed-back 
 head she sprang to one side or forward : some- 
 times she clapped her hands, and a smile for 
 a moment dreamed rather than lay upon her 
 face. But none seeing her could have thought 
 she danced out of mere glee. No birdeen of 
 laughter slipped from the little lips : the eyes 
 had a steadfast intensity amid all their way- 
 wardness. Either the child was going through 
 this fantastic byplay for some ulterior reason, 
 or she was wrought by an ecstasy that could 
 be expressed only in this way. Perhaps no 
 one who had met a glance of those wildwood 
 eyes could have doubted that she was rapt 
 by an unconscious fantasy of rhythm. 
 
 A stillness had grown about the heart even 
 of the patient mavis in the rowan beside the 
 winding shadow-haunted pool, a few yards 
 away from the spot where the child sound- 
 lessly danced. A clear call came from its 
 mate ever and again : neither feared any longer 
 this dancer in the sunset-shine. The cushats 
 crooned unheedingly. In a glade above, a roe 
 stood, gazing wonder-stricken : but after a 
 restless pawing of the ground she lidded her 
 
 185
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 unquiet eyes, and browsed contentedly under 
 the fern. 
 
 Suddenly the dancer stopped. She stood in 
 that exquisite poise of arrested motion which 
 for a moment the wave has when it lifts its 
 breast against the wind. Intently she listened : 
 with eyes dilated and nostrils swiftly expand- 
 ing and contracting, like any wild thing of the 
 woodlands. 
 
 A voice, strangely harsh in its high, thin 
 falsetto, resounded from the upper glades. 
 
 "Oona!" 
 
 The child smiled, relaxed from her intent 
 attitude, and listlessly moved a step or two 
 forward. 
 
 "Oona! Oona!! Oona!" 
 
 " It is Nial," she muttered. " I don't want 
 him. I am tired of helping him to look for 
 his soul." 
 
 The words came from her lips in smileless 
 earnestness. To her, evidently, so fantastical 
 a quest had nothing in it of surprise or 
 strangeness. 
 
 The startled roe had already fled. The 
 merest rustle of the bracken hinted the whi- 
 ther-away of its flight. Instinctively, Oona, no- 
 ticed the sound, and her eyes looked beyond a 
 distant clump of pines in time to see a gleam 
 of something brown leap out of and into the 
 
 186
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 tall fern, as a seabird among green running 
 billows. 
 
 Almost simultaneously she caught a glimpse 
 of an uncouth dwarfish figure moving slowly 
 through the pine-glades. 
 
 Swift as a bird to its covert she slipped into 
 the dusk of the neighbouring savannah of 
 bracken. 
 
 "Oona!" 
 
 The voice was nearer, but from its greater 
 lift in the air the child knew that Nial had 
 stopped, and was doubtless looking about him. 
 She made no response. If the searcher were 
 but ten yards away he would not have dis- 
 covered her. No fox among the root crannies, 
 no hare crouching low in her form, could have 
 more easily evaded detection. 
 
 "Oona!" 
 
 The voice was now further away. Clearly 
 Nial had turned westward, and was moving 
 through the glade beyond the pool. Once 
 more she heard the harsh, thin voice ; but now 
 it was crooning a song wherewith she was 
 familiar, the words of which simulated the 
 plaining of the wild-dove: 
 
 " Oona, Oona, mo ghraidh: 
 Oona, Oona, mo ghraidh: 
 Muirnean, Muirnean, Muirnean, 
 Oona, Oona, mo ghraidh!" 
 
 I8 7
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 Then the silence closed in about her again. 
 A relative silence, for she heard the hum of 
 the brown bee drowsily fumbling to its nest 
 under a bramble, the whir of the stag-moth, 
 the innumerable indeterminate rustle and hum 
 of the woodlands in summer. The cushats 
 crooned ever and again, hushfully nestling 
 amid the green dusk of the boughs. A fern- 
 owl swooped through the glades, whence al- 
 ready the sunset light had vanished, and 
 after every short flight it would poise on a 
 pine-branch and emit its resonant whir. In 
 the hollow where Oona lay there was still no 
 breath of air; but overhead the wind stirred 
 the plumes of every tree-crest, and its voice, 
 vibrant, full of rising and falling flute-like 
 calls, loudly surgent, haunting-sweet, was au- 
 dible on all sides and beyond upon the uplands 
 of Iolair. 
 
 The gloaming, creeping from under the 
 bracken and down from amid the branches of 
 the pines, had begun to fill the forest with 
 veils of shadow. It was for this Oona had 
 waited. Gently disparting the bracken, and, 
 herself almost as insubstantial and soundless 
 as a shadow, with one swift glance around her, 
 she vanished into the darkness that involved 
 the columnar pine-glades. 
 
 In the dim, fragrant May-bloom there 
 
 188
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 seemed nothing astir save white moths, which 
 flickered from bush to bush. The deer, if any 
 were there, were resting; the roosting black- 
 cock were as silent as the doves. The remoter 
 dusk was full of the voices of the wind, but 
 those distant aerial sounds were as the wings 
 that fan the courts of Silence. 
 
 Shadow after shadow moved out of the twi- 
 light: soft velvety things, though intangible, 
 that lay drowsily upon the boughs of the 
 pines, or slipped after each other through the 
 intricacies of the fern. 
 
 Round the pool were many of those lovely 
 silent children of the dusk. Dim scores were 
 massed under the branches, or crept among 
 the willows. Some hung from the sprays of 
 the birches, peering into the ominous black- 
 ness of the water underneath. Others, 
 straight and intent, or all tremulous and wav- 
 ering, stood among the reeds, the most sensi- 
 tive of which had still a vague breath of sound. 
 Many of these merged into the pool, but their 
 ranks never thinned. By every reed stood a 
 shadow, intent, inclined before a wind that 
 blew not. Of all that passed into the water 
 not one reached the star that gleamed and 
 moved, and seemed to lift and fall in the heart 
 of the pool. Not one crossed the faintly lumi- 
 nous semi-circle that lay upon the surface. 
 
 189
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 Each sank down, down, till the star in the 
 depths shone far above. But by the upper 
 margins of the pool, where the pines ran 
 steeply toward it, one shadow sat that did not 
 waver, did not move, that grew darker and 
 more dark, blackly distinct, though all around 
 was blurred or fugitive. 
 
 The night advanced. The shadows moved 
 onward before it, or were enveloped in its 
 folds. Though in the forest no travelling su- 
 surrus was audible, the wind had arisen again 
 upon the heights. Restless, forlorn, it lifted 
 its wild wings from steep to steep. Its vibrant 
 rise, its baffled fall, re-echoed faintly or dully. 
 At times there was a thin, shrewd, infinitely 
 remote whistling. This was the myriad air- 
 spray of the wind driven through the spires of 
 the heather. 
 
 With the second hour of the night the moon 
 rose over the shoulder of Iolair. For a time a 
 gold dust had glittered along the edges of the 
 granite precipices. Then the summit of the 
 mountain had gleamed like a vast bronze altar 
 lit by hidden lamps. Suddenly, almost in a 
 moment, a gigantic arm swung upward an im- 
 mense globe of fire. 
 
 As the moon rose she emitted a more yel- 
 low flame. Downward a flood of orange glory 
 poured upon the highest peaks — barren, scori- 
 
 190
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 atcd, lifeless, but for the lichens that thrive 
 upon snows and chill dews. The globe — in 
 which, as in the sun, could be seen a whirling 
 of light — rapidly diminished in size. Less por- 
 tentous, it swung through space in an added 
 loveliness. Serene, equable, its yellow glow 
 spread over mountain and forest, down every 
 broad strath, each grave-dark glen, down 
 every straggling hillside corrie. 
 
 The coming of the moonbeams wrought 
 a fantastic new life in the forest. The light- 
 ward boughs took on a proud armour. The 
 branches moved against the night, mailed like 
 serpents with moving scales of gold and silver. 
 
 When the first comers reached the pool they 
 fell upon it with delight. Forward they 
 leapt, and bathed their lovely golden bodies 
 in the water, which held them to itself with 
 joy. A score died to make a silver ripple, a 
 hundred perished to fill every handsbreath of 
 water as with melted ore. When a water- 
 snake darted from the reeds and shot across 
 the surface, its flight dissipated innumerable 
 vibrations and delicate fugitive cup-like hol- 
 lows and waverings, aureate or radiant with 
 white fires. A few fish rose from the 
 weeds and crevices, where they had lain like 
 drifting leaves. When their fins shivered 
 above the surface there was a momentary 
 
 191
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 dazzle, as though a little flame of moonfire 
 had fallen and for a moment flared un- 
 quenched. 
 
 The dusk-shadows had long vanished. 
 Those of the night, sombre, motionless, waited. 
 One only remained : the same sitting shape, 
 darkly distinct, that had stayed when the twi- 
 light had waned. 
 
 There had been no movement throughout 
 the long withdrawal of the light, the stealthy 
 recapture of the dark. But when the pool, 
 save for the margins, was all one wave of 
 interlapsing gold and silver, the shadow-shape 
 at last raised a shaggy peaked head. For a 
 time Nial the dwarf stared vacantly at the 
 transformed water. Then a smile came into 
 his worn, fantastic face, so wild and rude, and 
 in a sense, so savage, and yet with the unharm- 
 ing, guileless, and even gentle look of most 
 wild creatures when not roused by appetite or 
 emotion. 
 
 The play of the moonbeams delighted him. 
 When the last of them slid furtively through 
 the shadows, and turned the reeds into spires 
 of gold, he gazed mournfully at the gloom of 
 the forest tarn. Nothing now moved therein 
 except three wandering star-rays, that quiv- 
 ered and expanded and contracted as though 
 the central phantom-flames were alive, and 
 
 192
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 were feeling tremulously through this dim, 
 unknown water-world. 
 
 Once Nial rose. His small, high-shouldered, 
 misshapen figure seemed scarcely human ; the 
 rough clothes he wore — patches of blurred and 
 broken shadow they appeared now — might 
 have been part of him, as the hide of a deer, 
 or the fell of any wild thing. When he moved, 
 it was with woodland alertness, with the swift 
 grace of all sylvan creatures. 
 
 As his feet plashed among the shallows he 
 stooped. For long he peered earnestly into 
 the water. Then, with a sigh, he stepped back, 
 and moved silently again to the mossy stump 
 where he had sat since nightfall. 
 
 The late nocturnal sounds that prelude the 
 dawn did not awake him, if asleep he were. 
 The occasional cries of ewes upon the hills 
 were only as remote falling waves in the sea 
 of silence and darkness. The bleating of a 
 restless stag ceased as abruptly as it had begun. 
 
 Just before the first trouble of the dawn 
 these sounds multiplied. Ever and again, 
 though at long intervals, there was the splash 
 of a fish, hawking along the under-surface of 
 the tarn for the twilight-ephemeridae. The 
 hoarse gurgling call of the capercailzie fell 
 through the pine-glades. From invisible pas- 
 tures came the first muffled, uncertain lowing 
 
 193
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 of the shaggy bulls, standing beyond the still- 
 crouching drowsy kye, whose breaths made 
 a faint grey mist in the darkness. 
 
 The wind rose and fell. It had now a differ- 
 ent sound, as there is a different note in the 
 ascending and decrescent song of the lark. 
 It was, however, still confined to the heights 
 and the upland moors. 
 
 With the first sunflood there is something of 
 the same chemic change in the wind as there is 
 in the sea. An electric tremor goes through it. 
 Its impalpable nerves thrill : its invisible pulse 
 beats. 
 
 Long before Nial, in the deep twilight of the 
 forest, saw that morning had come, he was 
 aware of it from the cry of the wind, as it 
 leaped against the sun. 
 
 He stirred, listening. The call of that bodi- 
 less voice he knew and loved so well had sud- 
 denly grown clearer. It was as though the in- 
 visible Lute-player who shepherds the clouds 
 with his primeval music had breathed a high, 
 resonant note. To the keen ears of Nial this 
 was enough. He knew that the wind had 
 moved from the south to the north-west: a 
 thing easy to tell at once in the neighbourhood 
 of pines, but to be known of few when heard 
 against remote heights and in the dark. 
 
 The dwarf rose and began to pace restlessly 
 
 194
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 to and fro. Once or twice he stood still and 
 shook himself; then, with a searching but un- 
 expectant glance around him, resumed his 
 aimless wandering. 
 
 The wind reached the forest before the first 
 lances of the sunlight had thrust themselves 
 through the umbrage at its higher end. Nial 
 heard it lifting the still air of the pine-glooms 
 with its vast wings, and beating it to and fro, 
 sending volleys of fragrant breath from sway- 
 ing tree-top to tree-top. It wandered nearer 
 and nearer : af* first overhead, so that only the 
 summits of the pines swayed southward, but 
 soon it came leaping and blithely laughing 
 through the long aisles of the forest. The in- 
 describable rumour of the sunflood followed. 
 As the old Celtic poets tell us, the noise of the 
 sunfire on the waves at daybreak is audible 
 for those who have ears to hear. So may be 
 heard the sudden rush and sweep of the sun- 
 beams when they first stream upon a wood. 
 The boughs, the branches, the feathery or 
 plume-like summits of the trees do homage at 
 that moment, when the Gates of Wonder open 
 for a few seconds on the unceasing miracle of 
 Creation. The leaves quiver, or curl upward, 
 even though there be no breath of air. It is 
 then that crows, rooks, wood-doves, and, on 
 the heights, the hawks and eagles, lean their 
 
 195
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 breasts against the sunflood and soar far for- 
 ward and downward on wide-poised motion- 
 less wings : a long, unswerving, scythe-sweep, 
 strange in its silent and ordered beauty, to be 
 seen similarly at no other time. 
 
 The sound was an exultation throughout 
 the forest. Soon the invisible presence dwelt 
 everywhere. Every branch held a note of 
 music: every leaf was a whisper. There was 
 not a frond of bracken, a blade of grass, that 
 did not bend listeningly. The windflowers in 
 the mossiest hollows were tremulous. 
 
 When the sunbeams came dancing and leap- 
 ing in the track of the wind, the note of 
 exultation, in deepening, became more indis- 
 criminate. The bleating of the stags, the lowing 
 of the distant kye, the plaintive crying of 
 the ewes and lambs, the calls and songs of the 
 birds, the myriad indeterminate voice of 
 morning, blent in a universal rumour of joy. 
 
 Nial stood listening intently, now to this 
 sound, now to that. He knew the forest, 
 and the life of the forest, as no other man 
 could do. He, too, was a woodlander, as 
 much as the deer, or the shy cushat, or the 
 very bracken. 
 
 The birds that flew by paid no heed to him. 
 He was watching a young fox blinking its 
 yellow eyes from under a hollow mass of 
 
 196
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 roots, when a roe trotted rapidly close by him, 
 her hill-pool eyes alert, her long neck strained, 
 her nostrils distended and quivering. He 
 turned, but she did not swerve nor hasten. Her 
 fawn followed. It stopped almost opposite to 
 Nial, looked at him curiously, lifted its delicate 
 forehead alternately, and sniffed with swift 
 sensitive twitchings. He looked quietly into 
 the great violet eyes, filled with a wonderful 
 living amber when turned against the sun. 
 The fawn slowly advanced till the velvety 
 warmth of its lips nibbled playfully at the 
 arm, gently extended toward it. The dwarf 
 stroked the smooth muzzle and the long 
 twitching ears. Suddenly, with an elfish 
 whisk, the fawn sprang to one side, spun with 
 abrupt sidelong leaps around the funny two- 
 legged creature: then, finding that its new 
 playmate was so perplexingly staid, leaped 
 away in a light bounding flight in pursuit of 
 its dam, who had halted among the bracken, 
 and had been watching curiously, but un- 
 alarmedly. 
 
 Strangely, it was with a look more of re- 
 sentment than of pleasure that Nial turned 
 and walked slowly toward the upper glades. 
 There was no one there to overhear his 
 muttered words. Perhaps the wood-doves 
 that watched him pass, listened unheedingly 
 
 197
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 to his angry exclamations — half sobs, half 
 vague outcries against the bitterness of his 
 fate that he, Nial the Soulless, was shunned 
 by all human beings, or by all save the child 
 Oona, and treated as though he were a wild 
 thing of the woods — and that even the 
 creatures of the hillsides and the forest-glades 
 knew him, while not of their own fellowship, 
 to be no human. 
 
 These thoughts always tortured him. His 
 unspeakably lonely and remote life, indeed, 
 was one long martyrdom. Rightly or wrongly, 
 he, and others, had ever believed he was a 
 changeling, a soulless man, perhaps the off- 
 spring of demon parentage. Had he been 
 blessed with the mind-dark he might have 
 gone through his span of life as blithely as 
 any wildwood creature. Two things only, 
 besides his human form, differentiated him 
 from the birds and the beasts he loved so well, 
 though from their world, too, an involuntary 
 exile for ever : one, the faculty of speech : the 
 other, the possession of a reasoning, if a re- 
 stricted and perverted mind. 
 
 How innumerably often he had brooded 
 over the fantastic, and to him part-maddening, 
 part-terrifying, and wholly obsessive legend 
 of his birth ! 
 
 All in the region of Iolair knew his story: 
 
 198
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 how he had been found when a little child, 
 in the woods, and had been taken care of by- 
 Adam Morrison, the minister: how when yet 
 a boy, a cripple, and a trial to his foster- 
 father and all who knew him, he had disap- 
 peared with vagrant gypsies, and had not 
 been heard of for fifteen years, till one au- 
 tumn he was seen among the pines in the for- 
 est of Iolair. He had been in the neighbour- 
 hood for weeks, though none knew of it. 
 During that ensuing winter he was fed and 
 sheltered by Torcall Cameron, or by Murdo 
 the shepherd, or by Alan Gilchrist on Torni- 
 deon, the mountain on the north side of 
 Strath Iolair. For the rest, he lived no man 
 knew how, and slept no man knew where. 
 He was an outcast and homeless: but if he 
 lost much, much also he gained. He knew 
 the living world as few could even approxi- 
 mately know it : sight, hearing, smell, each 
 sense was intensified in him. He saw and 
 heard and was aware of much that to others 
 was non-existent or dubiously obscure. 
 
 But the real mystery of his life, to himself 
 as well as to his human neighbours, who half- 
 disowned him, was in the reputed fact that 
 he was the child of the Cailliach. 
 
 A year before Mr. Adam Morrison had 
 found the puny wailing child close to the tarn 
 
 199
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 in the heart of the forest, a man who lived 
 high on Sliabh-Geal, the mountain that leaned 
 southward from the shoulder of Iolair, had 
 fallen under the spell of the Cailliach, the 
 beansith or demon-woman. No one knew 
 much about him. He was a shepherd, but 
 none had heard whence he came or of what 
 folk. He asked none to cross his airidh. But 
 the rumour was everywhere held that Black 
 Duncan — all the name he was ever known by 
 — was a changeling. The minister was wont 
 to disavow this, but added that Duncan cer- 
 tainly lived under a curse, though the nature 
 or source of the malediction was beyond the 
 ken of all save the unfortunate man himself, 
 if indeed even he knew of it. 
 
 One winter the Cailliach was seen of sev- 
 eral women. Her tall figure, clad in a yellow 
 robe, as she drove her herd of deer to the 
 waterside, was unmistakable. She was seen 
 again and again. The following summer, as 
 Torcall Cameron was crossing the Gual, the 
 ridge betwixt Iolair and Sliabh-Geal, he heard 
 a strange voice singing through the gloaming. 
 Looking about him, he discerned a woman sit- 
 ting among the bracken, and milking a hind, 
 the while she sang a song that brought a mist 
 about his eyes, and made his heart throb. By 
 her exceeding stature, and the yellow plaid 
 
 200
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 about her, as well as by the unknown words 
 that were wedded to that wild song, he knew 
 her to be the Cailliach. He fled, lest she 
 should turn and ban him. A little later he 
 saw the beansith again. It was a long way 
 off, but he recognised her: and even while he 
 watched, she turned herself into the guise of 
 a grey deer, and went leaping toward the high 
 remote sheiling where Black Duncan lived. 
 That autumn Duncan was more than once 
 heard laughing and talking in shadowy places, 
 and in the forest. On the first day of the 
 equinox his body was found in the tarn. The 
 face had an awful look upon it. The same 
 afternoon Mr. Adam Morrison, going to the 
 spot to verify what he had heard, found the 
 miserable little waif he adopted afterward. 
 No sooner had he taken it in his arms than a 
 large grey deer sprang from a covert of 
 bracken and leaped into the forest gloom. 
 Despite its size and haste, its passage through 
 the undergrowth was absolutely soundless. 
 
 The thing was unmistakable. The Cailliach 
 had put her spell upon Black Duncan. When 
 her hour had come upon her, she had stran- 
 gled her mortal lover and thrown his body 
 into the tarn. Then she had borne her doubly 
 cursed babe. 
 
 All who heard of these things averred that 
 
 20 1
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 the child would be soulless. Mr. Morrison 
 said no: that he would give it Christian bap- 
 tism, and rear it in godly ways : and that God 
 would have pity upon the innocent. The old 
 people of the strath shook their heads. The 
 minister was wise in the Scriptures and in 
 the book-lore, but was it not well known that 
 he knew little of and cared less for their treas- 
 ured oral traditions and legends and obscure 
 ancestral runes? Was it likely he could judge, 
 when he barely knew who or what the Cail- 
 liach was? Had he not ever preached from 
 his pulpit that there were no " other people " 
 at all ? 
 
 The good man was wrong. He admitted it, 
 when, three years later, the child Nial — so 
 called by Mr. Morrison in memory of a young 
 brother of his own, and because he had re- 
 fused to give the foundling the pagan desig- 
 nation of Nicor the Soulless — was lost one 
 summer gloaming. When, after long search- 
 ing, the truant was discovered, the child was 
 no longer the same. The shepherd who had 
 found him said that, earlier in the evening, 
 he had noticed a tall woman leading a child 
 through the forest, and stopping every now 
 and again by some tree-bole, as though she 
 listened for some one or to some thing. Later, 
 when he was on the quest for the strayed little 
 
 202
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 one, and as he approached the spot where his 
 search was rewarded, his dog had stopped, 
 snarling, and refused to advance. While he 
 wondered at this, a large grey deer sprang 
 out of the bracken and disappeared into the 
 forest. As soon as it vanished the dog re- 
 covered from its sudden terror, and ran for- 
 ward, and was soon barking over the body of 
 the child. 
 
 Before this misadventure Nial had been 
 what Mr. Morrison himself called " a waefu' 
 bairn." Weak and ailing from the first, he 
 had grown more and more fretful : and his 
 endless crying and whining had been a sore 
 trial to the good man and to old Jean Macrae. 
 
 But after the finding of him in the forest 
 he was no longer the same. He became 
 strangely silent. Even when hungry, or when 
 hurt or frightened, he made no sound. He 
 Mould sit for hours and stare vaguely before 
 him. It was with difficulty that he could be 
 got to speak at all, and if it had not been for 
 the minister's persistency he would have 
 grown dumb. 
 
 The questioning, and yet remote, look in his 
 eyes disconcerted all who looked therein. Old 
 Mary Macbean, the birth-woman, confirmed 
 the general suspicion. The child had no soul, 
 she said: she knew the signs. The Christian 
 
 203
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 baptism and the constant prayers and heed of 
 the minister had preserved or perhaps won a 
 soul to it : but the Cailliach had found her off- 
 spring in the woods, and had lured the soul 
 from the body, and had prisoned it in some 
 pine-tree in the depths of the forest. Two or 
 three years passed, and Nial grew more and 
 more deformed, more and more unchildlike. 
 Silent, morose, he was never content save 
 when wandering high on the mountain-slopes, 
 or among the pines, or by Iolair Water as it 
 came swirling down its steep bouldered chan- 
 nels from the Linn o' Mairg. In one thing 
 alone he transcended all the other dwellers in 
 the strath, young or old. He knew every 
 flower and plant and tree, every bird, every 
 creature, and the haunts of all and the life of 
 all, with a surety of knowledge and a pro- 
 found intimacy that at once astonished the 
 hill-folk and confirmed them in their belief 
 concerning him. 
 
 Then there came a summer when he was 
 hardly ever seen at Mr. Morrison's house. 
 He lived like an outcast, and was seldom met 
 save by a mountain shepherd, or by the two 
 highest hill-dwellers, the widow Anabal Gil- 
 christ on Tornideon, and Torcall Cameron of 
 Mam-Gorm on Wester Iolair. Fitting com- 
 pany, it was said ; for Anabal and Torcall 
 
 204
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 were not only, voluntarily isolated from the 
 folk of the strath, and held themselves 
 strangely aloof, but were at bitter feud the 
 one with the other. 
 
 That autumn a band of gypsies came to the 
 strath. Some were brown-skinned and of 
 foreign race; others were of northern blood 
 and birth: a few were Celtic waifs, who had 
 the Gaelic as their familiar speech. When 
 the people of the dust, or the children of the 
 wind, as the Highlanders call these vagrant 
 folk — though commonly by the first designa- 
 tion — moved away again, traceless as is their 
 wont, they took Nial with them. The winter 
 passed, the spring, summer came again, and 
 with the waning of autumn there was still no 
 sign of the changeling. Year after year went 
 by : and the story of Nial, or Nicor the Soul- 
 less, as he was often named, became vaguer 
 and vaguer. It was nigh upon fifteen years 
 later that he was seen once more in the strath. 
 No one had heard of his return ; no one knew 
 of it except perhaps Torcall Cameron and his 
 daughter Sorcha, or Anabal Gilchrist and her 
 son Alan ; when one day Murdo, Mam-Gorm's 
 shepherd, came along the strath with the news 
 that, as he strode through the forest at dawn, 
 he had descried Nial — a ragged, fantastically 
 deformed dwarf, aged in appearance as 
 
 205
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 though he were one of " the other people " 
 who lived in the heart of the hills. He had 
 recognized him in a moment; but had not 
 spoken with him because when he saw the 
 creature it was stealing furtively from pine- 
 bole to pine-bole, and sometimes tapping and 
 listening intently, or muttering. 
 
 " And what would that be meaning? " asked 
 every one to whom he told his tale, though 
 there was not one who did not know the an- 
 swer a forehand. 
 
 " It means that he was looking for his soul 
 — for the soul that the Cailliach won out of 
 him and hid for ever in a pine-tree, where 
 neither he nor any one else would be like to 
 find it." 
 
 " Until the tree falls, by the hand of man, 
 or by the lightning or the wind," some one 
 would add: but at this Murdo would only 
 shake his head, and say that the beansith had 
 for sure chosen a tree that neither wind nor 
 flame could easily reach, and that when, after 
 hundreds of years, it would be dying, it would 
 die from within, and so kill the soul that 
 wailed and wept or lay spellbound in misery 
 within. 
 
 Thereafter Nial was occasionally seen. 
 Weeks went by : summer passed, and autumn : 
 and it was clear that he had come back to 
 
 206
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 stay, though he never once drew near the 
 house of old Mr. Morrison, nor even sought 
 out his foster-father anywhere, nor held con- 
 verse with any one save at Mam-Gorm. 
 
 He might have been dead or absent, for all 
 the hill-folk knew, had it not been for Sorcha 
 Cameron, who told in the strath, on the rare 
 Sabbaths when she came down from Iolair, 
 how her father gave occasional shelter and 
 frequent food to Nial : and for the confirm- 
 ing of this by Murdo the shepherd, who said 
 that the dwarf for the most part slept in the 
 woods, but as the nights grew colder had be- 
 gun to take haven either in a cave, or in an 
 old hut on the hillside, or at Torcall Cam- 
 eron's sheiling. 
 
 " And I doubt if he would cross the airidh 
 at all," he added, " were it not for that little 
 wild-fire of a lass, the bit girlie Oona, that 
 Mam-Gorm loves wi' all his heart and soul, 
 an' better than his bonnie Sorcha, for all he 
 leaves her to flit about like a spunkie owre the 
 feith. For Nial will speak to Oona when he'll 
 not even look at any one else: an' the lassie 
 will be awa' wi' him, an' no man kens the way 
 o't or the whitheraway o' thae twain." 
 
 And so that winter went, and then another 
 spring, until the coming of May again: and 
 Nial was once more one of the people of the 
 
 207
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 strath, though hardly ever seen in the valley 
 itself, except by the Linn o' Mairg or by the 
 running water, and then only in the dusk of 
 the morning, or in late gloamings. 
 
 II 
 
 The foreheads of the hills were bathed in 
 light. Sheer above all rose the aureoled 
 peaks of Ben Iolair and Tornideon. The lyric 
 rapture of the morning made a sound of re- 
 joicing. The bleating of the sheep was more 
 rapid and less plaintive; and when the harsh 
 screams of the great eagle, that had its eyrie 
 far above where the mountain-shoulders al- 
 most touch, came echoing down the slopes, they 
 were so mellowed at last as to fall through 
 the leagues of sunsea in sharp cadences. 
 
 Mists veiled all the slopes, and hid the 
 strath. The mountains seemed thus to be 
 raimented in white and crowned with living 
 gold. On the heights these mists moved with 
 furtive undulations, with an upward wave 
 which ever and again lifted a great mass of 
 vapour columnarly toward the summits. 
 
 Beneath, they lay like suspended snow, or 
 hung as palls: vast draperies of unrevealed 
 day. 
 
 208
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 Even though the sunflood broke into these 
 cohorts, and here seemed to suck with thirsty 
 flaming tongues, here to plunge in golden bil- 
 lows among shallows of fading shadow, or 
 here with a giant hand withdrew, rent, swept 
 away, dissipated the ever dissolving, ever re- 
 forming battalions of rising mist — yet, as the 
 morning advanced, the highland was still 
 swathed. 
 
 Sometimes a boulder, at a vast height, 
 would stand disclosed. The wet upon it, from 
 granite boss and yellow lichen, shimmered as 
 though the fairy-folk who weave the rain- 
 bows were there at work. A space below 
 would give way to the sudden leap of the 
 hill-wind ; and with a rush the sunlight would 
 stream forward. Pine after pine would rear 
 a green banner, from which mist-veils would 
 float, or rise and sway like flags of a march- 
 ing army. Then the ranks would close in 
 again. Flying columns would converge from 
 right and left; the pine-banners would vanish, 
 as though in the smoke of battle: a mighty 
 swaying mass would sweep upward, absorb 
 the sunbeams and splinter their gleaming 
 lances, till boulder after boulder would be 
 captured and the bastioned heights themselves 
 be environed in the assault. 
 
 From the narrow loch at the end of the 
 
 209
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 ravine, in the Pass of the Eagles, came the 
 clamour of wildfowl. Now here, now there, 
 as though a voice swam disembodied in that 
 white sea, the double note of the cuckoo re- 
 sounded. In a thick sob, the echo of the Linn 
 o' Mairg came heavily at intervals. The muf- 
 fled noise of Mairg Water crawled through 
 the caverns of the mist. 
 
 Though the two mountain-buttresses at the 
 head of the pass are so close that the legend 
 of a stag having taken the intervening space 
 at a bound is not wholly incredible, it was 
 impossible for one hid in the mist on Maol- 
 Gorm of Iolair to see any one or anything 
 on Maol-dubh of Tornideon. But through 
 the mist, here suffused with a pale golden 
 light, was audible on both spurs the bleat- 
 ing of travelling sheep and the barking of 
 a dog, with, now and again, the lowing of 
 cows. 
 
 Suddenly a voice rang out, strong, clear, 
 and blithe : 
 
 " Mo ran geal, dileas, 
 Dileas, dileas. 
 Mo run geal, dileas 
 Nach till thunall!" 
 
 Upon the spring of the last word came back 
 from Iolair a voice as blithe and more sweet, 
 
 210
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 the voice of a woman, with the lilt of a bird in 
 it and all the joy of the sunshine : 
 
 " / go where the sheep go, 
 
 With the sheep are my feet: 
 I go where the kye go, 
 
 Their breath is so sweet: 
 O lover who loves me, 
 
 Art thou half so fleet? 
 Where the sheep climb, the kye go, 
 
 There shall we meet!" 
 
 There was something so penetratingly sweet 
 and joyous in the song that it stirred every 
 bird on the hillside. The larks rose through 
 the mist till they swam into the sunflood ; the 
 Unties and shilfas and yellow-yites sent 
 thrilling notes from gorse-bush to gorse-bush 
 and from rowan to rowan. In the birk-shaws, 
 the cries of the merles sounded like shrill 
 flutes. 
 
 To and fro went the sweet voices. Now 
 the man's on Tornideon would ring blithely, 
 now the woman's on Iolair respond. 
 
 At last, as the cattle moved up the slopes, 
 with the spreading sheep in advance, the shep- 
 herding voices fell further apart. Instinct led 
 the kye to the sunlight, for all living things 
 have their joy through the eyes. 
 
 "Sorcha, Sorcha, Sorcha!" came ringing 
 
 211
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 through the mist: " Sorcha-mo-ciatach-nio- 
 nag! " 
 
 " Tha, Ailean-a-ghaolach ! " came back, with 
 a ripple of laughter, the laughter of joy. 1 
 
 " Ah mo cailin geal, mo nighean donn, duit 
 ciat mhor ! " 
 
 " Duit ciat, no runach ! " 2 
 
 " The sheep and the kye don't know love, 
 Sorcha, or they would stay here till the mists 
 go, and then we would see each other." 
 
 " Let us cry deasiul, and turn thrice sun- 
 ways ! " 
 
 " Ay ; and meanwhile the beasts won't stand 
 still ! That evil beast of a bull, Donncha-dhu, 
 who ought to be called Domnuill-dhu, is lead- 
 ing the way over the shoulder of Maol-Gonn. 
 I must go, Sorcha-mo-ghraidh, or never a 
 sheep will I find again; and as for the kye, 
 they'll go smelling the four winds. Sorcha! 
 Sorcha! Can you hear?" 
 
 Hear came back in a sweet falling echo, the 
 more remote and aerial because of the mist. 
 
 '"Sorcha, my bonnie lassie." "Yes, Alan, my 
 darling." 
 
 2 "Ah, my fair one, my dark-haired lass, joy be 
 on you! " — " And joy on you, my loved-in-secret." 
 
 Infra: Domnuill-dubh instead of Donncha-dubh : 
 i.e. "should be called Black Donald instead of Black 
 Duncan." It is a play upon words: for "Black 
 Donald" is the Highland colloquialism for Satan. 
 
 212
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 " Come down to-night after the milking, and 
 meet me at the Linn. . . . Sorcha! I'm going 
 to see Mr. Morrison again ! " 
 
 Tis no use, Alan. But I'll meet you at 
 the Linn in the late gloaming." 
 
 "Sorcha!" 
 
 "Alan!" 
 
 Then, fainter and fainter, Sorcha! . . . 
 Alan! And at last no response came when 
 Alan Gilchrist cried, with a prolonged echo- 
 ing call, the name of his ghaolaichc, his heart's 
 joy. 
 
 Soon thereafter the mists began to disperse. 
 
 Alan Gilchrist was at the pool, below the 
 Linn o' Mairg, long before Sorcha Cameron 
 came down from Mam-Gorm, the hill-farm 
 on Iolair, by the circuitous but secluded way 
 through the pine-glades. 
 
 For an hour or more he had lain there, 
 dreaming. The first green breath of May 
 was sweet upon the land: already a warmth 
 as of midsummer was in the air. Pleas- 
 ant it was to lie and dream by the running 
 water. 
 
 When he had first reached the Mairg 
 Water, after his fruitless journey to Inverglas, 
 
 213
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 the village of Strath Iolair, he had thrown 
 himself down among the fern, in the shadow 
 of a boulder overlooking the Kelpie's Pool. 
 Angry thoughts were in his mind, because of 
 the minister's refusal to marry Sorcha and 
 himself. It was a bitter thing, he thought, 
 and unjust. 
 
 For that noontide, after he had driven the 
 sheep on to the upper pastures upon Torni- 
 deon, and had got little Davie Niven, of Cla- 
 chan-nan-Creag, to herd the sheep for him 
 till moonrise, he had gone down by his home 
 at Ardoch-Beag, itself high on the mountain- 
 side — though he was little there during the 
 summer-pasturing on the hills — to the strath, 
 and so by the road to Inverglas. As he went 
 through the village, there were many who 
 looked at him with glad eyes : for wherever 
 he w±nt Alan found a smile of welcome for 
 him, partly because of the beauty of his tall 
 person and curly yellow hair, which made the 
 strath women call him Alan-aluinn, Alan-fair- 
 to-see, but more perhaps of his own smile 
 that was so sweet out of his blue eyes, and 
 for the grave yet winning way of him. His 
 rival, Duncan Robertson, spoke of him con- 
 temptuously as " the man for women and chil- 
 dren " ; but, as others besides Duncan Rob- 
 ertson knew well, the women's-man and the 
 
 214
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 children's-man could also be the best man's- 
 man in the strath when occasion required. 
 
 This early afternoon, however, he had no 
 wish to speak with any, and so hurried on, 
 with a visit only to old Morag Niven, Davie 
 the herd-laddie's grandmother. The small, 
 douce, wizened old woman blessed him for 
 what he brought her, and insisted on telling 
 his fortune again by the lines in his hands. 
 Laughingly he assured her she had told it to 
 him so often that he was beginning not to be- 
 lieve in her predictions at all. 
 
 ' That may be," she exclaimed, half -pet- 
 tishly : " but it's this I'm telling you, Alan 
 Mac Fergus, and what's more, it's not only 
 the ' vision ' of the love that's coming to you, 
 but I've had the ' sight ' on the lover too ! " 
 
 The young man flushed, but answered care- 
 lessly : 
 
 " Good for you, Muime : but sure 'tis a 
 risky thing to be seeing too much." 
 
 The old woman stared keenly at him for a 
 moment, and then smiled. 
 
 " Well, and will this, then, be like what you 
 have seen in your dreams, if ever a great 
 oganach like you dreams at all : 
 
 " 'First: She is beautiful as this May day. 
 
 "Second: She is tall and graceful as a 
 young pine, and moves like a hind upon the 
 
 215
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 hills, an' no flower sways in the wind more 
 dainty-sweet than she. 
 
 ' Third: She is fair of face, with all the 
 soft skin of her like new milk. But her hair 
 is dark, like the woods at dusk, and fragrant 
 as they. 
 
 "Fourth: She lives at a mountain-farm, and 
 all her heart is in a man's keeping, and all her 
 beauty is his to love, and she is the tallest, and 
 strongest, and sweetest lass in all the strath 
 or in the big world beyond, and as beautiful 
 as Roscrana that was wife to Fingal of old 
 and mother of Ossian the blind bard — ay, 
 good as Morna, which is the name of a 
 woman that is beloved by all, and fair-to-see 
 as Fiona, which is the name given of old to 
 a bonnie maid, and lovely as Alona, than 
 whom not woman could be lovelier. 
 
 "Fifth: And the man she loves is a poor 
 misguidit wastrel who lives on a hill opposite 
 to her, and I'm thinkin' his name will be Alan 
 too, Alan this or Alan that. 
 
 " Sixth: Tis Himself only, praise be to Him, 
 who knows who this Morna-Fiona-Alona may 
 be: but in a dream I had, I'm thinkin' her 
 name is Sorcha. 
 
 "And Seventh" (this in a relapse from 
 Gaellic into the Lowland tongue): " I may be 
 a silly auld wife, Alan my man, but I'm na 
 
 216
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 sae blind as ta fail ta see through a split poke, 
 for a' yer havers and blethers ! " 
 
 With a shamefaced laugh Alan told her she 
 was an old witch, and was sheer doited at 
 that ! Then, suddenly stooping and kissing 
 her grey hair, he bade her good-bye, and went 
 on his way. 
 
 But it was an ill-faring. Mr. Morrison, the 
 tall, dark-faced minister, gray and lank as an 
 old fox, though a godly man, would have 
 nothing to say to the granting of his request. 
 
 " No, no, Alan Gilchrist," he added in part- 
 ing, and in a not unkindly tone, " 'tis no ill- 
 will I am bearing you, my lad. But neither I 
 nor any true minister of God will wed you 
 and Sorcha Cameron, because of the feud be- 
 tween Torcall her father and Anabal your 
 mother, and of the ban laid by him on her, 
 and by her on you." 
 
 " So be it, Mr. Morrison; but as for me, I 
 will be putting up with no banning from man 
 or woman — no, not I, nor Sorcha either ! " 
 
 ' That is a wicked thing for you to say. 
 But Sorcha is a good lass if you're not a good 
 lad, and . . . and . . . the long and short of 
 it is, I can't and won't wed you and her . . . 
 no, not though your mother and Sorcha's 
 father were to die, and that I avow here sol- 
 emnly, to the stones be it said." 
 
 217
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 And so it was that the young man went 
 away wrathful and indignant. Yet, with 
 every mile of his homeward journey he cared 
 less and less. After all, what did it matter to 
 him or Sorcha? Living remote upon the soli- 
 tary hills, and rarely seeing the people of the 
 strath, what did it avail whether or no he and 
 she were " blessed " by Mr. Morrison ? Well, 
 he had done what he could. 
 
 He knew of course, of the heavy weight of 
 a parental ban ; how, with some, it was a com- 
 mand as sacred and inviolable as those of God. 
 But he did not know all that Mr. Morrison 
 knew or surmised : wherein, indeed, was the 
 deeper reason of the refusal. 
 
 ' The child Oona, the child Oona," mut- 
 tered the minister as he returned to his house ; 
 " why was she sent by Anabal, as soon as 
 might be after birth, to Torcall Cameron? 
 And why was he stricken blind, he there alone 
 on Mam-Gorm, with Marsail, his wife, long 
 dead, and only his daughter, Sorcha, sweet 
 lass, beside him: stricken of God, blind and 
 desolate for all his days thereafter? Alas, too, 
 what of the doom of Fergus, her husband ! " 
 
 But, lying by the running water of Mairg, 
 Alan, at last oblivious of what had angered 
 him and left in his mind a vague distress, 
 pondered other and dearer things than these. 
 
 218
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 His heart was full of Sorcha. Already, as 
 indeed for more than a month past, there was 
 upon him that trance of love of which the 
 old Celtic poets speak. Even now he went 
 daily in a dream. Malveen, the widow- 
 mother of Davie the herd-laddie, saw him 
 often as he passed to and fro upon the hill- 
 side, as one in a vision, rapt, with shining eyes. 
 At times, too, unknown of either, she caught 
 a glimpse of Alan and Sorcha as they kept 
 tryst in the gloamings. She mothered them 
 with the longing woman's joy in love that had 
 never been hers ; they were her dear ones, 
 though rare it was that she had word of either. 
 The youth of youths, the maid of maids : to 
 her at last something more than real and 
 familiar, remote as they were in the glam- 
 our that was about them as the Mountain 
 Lovers. 
 
 It was in the late gloaming, as she had 
 promised, that Sorcha stole soundlessly from 
 the forest, and was in Alan's arms almost be- 
 fore he knew that the tryst was kept. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Volumes of grey-black cloud swept up 
 the flanks of Iolair. The breath of the south- 
 
 219
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 west wind fell moist upon the land. All 
 the wonderful colour of the highland seemed 
 absorbed, as though a sponge had been 
 passed over it. The after-gloom was en- 
 hanced by the silence which prevailed, for 
 the thunderous weight in the air hushed the 
 birds. Even the corbies sat sullenly on stone 
 dyke or solitary quicken. 
 
 Up at the farm of Mam-Gorm the cloud- 
 skirts went trailing by, sometimes enveloping 
 the whole airidh in a clinging obscurity, and 
 ever and again lifting high above it as though 
 with a spasmodic leap. 
 
 A few yards from the door of the low 
 whitewashed house Torcall Cameron stood, 
 his gaunt figure, with its mass of tangled iron- 
 grey hair, thrown into strong relief. Though 
 he grasped a heavy oaken staff, his head was 
 uncovered. From this, Nial inferred that 
 " Mam-Gorm " was not going far : of which 
 he was glad, for there was no one in the 
 house, wild weather was nigh, and it was not 
 a time for a blind man to wander among the 
 hills, with the sheep-paths damp and slippery 
 and often obliterated in the moist peat. 
 
 For, though Mam-Gorm thought he was 
 alone, Nial had been his silent companion for 
 an hour past. Sorcha, he knew, was up at 
 the high sheiling on Iolair, with the cows: 
 
 220
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 Oona, he imagined, was either wandering 
 after the sheep with Murdo the shepherd, or 
 was in the forest with Nial, or might be flit- 
 ting here and there on the slopes like the wild 
 fawn she was. As for Nial, Torcall Camer- 
 on rarely gave him a thought. The dwarf 
 was like a faithful collie : to be fed, and given 
 a kindly clap now and then, while his grati- 
 tude and devotion were taken for granted. 
 
 This rough, stern, blind, and stricken giant 
 was a divine being to the poor child of the 
 woods. In a vague way Nial thought of 
 Mam-Gord as God : like Mam-Gorm, God 
 could provide, could at rare times be tender 
 and pitiful, could be stern, morose, forbidding, 
 terrible in wrath, of a swift avenging spirit, 
 could strike, bruise, drive forth, kill. 
 
 When Sorcha had left at sunrise she knew 
 that her father had the gloom upon him. In 
 vain she looked here and there for Oona. The 
 child had vanished. The platter in which she 
 had her porridge was found under a bench 
 near the rowan at the side of the house — 
 where, indeed, Sorcha had looked for it, as 
 she knew Oona's frequent way of carrying 
 her food out-of-door, and eating it in a hollow 
 below a rock, or under a tree, or even beneath 
 the bench, like a little wild thing. 
 
 She had turned, after she had called Fionn 
 
 221
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 and Donn, the dogs, and gone back to the 
 house, and kissed her father. His blind eyes 
 were upon her, though it was not through 
 them that he knew she was troubled. He felt 
 the sweet breath of her upon his brow. It was 
 like the first day of spring when she kissed 
 him, but he did not smile. Before she went 
 away with the cows she found Nial, and bade 
 him keep watch and ward, though without 
 letting himself be seen. 
 
 But all morning and noon Torcall Cameron 
 had sat brooding by the peats. At the turn of 
 the day he rose, ate some of the bread and 
 cold porridge which, with a jug of milk, Sor- 
 cha had set on the table beside him ; then re- 
 sumed his listless attitude by the fire, into the 
 heart of which he stared with his blank, un- 
 wavering eyes. 
 
 Nial had grown tired, as a collie will tire if 
 the kye drowse, chewing the cud. 
 
 He had wandered far from the airidh, and 
 passed idly through the pines. No more of 
 him might have been seen that day had he not 
 heard Oona singing in the woods. It was in 
 vain that he tried to come upon her. Either 
 she had caught sight of him, and wilfully 
 evaded his quest of her; or she was like a 
 birdeen lured by the dancing sunrays. At the 
 
 222
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 last, he thought of a song she was wont to 
 sing. Across the midst of the high glade 
 where he was, lay the bole of a half -fallen 
 pine. Along this he clambered, till he reached 
 the end boughs, and so out upon a feathery- 
 branch which swayed up and down with his 
 weight, as a fir-spray when a cushat alights 
 
 on it: 
 
 " Wild fawn, wild fawn, 
 Hast seen the Green Lady? 
 The merles are singing, 
 The ferns are springing, 
 The little leaves whisper from dusk to dawn — 
 Green Lady ! Green Lady ! 
 
 The little leaves whisper from dusk to dawn — 
 Wild fawn, wild fawn!'' 
 
 It was a harsh and wild music, that song of 
 Oona on the lips of Nial. Brokenly, too, it 
 came, between gasps of breath, for, as the 
 branch swayed, so the dwarf's excitement 
 grew, and he seized the pine-needles as 
 though they were the mane of a horse, and he 
 were riding from death for life: 
 
 " Wild fawn, wild fawn, 
 Hast seen the Green Lady? 
 The bird in the nest, 
 And the child at the breast, 
 They open wide eyes as she comes down the dawn — 
 The bonnie Green Lady, 
 
 Bird and child make a whisper of music at dawn — 
 Wild fawn, wild fawn!" 
 
 22^
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 Suddenly he ceased his fierce ride of the 
 branches. Surely that clear call was from the 
 throat of Oona? Yes, near she was, though 
 invisible. Her song bubbled from her as sun- 
 lit water down a brae: 
 
 " Wild fawn, wild fawn, 
 Dost thou flee the Green Lady? 
 Her wild flowers will race thee, 
 Her sunbeams will chase thee, 
 
 Her laughter is singing aloud in the dawn — 
 
 O the Green Lady 
 
 With yellow flowers strewing the ways of the dawn, 
 
 Wild fawn, wild fawn!" 
 
 Even the hawk-keen eye of Nial failed to 
 discover Oona. Her voice came from a co- 
 vert of bracken, amid which rose craggy 
 mossed boulders. Doubtless, the girl shel- 
 tered behind one of these. 
 
 "Oona!" 
 
 He lay still now, save for the quivering of 
 his eagerness. The branch was bent by his 
 weight, but did not sway. 
 
 "Oona!" 
 
 The rapid skiff-skiff of a hind leaping 
 through the fern, through the green-glooms 
 to his right, caught his attention; otherwise 
 he must have seen the bending of the 
 bracken in the hollow beyond him, and have 
 
 224
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 heard the faint rustle as a little cat-like fig- 
 ure swung herself up into a low-branched 
 rowan. 
 
 " Oona! Oona!" 
 
 Again he sang in his strange, half-scream- 
 ing, falsetto voice, first one, then another of 
 the snatches of Gaelic song which he had 
 learned from Oona, but without response. 
 One of his sudden fits of anger seized him, 
 and he bit savagely at the supporting branch. 
 Then, with a peal of mirthless laughter, he 
 began to sway wildly to and fro again, so that 
 it was a wonder the bough did not break. He 
 was swung this way and that, as an apple on 
 an outspread branch. With short, incoherent 
 cries he rode onward through the air, for the 
 moment persuaded by his fantasy that he was 
 one of those wind-demons of whom he had 
 heard Murdo the shepherd speak — pale elves 
 of the air who race across forest and moor on 
 flying leaves and broken branches, or are 
 swept screaming in the wake of the wind as, 
 with outblown mane and fierce snorting and 
 neighing, " the gray stallion " speeds with 
 mile-long leaps. 
 
 A frenzy of insensate wrath shook him, so 
 that he nearly lost his grip. Screaming, he 
 hurled toward Oona the curses that seemed 
 to him most dreadful and mysterious, dark 
 
 225
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 anathemas of old-time learned here and there 
 during his far-wanderings. 
 
 "Droch cheann ort, Oonal Droch bhas 
 ort! Och, ochan, bas dunach ort! Gu ma 
 h-olc dhnit! — Gu ma h-olc dhuit!" 1 
 
 A faint shuddering cry came from some- 
 where close at hand. In a moment his mad- 
 ness went from him. The dumb animal soul 
 felt the finger of God touch it. All wrath 
 ceased, and a great pity came, and longing, 
 and sorrow. The tears sprang to his eyes, 
 and he lay on the branch sobbing convulsively, 
 so that he was like to fall. 
 
 He raised his head at last, and looked eager- 
 ly about him. "Oonal" 
 
 Still there was no response. His gaze 
 lanced hither and thither like a swallow. If a 
 bee crawled from a foxglove bell, he noted it : 
 if a spider swung on a glistening thread, he 
 saw her as, spinning, she sank. If a wood- 
 lark stirred, he saw the shadow of its wing flit 
 from frond to frond. But of Oona, no trace. 
 
 " Oona, my fairy ! Oona, my fawn ! I 
 didn't mean it ! I didn't mean it ! The words 
 were in my throat. I couldn't help it. Not a 
 word was true. Oh, my grief, my grief! 
 
 1 " Bad end to you ! Bad death to you! Ay, and 
 may a death of woe be on you! Evil to you, evil 
 to you!" 
 
 226
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 Oona muirnean, Oona mo muirnean — 
 Ochone, ochone, thraisg mo chridhe — darling, 
 darling, oh, 'tis my heart that is parched ! " 
 
 But the child was obdurate. She made no 
 sign. Nial lay moaning on the branch. The 
 silence was unbroken, save by the sea-like 
 whisper of the wind among the leaves. 
 
 Suddenly a cushat crooned. Then the low 
 croodling sound palpitated upon the warm 
 sunlit air that flooded in among the pine- 
 boughs. 
 
 The dwarf listened. The gloom in his eyes 
 lifted. He knew how Oona loved his one 
 utterance that was his own, which he had 
 made in imitation of the crooning of a dove. 
 Raising his head, he half mumbled, half sang: 
 
 " Oona, Oona, mo ghraidh, 
 Oona, Oona, mo ghraidh, 
 Muirnean, muirnean, muirnean, 
 Oona, Oona, mo ghraidh!" 
 
 Surely she would respond : ah, yes, that 
 shrill mocking laugh, elfin sweet in his ears! 
 His gaze leaped along the track of the sound, 
 and then at last he espied her, crouching low 
 in the fork of a rowan, with her bare legs hid- 
 den by the bole and only the sparkle of her 
 eyes glinting from behind the screen of leaves. 
 
 " Ah," he cried joyously, " I see you, Oona, 
 
 227
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 my dove ! Ah, my little white dove, your little 
 black dove sees you ! " 
 
 Oona drew herself up, leaped to a lower 
 branch, and sprang to the ground. 
 
 " Cha'n ann de mo chuideachd thu, cha'n 
 ann de mo chuideachd thu, ars an colman," 
 she cried mockingly : " You are not of my 
 flock, not of my flock, said the dove ! " x 
 
 And with that she spread out her yellow 
 hair with her hands, and went dancing and 
 leaping through the bracken. Onward she 
 flickered like a sunbeam, till she came to a 
 rocky declivity, where she stopped abruptly, 
 and stared intently into the hollow beyond 
 her. 
 
 Turning, she looked to see if Nial were 
 watching her, and when she saw that he was 
 still on the swaying pine-branch, she cried 
 eagerly : 
 
 " Look, Nial ! Look ! " 
 
 " What is it ? " he cried, nearly toppling 
 from the bough in his eagerness. " What is it, 
 Oona? What is it?" 
 
 " It must be your soul, Nial ! It's black 
 and wriggling about, in case you catch it ! Bi 
 ealamh! Bi ealamh! Be quick, be quick!" 
 
 1 A pretty and common onomatopoeic saying, 
 which I remember first hearing as a lullaby, when 
 I was a child of three or four. 
 
 228
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 Then, with a spring, she leaped out of sight. 
 Nial stared after her for a moment, caught his 
 breath spasmodically, crawled swiftly back to 
 the tree, half clambered, half fell to the 
 ground, and then ran like a leaping goat to- 
 ward the place where Oona had disappeared. 
 
 When he reached the ridge of rock which 
 overhung the hollow he stopped, trembling like 
 a reed in a wind-eddy. At last ! At last ! 
 Was he to find his soul at last? Black or 
 white, fair to see or uncouth as himself, what 
 did it matter, if only his long quest were now 
 to be rewarded? 
 
 Shaking as in an ague, he crawled forward 
 on his belly, till his shaggy head projected 
 over the ledge. At first he could not see, for 
 the passion in his heart had filmed his eyes. 
 
 Then at last he stared down into the green- 
 ness. He could see nothing. Not a wild bee 
 fumbled among the moss, not an ant crawled 
 along a spray of grass. 
 
 What did it mean? 
 
 Was it possible that Oona could see what he 
 could not ? Here, perhaps, was his tragic 
 sorrow: that his soul might often be nigh, but 
 was invisible to him. 
 
 With a hoarse exclamation, half scream, 
 half call, he cried to Oona to come to him. 
 He had a name for her which he had adopted 
 
 229
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 from Murdo the shepherd, and by this he 
 called her now. " Bonnie-wee-lass, bonnie- 
 wee-lass, come to me ! Oona, muirnean, Oona- 
 mo-ghraidh, come to your poor Nial! Oh, 
 my soul, my soul, it will be lost! Oona, it 
 will be lost! Quick, quick, bonnie-wee- 
 lass!" 
 
 But no answer came. There was no sign 
 of the girl. She might be hiding near, or be 
 already far away, perhaps croodlin' back to 
 the doves in the middle of the forest, or chas- 
 ing dragonflies by the tarn, or out upon the 
 hillside flitting from rock to rock like a butter- 
 fly, or singing and springing from gale-tuft to 
 heather-tussock, as a green Untie in the sun- 
 light. " O lassie, lassie, where is my soul, 
 where is my soul?" he cried, despairingly. 
 
 Suddenly his own curses came back to him, 
 terrible on Oona's unwitting lips. 
 
 " Gu ma h-olc dhuit, Nial! Gu ma h-olc 
 dhuit! A bad end to you too, Nial-without-a- 
 soul, and I'll be telling my father, I will, that 
 you laid your curse on me : ay, and I will also 
 be telling Sorcha too, and Murdo, and Alan, 
 and the dogs ; and I'll whisper it to the wind, 
 so that it'll tell the Green Lady of the Hills ; 
 and if I meet your soul I'll tell it, so that it 
 may be ashamed of you, and go and drown 
 itself in a peat-hole. 
 
 230
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 Nial listened, quivering. His eyes strained 
 as a crouching hound's. 
 
 At last he spoke. 
 
 " I was mad, Oona. Forgive me. I see 
 your voice coming from behind that rock. 
 Will you not return and show me my soul ? " 
 
 " Look in the hollow of the stone beneath 
 you, silly Nial ! " came the child's voice mock- 
 ingly. 
 
 Nial stared ; then, descrying nothing, 
 leaped into the hollow. The next moment he 
 recoiled with a look of horror. 
 
 An adder lay in a little ferny crevice at 
 the base of the rock. Its writhing black body 
 was trying to get out of sight, but could not. 
 An adder was the one thing in nature that the 
 outcast could not bear to look at. It gave him 
 a horror, that at times moved him to frenzy, 
 at times made him flee as a man accursed. 
 
 Now he stood as one fascinated. If the 
 nathair had wriggled toward him he would 
 have stood motionless. 
 
 With a heavy swaying motion of his head 
 he muttered : 
 
 "Anam nathrach, 
 Anam nathrach!" x 
 
 1 "Serpent-soul, serpent-soul!" 
 
 Pronounce an' urn naa-rach. Nathrach is the 
 genitive of nathair (pronounced nha'er, or a'er 
 nasally). 
 
 231
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 But when the adder saw a crevice else- 
 where, that promised better, and swiftly wrig- 
 gled to it, Nial saw that it was only a crawling 
 beast, this and nothing more. 
 
 With a dart like a hawk he seized it by the 
 tail, swung it round his head while he shouted, 
 " Droch spadadh ortl Droch spadadh ort! 
 Bad death to you! Bad death to you!" and 
 flung it against the face of the rock, so that 
 when it fell across a bracken it lay as though 
 stunned or dead. 
 
 A shout of elfish laughter came from Oona, 
 who had sprung from her covert, and watched 
 Nial's discomfiture with malicious glee. He 
 turned slowly. His corrugated brows were 
 knitted grotesquely, as with dull bewildered 
 eyes he stared in the direction of the laughter. 
 With a furtive motion he kept shifting his 
 weight now to one foot, now to another, oc- 
 casionally dragging one backward as though 
 pawing the ground. His tormentor knew well 
 these signs of perplexity, and her light tantal- 
 izing glee rippled afresh across the glade. She 
 stood knee-deep in bracken, with her right hand 
 clasping the black-and-silver bough of a birk : a 
 golden-green hue upon her from beneath from 
 the sunlit fern ; upon her from above a flood 
 of yellow sunshine, so that she stood out like 
 a human flower, a new daffodil of the woods. 
 
 232
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 The wild, rude, misshapen creature who 
 fronted her seemed less human now than his 
 wont, with that bovine stare, that uncouth 
 guise, his over-large and heavy head slowly- 
 swaying, his restless stamping and scraping. 
 Suddenly it dawned upon him that Oona had 
 not been in earnest : that she had played with, 
 and now mocked him. His eyes grew red, as 
 those of wild swine do of a sudden, or as 
 those of an angry badger. A spray of froth 
 blew from his hanging lip. His long horny 
 fingers opened and closed like sheathing and 
 unsheathing claws. 
 
 The next moment there stirred in his brain 
 the thought that perhaps, after all, Oona was 
 mocking him because he had lost, perhaps 
 even because he, he himself, had destroyed 
 his long-sought and moment-agone found 
 soul. 
 
 With a cry he threw himself on the ground, 
 sobbing convulsively. He lay there like a 
 stricken beast, a quivering ungainly heap. It 
 was no unknowing beast, though, that moaned, 
 over and over, "My soul — my soul — my 
 soul!" Great tears, like a stag's, ran down 
 his furrowed cheeks. Oona stood amazed. 
 Here was no frenzy of blind rage such as she 
 had seen at times in her companion; but pas- 
 sionate grief: sobs, tears. 
 
 233
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 The child shivered. God surely has the 
 tendrils of a child's heart close-clinging to his 
 own. Perhaps the wind murmured to her, 
 My grief! my grief! Perhaps the leaves 
 whispered, Sorrow, O sorrozv! Perhaps the 
 blind earth breathed, My gloom! . my gloom! 
 Perhaps the laughing sunlight sighed, or the 
 wild bees crooned, or the doves moaned, 
 Peace! peace! peace! Oona's eyes grew dim. 
 A trembling was upon her, like that of a 
 bird in the hollow of the hand. Like a bird, 
 too, was her heart : sure, the flutter of it was 
 an eddy of joy in heaven. 
 
 She came toward Nial with swift, noiseless 
 step. He did not hear her approach; or if his 
 wildwood ear caught a rustle, he did not look 
 up. The first he knew of her was the stealing 
 of a small arm round his neck : then the pres- 
 sure of a warm body against his side : then a 
 wisp of fragrant yellow hair tangled with his 
 coarse, shaggy fell, a soft cheek laid against 
 his, a hand like a little white hovering bird 
 caressed his face. Sweetest of all, the whis- 
 per that stole into his dark brain as moonlight : 
 " Nial, darling Nial! " 
 
 His sobs ceased. Only his breath came 
 quick and hard. His whole body panted, 
 quivered still. 
 
 " Forgive me, Nial ! dear, good Nial ! I did 
 
 234
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 not mean to hurt you so. I was angry because 
 of your words. But I — I — didn't really mean 
 that that was your soul. Nial, Nial, I didn't 
 see your soul at all ! " 
 
 Slowly he lifted his wet inflamed face: his 
 eyes agleam through the tangled locks that fell 
 over his brows. 
 
 " Have you ever seen it, Oona ? " 
 
 He could just hear the whispered No. A 
 deep sigh passed her ears, and she pressed 
 closer to his sorrow. 
 
 " Oona, my fawn, do you think you'll 
 ever see it? Do you think I'll find it some 
 day?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, Nial ! Yes — yes — yes ! " 
 
 " And you will help your poor ugly Nial to 
 —to— find it?" 
 
 " Sure, it is helping you I will be, with all 
 my heart, Nial-a-ghraidh." 
 
 He stooped his head over hers, lightly 
 shoved her back, and kissed her sunshine-hair. 
 She raised an arm and pulled his face to hers, 
 and kissed him gently. 
 
 A faint smile, a glimmer of sunlight on a 
 wet, dishevelled road, came over his face. 
 
 Oona sat back, relieved, but with question- 
 ing eyes. 
 
 "Are you sure you have no soul, Nial? 
 Not even a small dark one that will grow 
 
 235
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 some day, and be beautiful, just as you will, 
 when — when — you die ? " 
 
 " I am sure, birdeen. Ask Mam-Gorm, ask 
 Sorcha, or Alan, or Murdo, or any of the 
 people down yonder. They know. And / 
 know, when I look in the tarn, or in the pool 
 below the Linn o' Mairg, or in smooth water 
 anywhere: ay, and when the deer come to 
 me, or the sheep do not stir out of my way, or 
 the kye come close and breathe on me kindly. 
 No bee will sting me, and the dragonflies, that 
 even you can't catch, rest sometimes, as the 
 moths do, on my head or arm." 
 
 Oona kneeled, and bade the dwarf do like- 
 wise. Then she told him that his evil might 
 be because of a rosad upon him, the spell of 
 the Cailliach : and that she knew a sian might 
 ease him. With closed eyes and clasped hands 
 she repeated slowly: 
 
 " An ainm an Athar, a Mhic, 
 'S an Spioraid Naoimhl 
 Paidir a h'aon, 
 Paidir a dha, 
 Paidir a tri, 
 Paidir a ceithir, 
 Paidir a coig, 
 Paidir a sea, 
 Paidir a seachd; 
 
 'S neart nan seachd padirean a' sgaoileadh do 
 Cholair air na clachan glas ud thall/" 
 236
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 " In the name of the Father, 
 The Son, 
 
 And the Holy Ghost: 
 By one prayer, 
 By two prayers, 
 By three prayers, 
 By four prayers, 
 By five prayers, 
 By six prayers, 
 By seven prayers; 
 
 And may the strength of the seven prayers 
 Cast out the ill that is in you 
 Upon the grey stones over there!" i 
 
 Long and earnestly she watched to see if 
 the incantation would effect the miracle. Nial 
 trembled, with downcast eyes. 
 
 " Perhaps there is no evil in you, Nial," she 
 whispered ; " so now I will pray to Himself 
 for you, and you repeat what I say, and shut 
 your eyes and clasp your hands just as I do." 
 
 The soulless man and the child knelt side 
 by side among the fern. The light lay all 
 about them as a benediction. The rising wind, 
 with a wet sough in it, came along the pines 
 like an intoning anthem. Around them the 
 bee hummed unwitting ; in a tree beyond them 
 a cushat crooned and crooned. 
 
 Oona's voice came low and sweet as the 
 hidden dove's : 
 
 1 Paidir is literally a Pater: i. e., a Paternoster, 
 "Our Father." 
 
 237
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 " O Father, 
 
 That is the Father of the father of Sorcha and me, 
 I pray that you will give Nial a soul." 
 
 Silence. Then a hoarse, sobbing voice : 
 " I pray that you will give Nial a soul!" 
 Then Oona again : and, again, Nial : 
 
 "1 pray that Nial may find his soul soon!" 
 
 ''I pray that Nial may find his soul soon!" 
 
 "I pray that it will be a good soul!" 
 
 " I pray that it will be a good soul!" 
 
 "/ pray that it may have yellow hair and blue eyes!" 
 ' ' I pray that it may have yellow hair and blue 
 eyes!" 
 
 " I pray that father and Sorcha and Alan and Murdo, 
 And that Donn and Fionn, the collies, and the kye, 
 And the sheep, and — and — everything — 
 Will love Nial!" 
 "That everything will love Nial!" 
 
 " And that Nial will go to Heaven too!" 
 
 "And that Nial will go to Heaven too!" 
 
 " And this is the prayer of Oona, 
 The daughter of Torcall Cameron 
 Who lives at Mam-Gorm on Iolair, 
 An ainm anAthar, a Mhic, 's an Spioraid Naoimh!" 
 "An ainm an Athar, a Mhic, 's an Spioraid 
 Naoimh!" 
 
 Oona opened her eyes, looked earnestly at 
 Nial, leant forward and kissed him. 
 
 238
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 " Now, Nial, rise, and turn sunways, and 
 cry Deasiul." 
 
 The dwarf did as she bade : then, with a 
 happy laugh, she slipped her hand in his. 
 
 " Let us go back now. The rain is coming." 
 
 And so, as the glooms of storm came rap- 
 idly over the mountain, the two moved, silent 
 and happy, through the sighing glades of the 
 forest. 
 
 Lowering skies, with the floating odour of 
 coming rain, already dulled the hill-land. A 
 raven, flying athwart Iolair, looked larger than 
 its wont. Its occasional croak fell heavily as 
 though from ledge to ledge of weighty air. 
 The wood-doves which flew back toward the 
 forest winged their way at a lower level than 
 usual, the clamour of their pinions beating the 
 atmosphere as with oars : on the moorland the 
 lapwings rose and fell incessantly with wail- 
 ing cries. The scattered kye lowed uneasily, 
 or stood below solitary rowans or wild-guins, 
 easing their fly-tormented flanks with their 
 swishing tails. On the farther slopes, the 
 querulous lambs bleated : everywhere the in- 
 cessant calling of the ewes made a mournful 
 rumour. The wind moved with a heavy lift, 
 here rising, here falling, anon whirling upon 
 
 239
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 itself, so that all the fern and undergrowth in 
 the corries bent one way, or, for a league, the 
 spires of the heather whitened. 
 
 High and low, the innumerous hum of in- 
 sects vibrated on the air. Thus may the hum 
 of the wheeling world be heard of Keithoir, 
 who dreams in the hollow of a green hill un- 
 known of man : or of the ancient goddess Or- 
 chil, who, blind and dumb, works in silence 
 at the heart of Earth at her loom Change, 
 with the thridding shuttles Life and Death: 
 or of Manannan, who sleeps under the green 
 wave, hearing only the sigh of the past, the 
 moan of the passing, the rune of what is to 
 come. 
 
 Before Oona and Nial drew close to the 
 hill farm, a shrill sustained cry, not unlike 
 that of the bird called the oyster catcher, came 
 along the slopes. Oona knew at once it was 
 Sorcha's summons for her to help with the 
 cows. With a whispered word to her com- 
 rade she sped away by a sheep-path that 
 wound over against Maol-Gorm. Nial slowly 
 advanced to the green hillock of Cnoc-na- 
 shee. He had just flung himself wearily on 
 the grassy slope, when he saw Torcall Cam- 
 eron stoop and issue from his low doorway. 
 
 Mam-Gorm faced the way of the wind, 
 sniffed the air with sensitive nostrils, and let 
 
 240
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 his blind eyes feel the balm of the damp. 
 Then he turned, and returned to his seat by 
 the fire. Nial watched for an hour. The 
 wind had a steady sough in it, and the clouds 
 were lower, darker, more voluminously vast 
 and swift when Cameron came forth again. 
 
 It was this time that he had his staff in his 
 hand, though no cap covered his tangled iron- 
 grey hair. 
 
 Nial hoped he was right in believing that 
 Mam-Gorm had come out merely to breathe 
 the caller air: for the dwarf feared the re- 
 proach of Sorcha if he let the blind man wan- 
 der along the perilous moorland, with wind 
 and rain moving like ravenous hounds adown 
 the heights. 
 
 When, however, he realised that Torcall 
 Cameron was bent upon making his way to 
 some distant spot, he had not the courage to 
 check him, or even to make known his pres- 
 ence. There was a thundercloud on the man's 
 face, one that to Nial was far more sombre 
 and terrifying than any overhead. When, 
 with slow, hesitating steps, the blind man 
 passed close to Cnoc-na-shee, he stopped for a 
 few moments. Doubtless he was listening to 
 the wind going through the pines, with a noise 
 as of the flowing tide against shingly beaches : 
 
 241
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 or, perhaps, to the scattered lowing and bleat- 
 ing of his sheep and cows. But Nial feared 
 that, in some strange way, he had perceived 
 him. He trembled, for he knew that " the 
 father " was in one of his dark moods. Deep 
 down in his heart he dreaded the gaze of those 
 sightless eyes more than anything else in the 
 world: in his heart of hearts he was con- 
 vinced that they saw, more awfully and 
 searchingly because through a veil. 
 
 In his anxiety not to betray his presence, he 
 ground his foot firmer into a heathy hollow, 
 for he had slightly slipped when Cameron 
 stopped. A pebble was dislodged, and made 
 a slight noise. 
 
 The blind man lifted his head, startled. 
 
 " Is any one there ? " 
 
 No answer. The wind sighed along the 
 grass. 
 
 " Oona, are you there ? Nial, is that you ? " 
 
 Silence, but for a faint wind-rustle in the 
 bracken. 
 
 " Sst ! Down, Luath, Fior ! " 
 
 But no collie barked or whined in response. 
 
 " Well, peace to your soul, and go hence." 
 
 But at last Torcall was convinced he was 
 alone, for he heard the note of a yellow-ham- 
 mer, as it fed its mate, close by. With a sigh 
 he moved on. As he passed within a few 
 
 242
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 yards of Nial, the dwarf heard him mutter- 
 ing disconnected phrases : " Ochan-achone, 
 tha m' anam bruite am chom !"..." ma 
 tha sin an dan !"..." ma shineas Dia mo 
 laithean ! " 1 
 
 He waited till Cameron was some way 
 ahead. Then with light step, stealthy move- 
 ment, and furtive sidelong glances, he fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 The first thin rain slanted along the wind. 
 The blind man paid no heed. Indeed, he now 
 walked swiftly and firmly along a sheep-path, 
 as though he were familiar with the way, or 
 had altogether forgotten his infirmity. 
 
 Out upon a bleak stretch of moor on one of 
 the higher slopes of Maol-Donn stood a cairn. 
 It was here, so rumour went, though none 
 knew for sure, that Torcall's wife, Marsail, 
 lay buried. It was known that she had per- 
 ished in a snowstorm, and that he had insisted 
 on her burial where she was found : but when 
 the minister and the people came for her body 
 they were told that she was already in the 
 mools, and that even now the stones of her 
 cairn were upon her. 
 
 Beside it was a tall flat slab of rock. It 
 may have been part of a Pictish or Druidic 
 
 '•"Alas, my soul is oppressed within me ! " . . . "if 
 it be ordained ! " . . . "if God prolong my days ! " 
 
 243
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 temple, or its resemblance to a sacred stone 
 may have been accidental. It stood erect, one- 
 third imbedded in the hillside. 
 
 To these Torcall Cameron now made his 
 way. At the cairn he did not stop, neither did 
 he drop a stone or even a pebble upon it. 
 When he reached the great rock, he leaned 
 against it, and with folded arms stared sight- 
 lessly across the strath to Tornideon, whose 
 vast bulk rose sombre in the deepening gloom. 
 
 The wail of the wind momently increased. 
 The rocks sweated, even where there was no 
 rain falling. 
 
 Suddenly, over the high crest to the west, 
 the Druim-nan-Damh or Ridge of the Stags, 
 there came a heavy rolling sound as though 
 a mass of boulders had fallen down the far 
 side of Iolair. 
 
 This first muttering of the thunder aroused 
 the dreamer. He started, checked some ex- 
 clamation, and then, having stooped and 
 groped till he found what he wanted, threw a 
 small stone on Marsail's cairn. 
 
 Nial drew closer. A flash of lightning had 
 frightened him. Thunder and lightning were 
 to him as direct agents of a vengeful and irate 
 Power as they were to the priests and 
 prophets of old. 
 
 The first loud crash filled the air. Then en- 
 
 244
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 sued a splitting and rending as of a granite 
 mountain, from whose depths vomited a pro- 
 longed howling and roaring as of monstrous 
 beasts. The outcast crawled alongside the tall 
 slab against which the man leaned, and gripped 
 a corner with his hand. 
 
 When, his white face glimmering in the 
 mirk, he looked up at Mam-Gorm, he shivered 
 with a new dread. 
 
 The blind man stood erect, with arms up- 
 raised and hands outspread. His face was lit 
 as though a fire burned in his brain. Nial 
 imagined that the dead eyes gleamed, as he 
 had seen toadstools gleam in a dark cave : a 
 dull phosphorescent light, horrible to look 
 upon. 
 
 Again a wuthering roar, followed by a 
 scythelike whirlwind, with the sound of rain- 
 torrents flooding the high corries and wash- 
 ing the windward precipices of Ben Iolair. 
 Nial was about to speak, when he crouched 
 back at the volley of words shouted savagely 
 over his head : 
 
 " Oh, my Lord God, strike ! Oh, let Death 
 be upon me ! Sorrow Thou hast given me, and 
 I have not rebelled : grief Thou hast made my 
 daily portion, and I have not rebuked Thee: 
 but now that Thou hast made my day into a 
 charnel-house and my bed into a grave, now 
 
 245
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 that Thou hast brought before my blind eyes 
 what no eyes may see and live, now that Thou 
 hast set the Dead as a watch upon the living — 
 I cry to Thee, Enough ! " 
 
 Nial shivered with awe and terror. He 
 saw that a frenzy was upon the man whom he 
 both loved and feared. 
 
 There was silence for many seconds. A 
 greenish streak of flame shot across the moun- 
 tain, intolerably vivid. A sound as of mirth- 
 less laughter was drowned in an avalanche- 
 roar overhead. Out of the tumult, later, came 
 wild fragments of human shouting: 
 
 " Let there be a duel between us then . . . 
 ay, Marsail, you may weep; ay, Fergus, you 
 may leap out of your shroud to be soul to soul 
 with me . . . what do I care for the hounds 
 of the night? . . . Call off thy hounds, O 
 Hunter ! ... Be the day between us, and the 
 night, O God; and the two noons, and the 
 darkness of the coming and the darkness of 
 the going ; and the blood of the living, and the 
 corruption of the dead ; and the earth and the 
 sea; and the stars beneath the world, and the 
 stars above the world ; and the friend of man 
 that is Time, and Thy friend that is Eternity 
 ... for I will not, I will not, I will not . . . 
 no, though I perish for ever and for ever " 
 . . . {and at last, with a scream) ... "Go 
 
 246
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 Thy ways, O God. . . . Leave me, if Thou 
 wilt not slay! ... I will not! I will not! 
 I will not ! " 
 
 When the next flash and thunderblast had 
 hurtled and gone, Nial thought that Death 
 had indeed come. Then he heard a low 
 whisper : 
 
 " What is it that I hear? Do the dead stir? 
 Marsail . . . Marsail ... or ... or ... is 
 it you, Fergus, son of Fergus, son of Ian? " 
 
 Sick with fear, Nial sprang to his feet, 
 seized one of the fallen hands in his own, and 
 tried to lead Mam-Gorm away. 
 
 The blind man shook as a tuft of canna in 
 a wind-eddy ; white, too, as the canna, was his 
 face. 
 
 His lips moved convulsively. At last, 
 hoarse, choking, sobbing sounds came forth, 
 and from these grew three or four words : 
 
 " Is — it— you, Marsail ? " 
 
 Nial shrank appalled, but could not with- 
 draw his hands. 
 
 "Is — it — you, Fergus Gilchrist?" 
 
 Struggling to escape, he merely added to 
 the paralysing awe which held his captor. 
 
 " Who are you — what are you ? Are you 
 the thing of the grave, the black guide I have 
 heard of?" 
 
 With a sudden jerk the dwarf freed him- 
 
 247
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 self. The next moment he bounded aside, 
 then, without a glance behind him, fled. 
 
 Cameron sprang forward, but when he 
 found that he had missed his grip he drew up 
 again, and stood listening intently. If it was 
 a spirit, it made a noise of running like a 
 human: if it was a creature of the grave, it 
 hurried back to no hollow near by: if it was 
 Black Donald himself, Sir Diabhol had fled, 
 affrighted ! 
 
 Ah, the Cailliach! He had not thought of 
 her! It might well be that the demon-woman 
 had tried to snare him. If so, what, who, had 
 saved him? 
 
 Dazed and sick he stood for a moment, be- 
 cause of a crash of a thunderbolt against a 
 near height. The granite splintered like glass. 
 In his mouth his palate shrank: his nerves 
 strained, quivering. 
 
 Who, what, hurled that thunderbolt? Was 
 it God? Was He answering his wild prayer? 
 
 If it were of God, why had it not stricken 
 him? Hark! A scream far off! Had the 
 leaping Cailliach been slain by the lightning, 
 as a flying man by the spear of his pursuer? 
 Had God given him these things as signs? 
 These voices, that awful touch as of human 
 hands ? 
 
 He bowed his head. Tears scalded the 
 
 248
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 burning lids of his blind eyes. Suddenly he 
 sank to his knees, and with outstretched arms 
 repeated an ancient rune of his fathers, the 
 Cry to Age, the Rann-an-h' Aoise: 
 
 O thou that on the hills and wastes of Night art 
 
 Shepherd, 
 Whose folds are flameless moons and icy planets, 
 Whose darkling way is gloomed with ancient sor- 
 rows: 
 Whose breath lies white as snow upon the olden, 
 Whose sigh it is that furrows breasts grown milk- 
 less, 
 Whose weariness is in the loins of man 
 And is the barren stillness of the woman : 
 O thou whom all would 'scape and all must meet, 
 Thou that the Shadow art of Youth-Eternal, 
 The gloom that is the hush'd air of the Grave, 
 The sigh that is between last parted love, 
 The light for aye withdrawing from weary eyes, 
 The tide from stricken hearts for ever ebbing! 
 O thou, the Elder Brother whom none loveth, 
 Whom all men hail with reverence or mocking, 
 Who broodeth on the peaks of herbless summits, 
 Yet dreamest in the eyes of babes and children : 
 Thou, Shadow of the Heart, the Brain, the Life, 
 Who art that dusk What is that is already Has been, 
 To thee this rune of the-fathers-to-the-sons, 
 And of the sons to the sons, and mothers to new 
 
 mothers — 
 To thee who art Aois, 
 To thee who art Age! 
 
 Breathe thy frosty breath upon my hair, for I am 
 weary ; 
 
 249
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 Lay thy frozen hand upon my bones that they 
 
 support not, 
 Put thy chill upon the blood that it sustain not, 
 Place the crown of thy fulfilling on my forehead, 
 Throw the silence of thy spirit on my spirit, 
 Lay the balm and benediction of thy mercy 
 On the brain-throb and the heart-pulse and the life- 
 spring — 
 For thy child that bows his head is weary, 
 For thy child that bows his head is weary. 
 I the shadow am that seeks the Darkness. 
 Age, that hath the face of Night unstarr'd and 
 
 moonless, 
 Age that doth extinguish star and planet, 
 Moon and sun and all the fiery worlds, 
 Give me now thy darkness and thy silence! 
 
 It was there, lying with his face in the wet 
 heather, that Sorcha found her father. She 
 had seen Nial flying as for his life, and, from 
 behind the boulder where she was sheltering a 
 lamb, had sprung forward to stop him. But 
 all the elf -man saw was a woman's figure — 
 perhaps the Cailliach who had already stolen 
 his soul and now wanted his body in this 
 night of storm! With a scream he turned 
 ' aside and dashed onward in his wild, ungainly 
 flight. 
 
 Sorcha's great eyes filled with amazement, 
 then with dread. What did it mean? Her 
 bosom heaved, the swell of the sudden tide at 
 her heart. More beautiful than any Fairy- 
 
 250
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 Woman that ever herded the deer or sang a 
 fatal song, she stood with one hand at her 
 breast, the colour ebbing from her face, her 
 slim firm body poised as an intent stag. 
 
 Slowly her gaze travelled back the way Nial 
 had come. In the gloom of storm she could 
 descry nothing, no one. If the Cailliach were 
 there, she was now invisible. 
 
 Again an almost intolerably vivid flash of 
 blue-green light, out of a dazzling flame that 
 seemed to burst from the hills. The hollow 
 roar and crash that followed dazed her, but in 
 that moment's illumination she had seen the 
 cairn and the stannin' stane, and, beside them, 
 the figure of her father, apparently stricken 
 and fallen prone. 
 
 Without a thought of fear, either of the 
 storm or the evil spirit that might be roam- 
 ing the hillside, she half ran, half clambered 
 upward till she came upon her father lying 
 low. In a moment she was by his side, and 
 had lifted his head, drying his face with her 
 dress, and kissing him, with a crooning as of a 
 mother over her child. 
 
 He was not dead. For that she was thank- 
 ful. She could feel the throb of his heart, and 
 in his throat there was a sound as of sobbing 
 breath. 
 
 " Father, father," she cried ; then, whisper- 
 
 251
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 ing in his ear, " Father of me, father of me, 
 oh, dear to my heart, all is well ! I am Sor- 
 cha! There is no evil thing here. Come 
 home ! Come home ! " 
 
 She felt the shiver that went over him. 
 Then he sought with his hand, and clasped 
 that which went to meet it. 
 
 "What is it, Sorcha? Where am I?" 
 
 " Ah, father, dear father, you are well now : 
 arise : I will lead you home ! " 
 
 "Home?" 
 
 " Yes ; do you not hear the wind and the 
 rain? Ah—h—l" 
 
 Again a bursting roar overhead, and the 
 whole of Iolair a beacon of flame whereon 
 every boulder and crag stood out clear as in 
 brilliant moonlight. 
 
 " I remember ! I remember ! " Cameron 
 cried, as he staggered to his feet. " Was it 
 you, Sorcha, who took my hands a little ago, 
 when — when — I was speaking to — to — Mar- 
 sail? . . ." 
 
 The girl recoiled in horror. Marsail . . . 
 her long-dead mother ! 
 
 " What is this thing that you say, O Tor- 
 call MacDiarmid ? " she whispered, awe- 
 struck. 
 
 ' It is nothing. I was dreaming. Sorcha, I 
 came here dreaming of past days. Your 
 
 252
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 mother lies below the cairn there. I was talk- 
 ing to her to ease my pain. I thought she 
 might hear. And while I spoke, I felt hands 
 clasp mine, and try to pull me down — below 
 the cairn, it may be ! And then I fell into a 
 horror, and the darkness came over my mind. 
 And, suddenly, I knew that God spared me, 
 though I had cursed Him, and I fell on my 
 knees and cried the rune of Age, that is a 
 rune of old, forgotten among our people, and 
 therewith I was heard, and my strength knew 
 the Breath, and I fell as you found me." 
 
 ' But, father, father, you are not in the 
 dark way — you are not old, for all the grey of 
 your hair — you are not going to die, and leave 
 your Sorcha and Oona ? " 
 
 " Would you have me live, nic-chridhe?" 
 
 Seldom did he speak to her thus, though 
 often he called Oona his heart's dearie and 
 other loving names. The tears came to her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Yes, yes, father ! I would have you live. 
 I love you." 
 
 " My age is come upon me. I am weary." 
 
 " Not yet : not yet ! " 
 
 " Do you not know the wisdom of old — 
 s'mairg a dh'iarradh an aoise, Woe to him that 
 desireth extreme old age!" 
 
 " Come with me, dear ! Come ! The rain is 
 
 253
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 leaping at us. Come ! You are cold and wet 
 and shivering ! " 
 
 And so, at last, silent and weary, Torcall 
 Cameron toiled back against the tempest, and 
 neither he nor Sorcha saw, as they passed the 
 byre, a squat, misshapen figure crouching be- 
 side Odhar, the calving cow. 
 
 It was a night for the peat-glow. Outside, 
 the darkness was intense. The thunderstorm 
 had rolled heavily away, though the far hills 
 still held an echo. But a great wind had 
 arisen, and blew across 'the heights with a 
 sound like the trumpets of a mighty host. 
 From the forest came a vast tumultuous sigh, 
 as of the moaning sea. 
 
 In the low room, where there was no light 
 save that of the peat-fire, upon which flamed 
 some dry pine-logs, Torcall Cameron sat 
 brooding in the ingle. Opposite to him was 
 Sorcha on a milking-stool, now stirring the 
 porridge in the pot at one side of the fire, 
 now with clasped hands staring into the 
 flames, dreaming of Alan, or of what she had 
 that gloaming heard from her father and from 
 Nial. 
 
 At dark she had gone to the byre, and, 
 having found the dwarf, had soothed and en- 
 treated him, so that his dark mood passed, 
 
 254
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 and he followed her, in furtive silence, into 
 the room, where, unknowing of his advent, 
 Mam-Gorm sat. 
 
 Only once had the blind man spoken since 
 he had seated himself once again before the 
 peats. It was to ask Sorcha if she thought 
 that the person who took his hands by the 
 cairn could have been Nial. An imploring 
 glance from the outcast made her refrain 
 from betrayal of his presence: of which she 
 was glad when, having replied that she was 
 certain it was he, for she had seen him run- 
 ning down the hillside as though terrified by 
 the lightning, her father broke into a mut- 
 tered savage curse. 
 
 At last Mam-Gorm slept. The fireglow 
 calmed the wrought face. The tangled iron- 
 grey hair fell over his forehead. He looked 
 strangely old ; could it be, thought Sorcha, 
 that his prayer had been heard, and that al- 
 ready the Shepherd had found this weary 
 sheep ? And yet, so strong was he, so tall and 
 strong ; strong as an aged pine on a headland ! 
 Surely his ill was of the stricken heart only? 
 
 When his breathing came soft and even, 
 she rose, lightly kissed his grey hair, with a 
 tear for the pity of the old that is in the lov- 
 ing heart of the young, and then went out to 
 the byre to see if Odhar was warm, and under 
 
 255
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 no spell nor evil, though her calf was not yet 
 due. 
 
 As she went out Oona slipped in. She was 
 dry and flushed, for at the coming of the 
 storm she had crept into the hayloft, and had 
 there been lulled to sleep by the rush of the 
 rain and the endless rising and falling sough 
 of the wind. Nial made a sign of silence, so 
 she came forward soundlessly. For a time 
 she stared intently at the sleeper, then, seeing 
 that Nial, who had crawled to her side, would 
 not look at her but sat blinking at the flame, 
 she began to croon a song. 
 
 The sweet Gaelic words fell from her lips 
 like soft rain in a wood. The room was filled 
 with a low chime of music. Old strange 
 chants or fugitive songs, one after the other, 
 came fragmentarily to her lips ; and the plain- 
 tive air of them was sometimes her own, 
 sometimes what she had heard others sing, 
 and once or twice old-world melodies, more 
 ancient than the oldest pine-trees, older even 
 than the " fallen stones " in the place on the 
 south slope of Iolair called Teampull-nan- 
 Anait, where a thousand years ago none 
 passed who could tell who Anait was, or 
 where her altar had been or who were her 
 worshippers. 
 
 Once the door opened. Sorcha glanced 
 
 256
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 through the flame-lit dusk: a smile on her 
 face, sweet as the dream in her beautiful 
 eyes. The father asleep ; Oona crooning be- 
 fore the peats; Nial, quiet hound of Oona, 
 with dark eyes staring up at her from where 
 he lay on the floor : she need not fear to leave, 
 and go out to the roofed hay-room, where 
 Alan's arms yearned for her, where his heart 
 beat for her, where his lips were warm in the 
 dark, where the dear whisper of his voice 
 was the echo of the white song that clapped its 
 hands rejoicing in the sunbower in the hollow 
 of her heart. 
 
 IV 
 
 But, from that day, the gloom lay more 
 heavily on Torcall Cameron even than of 
 yore. Oona herself could hardly win speech 
 from him. During the week of fine weather 
 that followed the thunderstorm she was rarely 
 at Mam-Gorm. The forest held her with its 
 spell, though often she was on the heights 
 with Murdo when he led the kye to the hill- 
 pastures at sunrise, or with Sorcha at the 
 milking of the cows at sundown. 
 
 During the noons, she sought — alone or 
 with Nial — that white merle of which Sorcha 
 had told her once, which had haunted her 
 
 257
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 waking and sleeping dreams ever since. Who- 
 ever heard its song would be in fairyland for 
 a thousand years, though the joy of that 
 would be no more than a year and a day of 
 mortal time. Whoever saw it might follow its 
 flight, and for the seer of the white merle 
 there would open wonder after wonder. The 
 green spirits of the trees would come forth, 
 chanting low their murmurous rhyme : the 
 souls of the flowers would steal hand-in-hand, 
 from leaf -covert to leaf-covert, or dance in 
 the golden light of the sunbeams; the singing 
 of the birds, the crooning of the cushats, the 
 hum of the wild-bee and the wood-wasp, the 
 voices of all living things from the low bleat 
 of the fawn to the singing stir of the gnats 
 by the pool or in the hollows — all would be- 
 come clear as human speech, and would be 
 sweet to hear. 
 
 Long, long ago, that white merle had flown 
 out of Eden. Its song has been in the world 
 ever since, though few there are who hear it, 
 knowing it for what it is, and none who has 
 seen the flash of its white wings through the 
 green-gloom of the living wood — the sun- 
 splashed, rain-drenched, mist-girt, storm-beat 
 wood of human life. 
 
 But Oona watched for the white shimmer, 
 for the magic song. She looked everywhere 
 
 258
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 save where the white merle nested — in the 
 fair soul of her; listened everywhere save 
 where its secret song was — in the music of 
 her young life in heart and brain. Ah, the 
 sweet song of it ! 
 
 As for Nial, he crouched for hours at a 
 time, lest by noon or dusk he might hear or 
 see the magic bird. If only he could catch but 
 a glimpse of the white merle, sure he would 
 see his lost soul somewhere among the green 
 spirits who, Oona said, would be seen com- 
 ing out of the trees which were their bodies. 
 Neither did he know that there was one place 
 where it rested often on a spray in its sing- 
 ing flight, a fugitive Hope ; or that notes of 
 its unreachable song pierced the gloom of his 
 bitter pain. 
 
 Sorcha alone, only Sorcha, started at times 
 as though she heard it : and in her dreams, 
 and in the dreams of Alan, it sang, a white 
 wonder on a golden bough, in the moonlight. 
 
 But for Torcall Cameron in his sorrow 
 there was no white merle. Oona asked him 
 once what its first notes were like. 
 
 "Bron! bron! mo bron!" he answered; 
 " mo bron, mo bron, ochone, arone ! Doil- 
 ghios orm'sa, tha mo chridhe briste! " x 
 
 '"Grief, my grief! O grief, my grief, ochone, 
 arone! Sorrow upon me, my heart is broken! " 
 
 259
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 Almost every afternoon he went out alone 
 upon the heights, though never again by the 
 cairn where Marsail lay. Sometimes he 
 would sit on a boulder, brooding dark; at 
 times Sorcha or Oona would descry him 
 kneeling in the heather, often with fierce 
 gestures, as he prayed wild prayers — frag- 
 ments of which the wind sometimes bore 
 to the listener, who no more durst ap- 
 proach. 
 
 Ever since that day by the cairn Nial had 
 kept out of his way. Not without reason; 
 for once, as the dwarf lay sleeping in the 
 noon-heat, under the shadow of a rock, he 
 was suddenly seized in an iron grip. 
 
 It was in vain for him to struggle. What 
 he saw in the face of his captor gave him 
 the courage of desperation. 
 
 " Let me go, Mam-Gorm ! " he muttered 
 in a voice hoarse with passion. " Let me go. 
 I am Nial of the woods." 
 
 " Ay, Nial of the woods ! Spawn of the 
 Evil One ! Think you I don't know you to 
 be the child of the Cailliach? You talk of 
 your lost soul, poor fool ! Your lost soul, 
 you that never had and never will have a 
 soul ! " 
 
 " Let me go, Mam-Gorm ! " 
 ' Let you go ! and where will I be letting 
 
 260
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 you go to, you that are no man, but only an 
 elfish creature of the woods? Was it you 
 that came out of the grave that day — that 
 day by the cairn ? " 
 
 " And what will you do, Mam-Gorm ? " 
 
 "What will I do? What will I do? By 
 the blood on my soul, I will drive a stake 
 through your body, so that no more shall you 
 haunt the living ! " 
 
 " Let me go, Torcall Cameron, in the name 
 of God!" 
 
 The blind man relaxed his grip a little, 
 which had become like a vice. The words 
 brought a shock to his heart. He had never 
 heard Nial call him by his name before : and 
 if he were of demon birth, how could he say 
 " an ainm an Athar "? 
 
 " Let me go, Torcall Cameron, or I will 
 put a rosad upon you, a spell that no sian 
 of Oona or Sorcha will save you from." 
 
 ' You, you thing of the woods, you put a 
 spell upon me: you who had my bread, 
 and had my fire, and who would have died 
 but for me ! Ay, and you would put a spell 
 upon me ! And what would that rosad be 
 like, now, from you that have never consorted 
 with men, and have learned nothing save 
 from the lassie Oona?" 
 
 ' When I was with the children of the 
 
 261
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 wind," Nial began, to be interrupted at once 
 by his captor, who muttered, " Ah, the gyp- 
 sies I forgot " — and grew grave, as with the 
 shadow of a fear. 
 
 " When I was with the children of the 
 wind, Mam-Gorm, I learned some things 
 that even you may not know. And in the 
 woods I have learned that which no man 
 knows. And if I put the evil upon you, you 
 will die slow, year by year, from the brain 
 that is behind your eyes to the last bones of 
 your feet ! " 
 
 Cameron shuddered. 
 
 ' It may be so. God forgive me, any way. 
 You have done me no harm. But look you, 
 Nial of the woods, keep out of my way when 
 I wander abroad — and let me hear no more 
 of your spells. There : you are free to go. 
 Yet even now that my hand is off you, I long 
 to make sure that you are not the thing that 
 came out of the cairn." 
 
 With a dark, vengeful face the elf-man 
 moved out of reach; then he whispered in 
 a slow, meaning way: 
 
 " I am going, for I see Marsail coming 
 down the hill from the cairn, and with her 
 is a man " 
 
 " A man ! A man ! " shouted Cameron, 
 trembling as in an ague. " Who is the man ? 
 
 262
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 What is he like? Give me your hand, Nial, 
 give me your hand, for the love of God ! " 
 
 " He is tall and fair, and dripping wet, 
 with his hair lank about his head, with the 
 water in it." 
 
 Ah, he had his revenge now ! Mam-Gorm 
 gave a low moan, and sank to his knees. 
 There he cowered, muttering incoherently. 
 
 " Nial," he whispered hoarsely at last, 
 " Nial, Nial, do they come this way — Marsail 
 and — and — the man who is dripping wet ? " 
 
 The dwarf raised his head and stared 
 about him. He was tempted to make his late 
 tormentor suffer; but the brute heart of the 
 soulless man was melted because of the agony 
 of one of the lords of life. 
 
 " I see no one now, Mam-Gorm." 
 
 " No one — no one?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Are you sure, Nial ? " 
 
 " I am sure." 
 
 " Give me your hand." 
 
 'You will do me no hurt?" 
 
 " On my soul ! " 
 
 Nial slowly advanced, took the outstretched 
 hand in his, and helped the trembling man to 
 rise. 
 
 ' Nial, tell me this thing. Have you seen 
 these — these — these tzvo before this?" 
 
 263
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 " I have never seen the woman." 
 
 " Then how do you know it was Marsail, 
 who is dead years and years and years 
 agone ? " 
 
 " Is it forgetting you are that when I was 
 a child I saw her body, on the day of the 
 snow ? " 
 
 There was a pause, wherein the questioner 
 brooded darkly. At last, in a low strained 
 voice, he asked: 
 
 " Have you ever seen the man ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Do you know who he was ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Can you guess who he was ? " 
 
 Silence. 
 
 "Speak, Nial!" 
 
 Silence. 
 
 " Speak, Nial, whom I have fathered." 
 
 " He was dripping wet, as though — as 
 though " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "As though he had fallen into the Linn o' 
 Mairg." 
 
 A savage spasm came into Camer- 
 on's face. The nails of his fingers drew 
 blood in the prisoned hand, which was 
 snatched away as Nial again moved out of 
 reach. 
 
 264
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 " I will lay my curse upon you, you evil 
 beast ! " Cameron shouted hoarsely — " Dho- 
 nas's a dholas ort ! — Bas dunach ort ! — Ay, 
 ay, Nial the Soulless, son of the demon- 
 woman, God against thee and in thy face, 
 drowning on sea and burning on land, a stake 
 of the whitethorn between thy heart and the 
 pit of thy belly ! " x 
 
 Of the few curses he knew, none seemed 
 to Nial so terrible, so mysterious, so straight 
 upon life out of Death, as that conveyed by 
 the two words, " Marbh'asg ort ! " 
 
 He waited till the fury of the man was 
 spent. Then, frowning darkly, with his red, 
 bloodshot eyes agleam, he muttered, "Marb- 
 h'asg ort! . . . Your death-wrappings be 
 about you ! " So low was his voice that it fell 
 unheeded. 
 
 Cameron turned his sightless eyes upon 
 him. Nial shivered. The blindness of his king 
 hurt him as a searing pain. 
 
 1 "Dhonas's a dholas ort" — "Bas dunach ort": i.e. 
 "Evil and sorrow to you. ... A death of woe be 
 yours! God against thee," etc.: this dreadful and 
 dreaded anathema runs in the Gaelic — "Dia ad 
 aghaidh *s ad aodann, bathadh air muir is losgadh 
 air tir, crogan sgithhich eadar do chridhe 's t' 
 airnean": from which it will be seen, by those who 
 know Gaelic, that I have not translated literally 
 either "crogan" or "airnean." 
 
 265
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 " What was the thing you said, Nial of the 
 brutes?" 
 
 With a great effort, the bitter word was 
 slain ere it was spoken. The voice that came 
 from that wild, fantastic, woodland thing, 
 with its shaggy peaked head, its faun-like 
 ears, its rude, misshapen body, was ever 
 harsh as a branch grating in the wind ; but 
 now it was gentle. Tears that were unshed 
 softened it. The grief of the pariah was its 
 benediction. 
 
 " Mam-Gorm, my father, the thing I said 
 was a bitter thing out of Nial the herd, but 
 this thing that I say to you is by poor Nial 
 of the brutes, and that is God preserve you 
 . . . ay, gu'n gleidhcadh Dia thu, Torcall-mo- 
 maighstir ! " 
 
 And with that the brute turned from the 
 man who had cursed him, and with slow steps 
 and bent head made his way across the hill- 
 side, till he entered the forest, whence he 
 came not for three days, and where none, 
 not even Oona, saw him. 
 
 It may be that he had heard at last the song 
 of the white merle. 
 
 266
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 So the weeks went till the coming of the 
 season that, because of the heats and of the 
 drought, is called the month of the hanging 
 of the dog's mouth. 1 
 
 Great heat, with many thunders, had pre- 
 vailed. For nine days at the beginning of 
 July the rain poured : or ceased, only to let 
 rainbows come and go upon the gleaming 
 hills. During this time Oona and the blind 
 man at Mam-Gorm were much together. A 
 change had come upon the child. She looked 
 at her foster-father often, with a wistful 
 gaze. Something puzzled her. In the air, 
 some vague trouble moved like a vanishing 
 shadow. Of Nial she saw little. Now and 
 again she heard his signal in the forest, and 
 answered it : sometimes, at dawn or dusk, 
 coming upon him on the hillside, sitting soli- 
 tary on some isolated boulder, or crouching 
 by a pool, and staring intently into its depths. 
 But he would not come across the airidh. 
 No one knew how he lived. Once or twice 
 Murdo the shepherd gave him to eat : and, 
 every morning and night, Oona put a small 
 
 1 Mios crochaidh nan con. This month is the 
 period from the middle of July till the middle of 
 August. 
 
 267
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 crock of porridge and oatcakes, or other food, 
 in a place where the vagrant could have it if 
 he willed — and thrice, at least, she found it 
 empty. On the few moonlit nights she fan- 
 cied she saw a pale, misty column of thin 
 smoke rise above the pines. 
 
 Still more was she troubled about Sorcha. 
 Her beautiful sister had grown even lovelier 
 to look upon, but there was a new look in 
 her eyes, a new hush in her voice. She shep- 
 herded on the mountain as one in a trance: 
 as one in a dream she moved about the 
 house. At night, in her sleep, she sighed 
 often, and moaned gently : and once, turn- 
 ing and finding Oona by her, she put her 
 arms round the child, and, sleeping still, 
 whispered, "Ah, heart of my heart, joy of my 
 joy!" 
 
 Oona knew that Sorcha and Alan Gilchrist 
 loved each other. She knew, also, that this 
 was why Alan could never come to Mam- 
 Gorm, for her foster-father had laid his ban 
 upon their love. But what did this love 
 mean? What, she pondered vaguely, did this 
 tragic silence, this tragic yet happy silence 
 hide ? "I know now," she said one day to 
 Sorcha at the coming home of the kye, " I 
 know now why it is that Alan, when he 
 meets you in the gloaming by the byre or 
 
 268
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 in the hay-shed, or down in the strath by the 
 Mairg Water, calls you ' Dream.' " 
 
 Sorcha was startled, and the beautiful face 
 flushed at the knowledge that she had been 
 seen at these secret meetings with Alan. 
 Oona's unconsciousness of any cause of em- 
 barrassment, however, reassured her. 
 
 "So you have seen us, Oona my flower? 
 Well, see to it that you say nothing of this 
 to father, or to any one. And, Oona, my 
 bonnie, how do you know he — Alan — calls 
 me ' Dream ' : and what do you mean by say- 
 ing you know now what that means ? " 
 
 " I heard him call you so, that moonlight 
 night last week, when you came hand in 
 hand through the wood. He called you Sun- 
 shine, Joy, and then Dream — and you said 
 that ' Dream ' was best, for it was the name 
 he gave you ' that day.' . . . Sorcha ! " 
 
 "Yes, birdeen?" 
 
 "What was ' that day'?" 
 
 The girl turned her face aside, because of 
 the flame in it ; but the flush was in the white 
 neck as well, and the child laughed. 
 
 " Ah, it was when he first kissed you ! " 
 
 " Yes, dear," Sorcha answered, flushing 
 again ; " yes, it must have been then." 
 
 " Sorcha, tell me, do you love him very 
 much?" 
 
 269
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 " Yes. More than I can tell you, my sun- 
 beam. When you are a woman you will 
 understand." 
 
 " When I am a woman I am going to marrv 
 Nial." 
 
 " Nial ! " 
 
 " Yes. No one will love him, because he 
 has no soul; but / love him, and will marry 
 him. Half of my soul will then be his." 
 
 ' Is that so, then ? Sure 'tis a south wind 
 for Nial ! And where will you live, Oona- 
 my-heart ? " 
 
 ' The White Merle will show us the way." 
 
 "Ah, I see, it is a fairy tale. Well . . . 
 Oona, I will tell you a secret. / have heard 
 the song of the White Merle ! " 
 
 The child's eyes grew big with wonder and 
 excitement. 
 
 ' When ? Where ? Was it where the old 
 yews are in the Upper Strath ? " 
 
 " It was now here and now there." 
 
 " But when, when ? " 
 
 ' Whenever Alan called me ' Dream,' and 
 the other names, 1 heard the song of the 
 White Merle." 
 
 " Ah, it is you that I envy ! Sorcha, do 
 you thin!; that if Nial called me beautiful 
 names I should hear it, too ? " 
 
 ;< I fear not, dearie . . . not yet. Perhaps 
 
 270
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 — perhaps if you called Nial those beautiful 
 names he would hear the song." 
 
 " Then I will." 
 
 " No, not yet, Bonnikin. You will only 
 harm Nial. But now run away. Father will 
 be seeking you." 
 
 "Ah, and who will be seeking you?" cried 
 Oona, as she danced away, laughing. " Ah, 
 'tis a good name, Dream; for you are always 
 dreaming in your eyes now, Sorcha ! " 
 
 Yet day by day thereafter the child laughed 
 less blithely. There was a shadow about her 
 foster-father. It held her spellbound. Never 
 had she been so long away from the woods 
 before, never before had she been so long 
 indoors. She was glad to be with the blind 
 man, and to take his hand when he went out 
 to stride sometimes for miles along the rough 
 ways of the hills. She talked much to him 
 about the White Merle, and the " guid-folk," 
 and the quiet people; sometimes of Nial, and 
 of the strange things he saw and heard, and 
 how the birds and beasts would come to him, 
 and how he harmed none, nor they him. 
 Sometimes she asked about the Cailliach, or 
 about the wind-spirits ; or strange questions 
 about the people of the Strath, glimpses of 
 whom she had occasionally, and for whom, 
 
 271
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 particularly for the black-garbed minister, she 
 did not conceal her contempt and dislike. 
 Sometimes she sang; and that was what the 
 blind man liked best. Once only she spoke 
 of Alan: how she thought that Christ must 
 be like him, so fair to see was he; how she 
 loved his low voice, and soft touch, and 
 grave, sweet eyes. 
 
 But she saw at once that no good would 
 come out of any mention of that name. Her 
 foster-father grew moodily taciturn; and 
 when, after a long silence, he spoke, it was 
 to ask her in a harsh voice if she had ever 
 broken his command, and climbed the oppo- 
 site slopes of Tornideon. 
 
 "Never, father." 
 
 " And have you ever sought the woman 
 Anabal, that is mother of Alan ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 He seemed satisfied, and asked nothing 
 further. But as for Oona, she brooded over 
 this more and more, and wondered more and 
 more because of the ban upon Alan, and be- 
 cause of the feud between Torcall Cameron 
 in his loneliness on Iolair and Anabal Gil- 
 christ in her loneliness on Tornideon. 
 
 The first day of August came with settled 
 weather, and almost tropic heat. 
 
 2J2
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 All that day Torcall Cameron had been 
 strangely restless. If Oona left him for more 
 than a few moments, he grew impatient, and 
 then angry. Again and again she begged 
 him to come into the green shadowy woods, 
 or even to climb to the Ridge of the Stags on 
 Iolair; but he would not. At last, weary 
 with the heat and the long blank hours, weary 
 too with Oona's importunities, and not wholly 
 unwilling to humour her for his own sake, he 
 let her take his hand and lead him forth at 
 her will. 
 
 Sorcha alone knew that, for some reason 
 which she never fathomed, her father's 
 " black day " was this first day of August. 
 Year after year, his " dubhachas," his gloom, 
 came upon him with that dawn, so that he 
 would have word with none. She knew, too, 
 that when the dark day was gone, her father 
 was better for weeks thereafter, and some- 
 times smiled and laughed like other men. 
 
 The night before had been an ill passing 
 of July. Murdo, the shepherd, had come in, 
 his face white. As he had come down the 
 mountain he had heard a wild and beautiful 
 singing, and had descried a herd of deer be- 
 ing driven with the wind, keeping close to- 
 gether. He had not seen the demon-woman, 
 for he had turned his head away, and mut- 
 
 273
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 tered a sian to keep the evil of her from 
 coming about him like a snake. But he 
 thought the wind brought some of the words 
 of her song to him, and they were of death 
 and the grave. Then, muttering " Glacar 
 iad's na innleachdan a dhealbh iad " — " Let 
 them be taken in the devices they have imag- 
 ined " — he had fled. Later, Oona came with 
 a strange story from Nial. He had been 
 crossing the highland behind Mam-Gorm, and 
 had seen two men and two women walking 
 silently with bowed heads. One man was 
 tall and dripping wet, as though he had come 
 out of water, and his lank hair hung adown 
 his face. The other man was Mam-Gorm 
 himself. The faces of the others he could 
 not see, but one woman was tall and gaunt, 
 with wild, straggling grey hair — a woman like 
 Anabal Gilchrist on Tornideon. He heard 
 only one word spoken, and that was when 
 Mam-Gorm stopped, looked at the house, and 
 said, " C'aite am bheil an cilidriomf " 1 
 
 "What is an eilidriom, Sorcha?" Oona 
 had added. To which her sister had replied 
 
 1 "Where is the hearse?" Eilidriom (pronounced 
 like d-ee-drem, is used in Skye and the isles, rarely 
 if ever on the mainland. Snaoimh (bier) is the 
 common word, though when a hearse is actually 
 meant, it is alluded to as the carbad-mharbh, "the 
 death-chariot." 
 
 274
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 that she did not know, and that she was to 
 say nothing of this in the house. 
 
 " And what then, Oona ? " 
 
 Nial, the child resumed, had heard no more. 
 But when he turned and looked toward the 
 strath he saw nine men moving away from 
 Mam-Gorm, carrying in their midst a long 
 black box. When he glanced back, the four 
 wayfarers he had seen had disappeared. 
 
 Yet, as Sorcha knew, her father had not 
 stirred from the house that day. Nothing of 
 what Murdo or Nial had seen came to his 
 ears — of that she was heedful. But suddenly, 
 while they were eating the porridge, Oona 
 asked her foster-father what an " eilidriom " 
 was. 
 
 Cameron sprang to his feet, pale as death, 
 and shaking, with the milk that he had spilt 
 from the mug in his hand running down his 
 breast as though his life-blood were pouring 
 from him, white, too, with fear. 
 
 "What is that you say, Oona?" he cried, 
 hoarsely; "what is that you say? Do you 
 see a carbad-mharbh — at the door — coming 
 here? " 
 
 " No — no " murmured the child, terri- 
 fied. 
 
 " Then how do you know that word for it? 
 Who told it to you? I have not heard it 
 
 275
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 said for years. No man uses it in this coun- 
 try. I have not heard it since — since Mar- 
 sail died — and then it was from — from the 
 people yonder on Tornideon, for Anabal Gil- 
 christ was of the isles." 
 
 But here Sorcha had interposed, and said 
 that Oona had picked it up in some way — 
 in one of the old runes told her by Murdo, 
 no doubt. 
 
 For the rest of that night Torcall Cameron 
 only once opened his lips, and that not at the 
 covering of the peats, or when Sorcha sang 
 one of the sweet orain spioradail he loved so 
 well, after she had read a while in the Book 
 of Peace. It was when she came to him 
 after he had lain down in his bed, and kissed 
 him, and let her flooding tears fall warm 
 upon his blind, upstaring eyes : then he pulled 
 her head closer, and whispered, ; ' Sorcha, 
 Sorcha, my soul swims in mist ! " 
 
 It was a night of beauty, and still. All 
 slept. But toward dawn a voice arose in 
 the corries. From height to height it went, 
 and the long wail of it swept past the green 
 airidh of Mam-Gorm and wandered sobbing 
 through the forest. Then all was still again. 
 The dawn that came soon after was of pale 
 gold and faintest wild-rose. Peace was in the 
 heaven. 
 
 276
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 But with that sudden passing wail, so often 
 heard on the mountains when there is not a 
 cloud in the sky, and when far and near not 
 a branch sways, and the gnats dance in long 
 columns perpendicularly without drifting this 
 way or that — with that voice out of the hills, 
 Torcall awoke. 
 
 When Sorcha arose she heard him moan- 
 ing. Wearily she wondered what this fate- 
 ful date meant, this dreaded first day of the 
 eighth month. When she went to him, he 
 said no other word than this : " I have heard 
 the lamentable cry of death." 
 
 "The cry of death?" she repeated, ques- 
 tioningly. 
 
 " Ay, truly, the lamentation of the demon- 
 women mourning for the dead." 
 
 So it was that all that day Torcall Cam- 
 eron had been as a man in an ill-dream, 
 weary of the long hours, yet dreading the 
 passing of them into the shadow. So, too, 
 it was that, at the last, he went forth with 
 Oona. 
 
 At first they wandered into the forest, but 
 here Torcall was never at ease, and so after 
 a time they strolled hand in hand from glade 
 to glade, till the sound of Mairg Water came 
 soothing-cool through the heat. 
 
 277
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 The peace and utter quietude lay as balm 
 upon the weary man. He grew drowsy at 
 last, as his trouble seemed to lift from him. 
 More than once he would have stopped, and 
 thrown himself on the ground, content to 
 stir no further, but Oona urged him to come 
 on to where the river ran through shelving 
 ledges with a singing sound, and nothing 
 else was to be heard but the whisper of the 
 silver birches and the thin, green reeds. 
 
 The crooning of the cushats was in his 
 ears. Sweet it was to have that soft touch 
 of sound after the lamentable cry of the hills, 
 that morning cry now dulled, so that it was 
 there only as a shadow in a darkened room. 
 
 He was glad when the breath of the water 
 came upon his face, and he could sit down 
 among the bracken and fragrant gale, and do 
 no more than listen idly to the passage of 
 the water. The whispering water, the scarce 
 audible susurrus of faintly stirred leaves over- 
 head, the singing of the gnats, the low inces- 
 sant croon of the cushats, these were all the 
 sounds to hear. Not a breath of wind moved 
 in the pinewood, so that it gave not even that 
 vast, slow suspiration which may be heard in 
 forests once or twice between sunrise and 
 sundown even on stillest days. All the birds 
 were still, though few sang even at day- 
 
 278
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 break in that season of the young brood. 
 Over the reaches of the water the swallows 
 skimmed, hawking silently. 
 
 An hour passed. Thinking that he slept, 
 and weary of sitting still so long, Oona rose 
 and slipped away. At first she went to a 
 great yew that towered near the fringe of the 
 forest, to see if the wood-doves she had heard 
 crooning there had fallen asleep, for now 
 they no longer made their croodling moan. 
 Then, having espied them, sitting close with 
 fluffed plumage and drooping wings as they 
 drowsed in the warm shadow, she peered 
 here and there for the nest of a shrew-mouse, 
 for often she had heard thereabouts the pat- 
 ter of the wild-mice in days of drought. 
 
 Her quest led her on and on. A sudden 
 splash made her look at the narrow river. 
 A grilse had leaped half out of the clear 
 amber-brown water, and missed the dragon- 
 fly which had been poising its arrow-flight 
 close to a wreath of circling foam. The 
 tumult of the linn, a score of yards beyond 
 her, was pleasant in her ears. She forgot 
 the shrew-mice, and thought only of the great 
 salmon that Nial declared slept or lay waiting 
 night and day under a ledge at the bottom 
 of the linn. Yes ; she would steal across the 
 rocks, and creep in among the boulders, and 
 
 279
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 lie along the lowest ledge that sloped to the 
 seething hollow, whose black depths, and the 
 deafening noise of whose tumult, had ever 
 an irresistible fascination for her. 
 
 She seemed like a water-sprite herself, as 
 she stood on a high rock at a place where 
 the ledges sloped sheer into a crevice, at the 
 bottom of which a snake of brown water 
 writhed through holes and crannies till it 
 leaped out into a back eddy of the river whence 
 it came. She had plucked a branch of rowan- 
 berries, some still green or ruddy brown, but 
 others already kissed into flame by the sun. 
 This she waved slowly to and fro before her, 
 partly to keep the midges away, partly be- 
 cause the rhythm of the running water was 
 flowing through her brain, and so along all 
 the nerves of her body. The sunflood beat 
 full upon her. Her short, ragged, scanty 
 dress glowed like a chestnut-husk in the sun- 
 light; in the hot yellow sunshine the tanned 
 skin of her legs and feet gleamed ivory white. 
 With parted lips and shining eyes she stood 
 intent, transfigured. 
 
 Suddenly she started. A look of curios- 
 ity, of astonishment, came into her eyes. 
 
 What, she wondered, was that unfamiliar 
 object lying in a ferny hollow of the rocks 
 which formed the bridge of Mairg Water, 
 
 280
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 whence the stream fell in a rushing cataract 
 into the Linn? A human figure, clearly; a 
 woman, too. Who could she be? Was she 
 alive or dead? Was it Sorcha? No. Could 
 it be one of the fairy-women of whom she 
 had heard so often : the Cailliach, of whom 
 she had been told so many tales; or that 
 green-clad, yellow-scarfed, mysterious Ban- 
 drnidh, the sorceress who won the souls out 
 of grown men, and whose glance was fate- 
 ful as a kelpie's ? A kelpie's ! Ah, was this 
 indeed not the kelpie of the Linn o' Mairg, 
 lying there in wait for her ! or might it be in 
 truth the kelpie, yet only asleep there in the 
 great heat? If so, now was the time to 
 espy it, and perhaps steal or find a hair of 
 its head — which, wound about the third finger 
 of her left hand, would make her a princess 
 among the secret people, and enable her to 
 know what no one in the whole strath, or 
 the greater strath of the world beyond, 
 would know, to see what no one would see. 
 
 These were the thoughts which passed 
 through her mind, while her blue eyes gazed 
 unwaveringly at the woman, dead or asleep. 
 
 At last, slowly, and with careful heed, she 
 drew nearer and nearer. When still many 
 yards away she recognised the sleeper, whose 
 deep, regular breathing reassured her. It 
 
 281
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 was Anabal Gilchrist, the mother of Alan, 
 the woman banned to her and Sorcha by 
 their father as though she were accursed. 
 True to her word, Oona had never been at 
 Ardoch-beag, the widow Anabal's farm, but 
 several times she had caught a glimpse of 
 the solitary woman, and now knew her at the 
 first glance. Once, more than two years 
 back, she had been luring trout one evening 
 in the Mairg Water near Ardoch ford ; and 
 had been startled by the sudden appearance 
 of a woman, who had seized her in her arms 
 and kissed her over and over, sobbing con- 
 vulsively the while. The woman had drawn 
 her plaid over her head, and what with this, 
 and the dusk, and her fear, Oona had not 
 time to discover who it was. Later, she was 
 convinced that it was no other than the 
 mother of Alan. 
 
 When she saw her now before her she 
 stood hesitatingly. She felt drawn to this 
 sad-faced woman who had once snatched 
 her in the dusk and covered her face with 
 kisses ; but she was still more attracted by 
 the mystery which enveloped her. 
 
 It was only a quarrel, Sorcha had told her ; 
 and often she had heard her sister say that 
 if only her father and Anabal would meet, 
 all might be explained. In a flash an idea 
 
 282
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 came into the child's mind. The thought 
 sent the blood leaping from her heart. Her 
 eyes shone. 
 
 Two motives impelled Oona. Neither was 
 of itself, but one was interwrought with the 
 other. The love of mischief, with her innate 
 audacity and fearlessness, urged her to place 
 her foster-father in the last place in the world 
 where he would fain be ; but, also, something 
 in her heart pleaded for the quiet bringing 
 together, in that hushed and beautiful sun- 
 going, of these two bitter haters. 
 
 Yes, she would do it, though she knew that 
 her foster-father's wrath might fall heavily 
 upon her. If — if only Sorcha — no, she did 
 not care, she would do it. After all, no harm 
 would come of it. She would watch, and if 
 the woman rose and went away, she would 
 come back and take her foster-father's hand 
 and lead him home again. 
 
 Though the woman slept, overcome with 
 weariness, why was it that a trouble of deep 
 sorrow still lay upon her face, as the trouble 
 of waters, even after the sea-wind has died 
 into the blue calm of the air? The tears 
 were still wet upon the hand that lay across 
 her breast; why had they fallen? The child 
 stood a while brooding. What did it mean? 
 Slowly she glanced about her. No one was 
 
 283
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 visible. It was clear that by the way the 
 woman lay she had not fallen. 
 
 At that moment Oona noticed that Torcall 
 had slipped a little, because of the slope 
 whereon he had lain. Drowsily he was feel- 
 ing about him for an easier rest. 
 
 Like a hare, as swift and as soundlessly, 
 she made her way to him. 
 
 " Rise, father," she whispered ; " come fur- 
 ther up the stream; it is pleasanter there." 
 
 For nights Torcall Cameron had had little 
 or no sleep. 
 
 Weary with these long, long hours ; weary 
 with his fasting and his restless idleness; 
 weary with the windless heat; and, above 
 all, weary of his own thoughts and of him- 
 self, he resigned himself gladly into Oona's 
 hands. 
 
 Even as he walked he swayed. Sleep was 
 so heavy upon him that the roar of the 
 waters of the Linn came to him no loudlier 
 than as the muffled song and humming 
 rhythm of the stream itself. 
 
 Gently, with her heart beating the while, 
 the child led the blind man to the place where 
 the woman Anabal, after long weeping, had 
 fallen into deep slumber. He lay down like 
 a child. The noise of the rushing waters 
 lulled him, the ancientest, sweetest cradle- 
 
 284
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 song in all the wide green world. If he heard 
 at all the breathing of the sleeping woman, 
 no other thought could have come to him 
 than that it was Oona. 
 
 She stared down at them with awestruck 
 eyes. What was this unthinkable terror that 
 shook her like a leaf ? For a moment she con- 
 quered her fear, a fear so vague, and of the 
 soul only, that she did not know she was 
 afraid, though the nerves in her body leaped 
 to the breath of it. 
 
 The tears came into her eyes. Yellow was 
 the light that fell upon the tangled iron-grey 
 hair of the weary sleeper at her feet ; yellow 
 as yellow flowers was the gleam upon the 
 brown-grey tresses of the weary sleeper by 
 his side. 
 
 The hand of the woman moved. Out of 
 the sunglow the arm crept like a snake, then 
 it lay still in the shadow betwixt the two who 
 slumbered unheeding. 
 
 Oona knew not why she did it, nor 
 even what she did ; but with a touch, light 
 almost as the warm sunbeam itself, she 
 guided the hand of Anabal toward that of 
 Torcall. As two ships draw together on a 
 calm sea though far apart, so the hands of 
 these two, who had not spoken one with the 
 other for weary years, slipped at last side by 
 
 285
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 side. The man stirred a moment, smiled, and 
 gently clasped the hand in his. 
 
 Then, when all was well, Oona shivered 
 with actual dread. What if they should die 
 so? What if they were already dead? Once 
 more she fought back this terrifying emotion. 
 How quiet they seemed! Sweet is the grey 
 sleep of the old. 
 
 " Tha lad rcidha nis," she sighed rather 
 than whispered ; " they are at peace now." 
 
 But now no longer could she stay. Like 
 a fawn, after she had crept back upon the 
 grassy ledges, she leaped from boulder to boul- 
 der. Soon she was at the verge of the for- 
 est. Inexplicable fear drove her like a whip. 
 Minute after minute passed, and still she fled 
 as though pursued. Nearly a mile had she 
 gone before she stopped, only to fling her- 
 self into the bracken in a sheltered place, 
 a kind of cave formed by the gigantic roots 
 of a fallen pine-tree, long years ago wrenched 
 away like a reed and stricken to the ground. 
 There, sobbing at she knew not what, she 
 cried herself to sleep at last. When the dark 
 came, her slumber was unbroken. A soli- 
 tary moonbeam that made its way through 
 the dense covert to where she slept lay upon 
 her feet, upon her slow-moving breast, upon 
 the white flower of her face, upon the out- 
 
 286
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 spread tangle of her hair, which it clothed 
 with fugitive pale gold. No vision of ill dis- 
 turbed her. Once only she stirred, as, in 
 dreamland, she thought she heard the song 
 of the White Merle. 
 
 VI 
 
 When the gloaming fell upon the Linn o' 
 Mairg, Anabal stirred. The churr of a 
 fern-owl echoed in her ear, and dimly she 
 awoke to the knowledge that it was late. But 
 where was she? She had dreamed a pleasant 
 dream. Hand in hand — even now, she 
 thought — hand in hand even now were she 
 and Fergus — Fergus so long dead, and never 
 come again to put his lips against the pain 
 in her heart. 
 
 After all, was it a dream? Or, rather, 
 was not all that weary past a dream? She 
 would not open her eyes. She would press 
 the hand that clasped hers, then she would 
 know. 
 
 Ah, the joy and the pain of it ! It was 
 Fergus indeed ! She had moved her hand 
 and pressed his, and the pressure had been 
 returned — faintly and slowly, as though in 
 sleep, yet still returned ! But where was she ? 
 
 287
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 That noise of waters all about her, that cease- 
 less surge and splash, the smell of the rush- 
 ing water, the cool spray upon her face : was 
 this not indeed the Linn o' Mairg, where, 
 late that afternoon, she had fallen asleep? 
 
 Now at last it was clear. Yes, she was 
 at the Linn o' Mairg. But the time of her 
 mourning was over, and her evil was no 
 more anywhere in the blue sky or in the green 
 earth, for Fergus had come to her. 
 
 In this hour of death, she must tell him 
 all. She would not open her eyes yet awhile. 
 She of the living might not be able to look 
 on that of the dead. And first, moreover, she 
 must speak. 
 
 "Fergus!" 
 
 No sound came from the sleeper by her 
 side. She imagined that his hand quivered, 
 but she did not know for sure. 
 
 "Fergus!" 
 
 Ah ! now he was awake from his death- 
 sleep, for she heard his breath come quick 
 and hard. The hand she held in hers shud- 
 dered as with palsy. 
 
 " Ah, cold hand of my heart ! " she mur- 
 mured, raising it, chafing it the while, and 
 putting it to her lips at last. 
 
 " Ah, cold hand out of the grave ! Often 
 have I felt it at my heart ! Fergus, dear to 
 
 288
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 me, Fergus, Fergus ! Ah, one word to me, one 
 word to me ! " 
 
 Still no whisper from the man beside her. 
 She could hear the shuddering breath of him. 
 
 'Fergus, I must speak! If the dead know 
 aught, lang syne you must have known I 
 knew nothing of the evil deed done upon 
 you. But oh, my man, my man, I had loved 
 Torcall before I loved you! Fergus, listen! 
 Do not draw away from me ! Do not rise ! 
 Fergus, Fergus, I must tell you all ! " 
 
 "Speak!" 
 
 Awe came upon her as a sudden darkness 
 at noon. The dead had spoken. The life in 
 her body tore at the gateway of the heart. 
 The voice was human, hoarse and low as it 
 was. Almost she had courage. Once more 
 that low, hoarse mandate came. The sound 
 shuddered through the dark upon her ear. 
 
 "Speak!" 
 
 ' Be not too hard upon me, Fergus ! I 
 loved him, though not as he loved me. I never 
 forgave him because that in his anger he 
 married Marsail. But when I was to marry 
 you, whom I loved as I had never loved 
 
 him " 
 
 * Here the sobbing woman stopped a mo- 
 ment, because of the fierce grip upon her 
 hand, then, panting, resumed. 
 
 289
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 "... Then, as God knows my soul, I put 
 him out of my heart. But the wild beast in 
 him arose and rent him. He went to and fro 
 mad because of his lust of me. Then the day 
 came when, in my weakness and loneliness, 
 he had his will of me. For days after that I 
 did not see him. Then the spell of the sin 
 fell upon me, and it was sweet — sweet for a 
 brief while was that evil and accursed dream ! 
 Then it was that you came back from the fish- 
 ing among the isles, to this place where your 
 father lived, and where I was because of the 
 mother that bore me, and is long dead, God 
 be praised ! And when you married me, Fer- 
 gus, the child that is Oona was already 
 within me, God shaping that burden there 
 underneath my heart, till every pulse beat 
 heavy with it! And now you know the 
 thing that has eaten at my life all these weary 
 years." 
 
 No sound, save the constrained sobbing 
 breath of him who listened. 
 
 "Look!" he whispered at last. 
 
 Slowly Anabal opened her eyes. In the 
 misty dusk she could see the white sheen of 
 the flying water, but not the face of her be- 
 loved. The dark figure was there, clothed as 
 in life. Taller he seemed, and broader; but 
 sure, Fergus — sure, Fergus. Who but he, 
 
 290
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 with those eyes of love and longing burning 
 upon her out of the night ! 
 
 " Anabal! " 
 
 O God, the agony of it ! The voice was 
 even as the voice of Torcall, the man who had 
 sown her womb with the seed of sin, and had 
 reaped blindness and sorrow all the years of 
 his life. Bitter the mockery of this thing. 
 
 " Fergus ! Fergus ! Heart o' me, hus- 
 band ! " 
 
 "Anabal!" 
 
 With a scream she sprang to her feet. She 
 swayed as one drunken. The man saw it, 
 though he was blind. 
 
 " Back ! Back ! Back ! " she cried, grop- 
 ing blankly with outstretched arms. " Back, 
 if you be a phantom out o' hell ! Back, if you 
 be the Fiend himself! Back, Fergus, back, if 
 dead ye be, and are here but to mock me. 
 Back ! Back ! Back ! Torcall Cameron ! 
 Back, man, back ! I am grey, grey, withered, 
 grey and old. . . . Ah, my God!" 
 
 He had leaped upon her, as a wolf leaps. 
 She was in his grasp, and the strength in her 
 was as melting snow. 
 
 " Anabal ! God hears me : I dare not lie to 
 you, I who am blind " 
 
 " Torcall Cameron, as God is my witness, I 
 saw your face in his dead eyes." 
 
 291
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 The man groaned; then, as though weary, 
 spoke once again : 
 
 " I have sworn. I have not lied. Fergus 
 slipped and fell, I not touching him nor near 
 him at the time. I tried to catch him as he 
 fell, but the Mairg Water was in spate, and 
 it was useless. He came out at the Kelpie's 
 Pool. He was not quite dead, and I looked 
 into his eyes ere the veils came on." 
 
 Still no word, only that dread silence. 
 
 " Anabal ! Anabal ! Let all this misery be 
 at an end. Sorrow has aged us both. But 
 I have loved you ever. I love you now. 
 Woman, woman, you were mine, all of you, 
 all of you, mine to the leaping body, to the 
 beating heart, to the shaking soul— mine 
 — mine — before ever he touched you! Mine 
 you were before ever I put my sin upon 
 you; mine you have been ever since, and 
 ever sh " 
 
 " Torcall ! " 
 
 " I hear." 
 
 " Who brought you hither, this night of all 
 
 nights?" 
 
 " Oona." 
 
 No sooner had he spoken the name than a 
 cry escaped his lips, mate of that which burst 
 from hers. 
 
 " Go, go ! Man, devil, murderer, madman, 
 
 292
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 go, go ! " and, screaming thus, with a fierce 
 struggle, Anabal Gilchrist strove to escape 
 from the grip that held her. 
 
 " Anabal ! Anabal ! At least do not send 
 me to my death ! I am blind. Lead me 
 home. Put me hence, and through the wood ! 
 I am blind, and the night lives with terrors 
 for me ! " 
 
 For a moment the woman was about to 
 yield. A long tress of her grey-brown hair 
 fell upon his hand, and he grasped it as a 
 drowning man at a rope. Then she saw, or 
 believed that she saw, a look in his face that 
 maddened her. 
 
 " Never, so help me God ! " 
 
 Without a word, he was upon her. He had 
 her in his arms, and was laughing low, horri- 
 bly, mirthlessly. 
 
 ' I will never let you go, Anabal ! . . . I 
 have waited long. . . . You are mine, and no 
 one else's . . . mine you were, mine you are, 
 mine you'll be till the Last Day and for ever- 
 more ! " 
 
 She felt one arm slacken, and his hand seek 
 hers. Before she realised what he did, he had 
 snatched the wedding-ring from her finger 
 and thrown it into the Linn. 
 
 Once more he laughed. 
 
 " Anabal ! Anabal ! . . . Anabal, my joy ! 
 
 293
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 I love you. ... I love you. ... I love you. 
 All the youth of my life is upon me again. I 
 am blind, but I see you as on the day when 
 you quickened with new life! Dear, O my 
 dear, heart of me, joy of me ! Anabal, listen ! 
 I am Torcall ! All is forgotten : all the weary 
 years are gone ! Sweetheart, this is my heart 
 against your heart! Ah — h — hi" 
 
 He had seized her, and the flames of his 
 kisses scorched her face. Between his pant- 
 ing, sobbing cries, and her choking breath, he 
 buried his face in her hair, heedless of the 
 grey blight upon that yellow corn ; and 
 bruised that quivering body, whose flesh was 
 still so warm, so firm, young long after the 
 breath of age on the hair, in the eyes. 
 
 Then she gathered the strength that was in 
 her. With a fierce blow she made him reel, 
 so that he nigh slipped and fell. 
 
 " Murderer ! " 
 
 A blank silence came upon them. Around, 
 the rush of the water : swift-sighing it seethed 
 beyond, with hollow roar and surge in the linn 
 below where they stood. Over the forest lay 
 a faint yellow bloom: the moon shining upon 
 it from behind Ben Iolair. A fern-owl 
 churred its love-cry through the warm, fra- 
 grant night. A thin, impalpable mist obscured 
 the few stars that shone, but the splintered 
 
 294
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 lance-rays of them glistered this faint exhala- 
 tion of the earth. 
 
 When the man spoke, his voice was as 
 though frozen. 
 
 " It is a lie." 
 
 " No lie is it, Torcall Cameron ; for I see 
 the naked truth in your soul." 
 
 "It is a lie." 
 
 " Where is my man, where is my man Fer- 
 gus, whom you slew ? " 
 
 " I slew him not." 
 
 " Liar ! Liar ! Even here, on this very 
 spot, on this very night years agone, he came 
 upon his death at your hand ! " 
 
 "Listen! I heard you: now, hearken to 
 me. . . . On that night, but before it was 
 dark, we met, here. It is true. True also 
 that there was fear and hate between us. But 
 as God hears me, as God sees me, as God hath 
 stricken me blind and gloomed the bitter life 
 of me, I did not put his death upon him ! " 
 
 " Anabal ! " 
 
 Her breath came hot against his face. 
 
 " Anabal ! " 
 
 No word, no sign. He knew by the pas- 
 sage of her breath that she looked now this 
 way and now that : behind him, beside, be- 
 yond. 
 
 She saw that they were standing now on 
 
 2Q5
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 the extreme of the slippery ledge that over- 
 hung the seething depths. No longer did she 
 make any attempt to resist him. Death called 
 out of the pool. She made no effort to save 
 either him or herself. 
 
 " Anabal ! " 
 
 Mechanically she moved her arms as 
 though to free herself. She felt his hold 
 slacken. 
 
 " Anabal ! Do you yield ? " 
 
 " I yield." 
 
 Mechanically, again, she leaned forward 
 and kissed him on the breast. The next mo- 
 ment his foot slipped. He reeled, staggered 
 wildly. Anabal snatched her arm away. 
 
 Again he slipped and fell forward. He was 
 now on the very edge of the ledge. His hand 
 fell upon one of her feet. She stooped to 
 push aside his arm. He raised it, caught at 
 something, gave a wild cry, and shot into the 
 dark, with heavy plunge and splash. 
 
 In the moonshine — for the yellow bloom 
 had now expanded into a flood of rippling 
 gold — she saw the black mass of his body 
 whirled to and fro. Once the white face was 
 turned to her — a blank disc. Twice, thrice, 
 she saw the black arms move above the seeth- 
 ing caldron in a strange, fantastic dance. 
 
 Then, in a moment, as from a bolt, the body 
 
 296
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 was shot into the deep pool beyond the outer 
 fang-like rocks of the Linn. 
 
 Anabal Gilchrist turned, the foam on the 
 water not more wan than her white face. 
 
 With slow steps she regained the heathy- 
 ground. She did not look back once, then, 
 nor as she clomb the long slope to her home. 
 
 VII 
 
 It was an hour before midnight when Oona 
 awoke. So often had she slept in the woods, 
 through the hot summer nights, that there 
 was nothing strange or terrifying in the 
 blackness of darkness about her. She could 
 smell the pungent odour of the bracken, and, 
 somewhere near, wild mint. The keen fra- 
 grance of the pines and firs everywhere pre- 
 vailed. 
 
 Ah, she was in the forest : how warm and 
 sweet it was ! Where was Nial ? Scarce 
 more than this drifted through her mind; 
 then the heaviness of sleep came upon her 
 again. 
 
 The night waned. Dawn broke upon the 
 eastern hills. Slowly the light travelled down- 
 ward beyond the crests of the mountains. It 
 reached the forest, and spread an unshim- 
 
 297
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 mering sheen over it, like the silver calm on a 
 green sea. Then, out of the sky a marvellous 
 flower grew. It was a dusky, rosy grey at 
 first, as it lifted through the blue-black heav- 
 en, already steel-blue in the east. Green folds 
 of pink uncurled and fell languidly on each 
 side : drooping petals. There was a stir and 
 quiver; then a shaft of gold, another, and 
 another. Suddenly it was as though the heart 
 of the flower burst. In the yellow mist and 
 radiance, wherefrom tall, waving foliage of 
 golden fire moved as though fanned by a 
 wind from within, a cloud of glowing flakes 
 arose. These may have been the wild bees 
 that make the honey of Magh Mell, or the 
 birds of Angus Og, beloved youth-god of 
 the yellow hair. Then the golden heart of 
 the miracle swelled, with a mighty suspira- 
 tion. Petals of rose and gold-green and pale 
 pink as of shells unclosed from it. The vast 
 blue flower was aureoled now with an 
 ascendant glory. 
 
 One by one the stars melted into heaven. 
 Low in the south-west a planet seemed to di- 
 vide, then to close again, in a nebulous gleam- 
 ing haze. Then this night-bloom slowly paled, 
 dwindled, and sank into a deep gulf. An in- 
 describable fragrance, an almost inaudible 
 rustling sound — faint, as the roar of the rush- 
 
 298
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 ing world is faint beyond all ears to hear — 
 filled the air. The pulse of the world quick- 
 ened. The green earth sighed, and was 
 awake. 
 
 Through her sleep Oona heard the crood- 
 ling of doves. Then a bleating fawn in a 
 fern-covert close by made her stir. Sud- 
 denly she half-rose, stared about her, and felt 
 the breath of the cool wind that, too, had 
 been awakened by the sun, and was now sigh- 
 ing softly through the pine-glades. 
 
 Then in a moment there came upon her the 
 remembrance of what had happened. 
 
 With a cry she sprang to her feet. What 
 of her foster-father? Had he awaked in the 
 gloaming and found the woman Anabal be- 
 side him? Had he made peace, or was his 
 anger even now brooding terribly ? Who had 
 seen him home? What would he say — what 
 would Sorcha say? Perhaps, even, he had 
 fallen into the Linn, or, it might be, he had 
 tried to make his way home alone through the 
 forest, and now lay somewhere in its depths, 
 blind and baffled. 
 
 Thus was the child wrought. But what 
 could she do? she wondered. Should she 
 make her way swiftly through the forest and 
 up Wester Iolair to Mam-Gorm, and there 
 see if her foster-father was in his bed and 
 
 299
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 asleep? What would he say and do? Once 
 she had seen him in a passionate rage, and 
 her heart shook at the remembrance. Per- 
 haps he would kill her. Does it hurt much 
 to be killed ? she wondered. Then she thought 
 of Nial. If she could find him, he could dis- 
 cover for her that which she feared to seek 
 herself. Where would he be? For nights past 
 he had not been seen at Mam-Gorm. He 
 might be high upon the mountain, perhaps at 
 Murdo's remote sheiling on Ben Iolair, by 
 Sgorr Glan. He might be at the cave, Uav- 
 an-teine : the great hollow cavern, dry even 
 in winter weather, which lay but a short way 
 above the Linn o' Mairg. 
 
 Yes, that was likeliest. Nial loved the 
 place. There he might sleep where no dew 
 nor rain could touch him, and with the sound 
 of Mairg Water to be his lullaby through the 
 dark. She would seek him there. But first 
 she would go to the Linn, so that she might 
 know that her foster-father no longer lay by 
 the stream-side. 
 
 The heart of the birdeen lightened as she 
 walked swiftly through the dewy fern. She 
 began to call back to the cushats and other 
 birds as they uttered their matin cries. Then 
 she laughed, and broke into snatches of song. 
 
 The light was streaming down the Strath 
 
 300
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 as she emerged into the open glade above the 
 Linn. Here, among the trees on the slope 
 and in the many cavernous rocks and bosky 
 hollows, deep shadows still lingered. It would 
 be nigh upon an hour before the morning twi- 
 light waned hence. 
 
 A glance showed her that there was no one 
 at the Linn. She ran down close to it, and 
 peered eagerly here and there, on either side. 
 There was no one visible. With a sigh of 
 relief she was about to step forward to take 
 a sunrise peep into the Pool below the Linn, 
 for the great salmon she had never yet been 
 able to descry, when she stopped, because of 
 the croaking of a raven. 
 
 It was not lucky to go athwart the croaking 
 of a fee-ach' at sunrise. The great black bird 
 swung on an outspread bough of a hazel, 
 close to the Kelpie's Pool, and croaked with 
 harsh, monotonous reiteration. Oona stooped, 
 lifted a stone, and threw it at the raven, who 
 watched her closely. 
 
 " Fitheach ! fitheach ! The way of the sun 
 to you ! Be off, be off ! " 
 
 Croak! croak! 
 
 " Black fee-ach, black fee-ach, go where 
 the dead are, and do not cross my way, or I 
 will put a rosad upon thee ! " 
 
 Croak! croak! croak! 
 
 301
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 Half angry, half glad, the child threw an- 
 other stone ; then turned, leaped from stone 
 to stone till she gained the grass again, and 
 then went singing low toward the cave called 
 the Uav-an-teine. 
 
 The arch of it was still in shadow, and the 
 bracken on the brow of the arch : though the 
 rowan that leaned forward into the air bathed 
 its upper branches in sunlight. On the 
 smooth thyme-set sward beyond, the yellow 
 shine lay; so warm, that the butterflies hov- 
 ered in and out of the golden area. 
 
 With cautious steps Oona advanced. If 
 Nial were there she wished to surprise him 
 while he slept. 
 
 She crawled to one side of the sunswept 
 cave, within which was still a warm dusk. 
 Surely that was the sound of breathing? 
 Yes; she could hear the steady rise and fall, 
 faint though it was. With a smile she moved 
 forward. 
 
 Suddenly she stood as one changed into 
 stone. What was this: what did it mean? 
 No sign of Nial was there. But, among dried 
 bracken and dead leaves, blown or drifted 
 there in autumnal days, and forming a place 
 of rest fit for the weariest deer that ever 
 leaped before the baying hounds, lay two fig- 
 ures, clasped in one another's arms. 
 
 302
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 For a moment the idea flashed across 
 Oona's mind that the sleepers were Torcall 
 and Anabal. Then she knew who they were, 
 for who had such a mass of lovely dark- 
 brown hair as Sorcha? what man of the 
 Strath had the curly yellow hair of Alan? 
 So that was where the lovers met ! Once or 
 twice, within these last few cloudless days 
 and nights, she knew that Sorcha, when at 
 length the restless lapwings had ceased their 
 querulous crying in the moonlight, had 
 slipped quietly from the house. She knew, 
 too, that once at least Sorcha did not return 
 till sunrise, for she had been awake, and 
 had risen, and had seen her sister moving 
 slow through the dew, with so wonderful a 
 look in her eyes, so beautiful, so strange, that 
 she had not dared to speak, and had fled back 
 to her bed, with a sob in her throat, she knew 
 not why. 
 
 She smiled, and pondered how best to 
 startle them. How she wished Nial were here 
 also, so that he might laugh when Alan and 
 Sorcha suddenly awoke, and found them- 
 selves observed ! 
 
 But, as she looked, the change that had al- 
 ready been at work in her of late, swayed 
 her mood otherwise. 
 
 She rose to her feet, and leaned against the 
 
 303
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 green mossy boulder at the side of the cave. 
 For a while she stood thus, her eyes intent 
 upon the lovers. How beautiful Sorcha's 
 face was, faint-flushed like that! What a 
 new, strange light upon her face ! And Alan : 
 how tall and strong he was, how bonnie the 
 rippling gold hair of his head ! His fair face, 
 whiter now than she had ever seen it, seemed 
 cut out of stone, so sharp were the outlines. 
 Thus, she thought, must Angus Og seem: 
 Angus, the fairest youth of the world, whom 
 none sees now, for he is of the Ancient Peo- 
 ple, who, though still among us, are invisible 
 to mortal eyes. Often had Sorcha told her 
 of him : sure, now, this was he ? 
 
 Instinctively, she looked to see if white birds 
 hovered anywhere. For the olden tale said 
 that the kisses of Angus Og became white 
 birds, and that these flew abroad continually, 
 to nest in lovers' hearts till the moment came 
 when, on meeting lips of love, their invisible 
 wings should become kisses again. 
 
 No, there were no birds : none, at least, for 
 her eyes to see. 
 
 The hot sunlight moved upon her bare feet. 
 Soon it would reach her waist, she knew, if 
 she stood brooding there: and when it did 
 that, the glow would be upon the face of 
 Alan, and he would awake. 
 
 304
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 A sudden fantasy took her. Almost she 
 had laughed aloud. When she moved into 
 the space opposite the cave it was as though 
 she waded in sunshine. Everywhere in the 
 light the dew shone, filled with unburning 
 fire. 
 
 She crossed the sunspace, to where a mass 
 of honeysuckle drooped over a wild brier. 
 With deft fingers she made a crown of this, 
 starred with some pink wild-roses, plucked 
 from a low bush beyond the brier; then of 
 the dusky yellow honeysuckle wove a gar- 
 land. 
 
 Decorated thus, and with sparkling eyes, 
 she turned and faced the cave again. Sound- 
 lessly she began to dance. 
 
 At first it was the mere joy of her laughing 
 glee. Soon, she hoped Alan or Sorcha would 
 wake. Ah, then, how she would laugh, to see 
 them stare confusedly at her, dancing there in 
 the sunlight ! 
 
 But as she wavered to and fro in the sun- 
 sea, a dreamy pleasure moved her to half- 
 forgetfulness of where she was. A mavis on 
 the rowan over the cave began to sing, the 
 strange late song that sometimes wells forth 
 in silent August ; at first, long, sweet, vibrant 
 notes, then a swift gurgling music, and then, 
 as his heart warmed against the sun, more 
 
 305
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 and more wildly sweet, till the hot air swung 
 with the intoxication of his rapture. 
 
 More and more, too, was Oona rapt as she 
 wavered to and fro. The swift rhythm of her 
 joyous dance wrought her as with a spell. A 
 dream lav in her eyes, now set far awav — far 
 away, where Angus Og was, and where the 
 sun rose and the moon waxed and waned to 
 the singing of the white merle. 
 
 The sunlight seemed to drift her onward, 
 as though she were a dancing wave on the 
 forehead of the tide. Soon she was past the 
 cave, and still, as the sunbeams flickered, she 
 leaped and swayed, rapt in an ecstasy beyond 
 thought or heed. 
 
 Suddenly, the thrush ceased. There was a 
 whirr of wings: then a sharp, quickly re- 
 peated strident cry. 
 
 Another second, and Oona was a laughing 
 child again, crouched low in the bracken. 
 Alan or Sorcha was awake, and had stirred ! 
 
 Ah, no, she thought, she would not let them 
 see her now. True, they might hear her, 
 where she lay panting like a young bird es- 
 caped from a hawk ! As soundlessly as she 
 could, for her quick breathing and the rustle 
 of the bracken, she half-crawled, half-ran, 
 back the way she had come. Soon she was 
 safe, for the pines enclosed her, and then the 
 
 306
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 beeches and birks near the water-slope. From 
 behind a vast beech-bole she watched to see 
 if she were pursued, or seen. But no one 
 came. All was as before : only, the thrush did 
 not venture back to the rowan, which now 
 threw its flickering fingerlike shadows on the 
 smooth turf below, in front of the cave. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Already the breath of the day was wind- 
 lessly hot. 
 
 Flushed with her dancing in the sunlight, 
 and with the languor of August in her blood, 
 Oona listened eagerly to the cool sound of the 
 running of Mairg Water. 
 
 The next moment she was free of her 
 scanty raiment, and was by the streamside. 
 As she stood among a cluster of yellow irises, 
 the sunlight lay upon the gold of her hair and 
 the glowing ivory-white of her body, and then 
 seemed to spill in yellow fire among the tall 
 blooms about her feet. A faint green glim- 
 mer from the emerald iris-sheaths dusked the 
 small white thighs. 
 
 A leap like a fawn, and she was in tin 
 water. A hundred miniature rainbows 
 gleamed in the dazzle of spray as she splashed 
 
 3°7
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 to and fro, after she had come to the surface 
 some yards downstream. What joy it was to 
 feel the cool brown water laving her body: 
 to dive and swim like an otter : to float slow- 
 ly with the current under overhanging foli- 
 age, and see the young sedge-warblers in the 
 reeds or among the water-willows, or to look 
 up at the curving boughs of a birch or rowan, 
 deep green against the deep blue ! Then the 
 wonder and beauty to rest with outspread 
 arms, and breast against the flow: to stare 
 down into the mirroring depth, and see the 
 flickering feathers of the quicken and the red 
 rowan-berries marvellously real and near, 
 with lovely shadow-birds flitting to and fro 
 among the shadow-branches, and, strangest of 
 all, another white Oona drifting like a phan- 
 tom through that greenshine underworld! 
 
 When she swung round suddenly, and held 
 herself back against the downflow, as an otter 
 half-alarmed will do, it was not because she 
 was drifting too near the " race " just above 
 the cataract. A strange sound came from the 
 Linn, or beyond it. The noise of the water 
 was in her ears, and she could not hear dis- 
 tinctly: but surely that noise was the cry of 
 one in sorrow, and, at any rate, human. 
 
 With a swift movement she slid to the bank, 
 caught at a tuft of flowering sedge, and then 
 
 308
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 stood, dripping and all agleam in the sunlight, 
 while with inclined head she listened intently. 
 
 Now she could hear more distinctly: cer- 
 tainly some one was by or near the Linn. The 
 noise of the churned waters rose and fell in a 
 long, wavering, unequal sigh ; and in one of 
 the downward hushes her keen ears caught 
 tones and even words she fancied she recog- 
 nised. 
 
 She hesitated for a moment as to whether 
 to run back for the handful of clothes she had 
 left upstream, but then bethought her that it 
 was only Nial and no stranger who might 
 throw stones at her as a kelpie — as some boys 
 from the Strath, who at Beltane had been 
 burning small fires and cooking wild-birds' 
 eggs, had done many weeks agone at Nial. 1 
 
 1 In many parts of the Highlands it is still the 
 wont of children at Beltane (May Day) to light 
 fires in woods or on rocky spurs, and there cook 
 eggs, or play other pranks, sometimes very fantastic 
 ones. These meaningless observances are a sur- 
 vival of the days of Druidic worship. Beltane 
 means the sacred fire. Baal, heal, or bel is not the 
 actual Gaelic word for the Sun, or the Sun-god: 
 though the Druids may have had Baal from the 
 Phoenician mariners who came to Ireland. The 
 ancient Celtic word is bea'utl, "the life of every- 
 thing," "the source of everything." Beal (pron. bel) 
 and teine, "fire," give "Beltane" — the Festival of the 
 Sun. 
 
 3C>9
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 How often, in her wanderings with Nial, she 
 had bathed, to his wonder and awe at her 
 white beauty, her daring, her skill ! As for 
 him, though he loved the running water al- 
 most with a passion, nothing would induce him 
 to enter it, except when alone and in the dim 
 light. As a boy he had been as much at home 
 in it as any creature of the river. But once, 
 after he had come to know Oona, and to find 
 in her the one person in the world whose soul 
 did not loom too infinitely remote above his 
 drear loneliness of spirit, he had leaped one 
 dead-calm noon into the water ; and there and 
 then, for the first time, realised, in the phan- 
 tom which swam with him or beneath him, 
 the misshapen ugliness of his body, the sav- 
 agery of his distorted head and features. From 
 that day he had never entered the stream, save 
 at late dusk or on moonless nights. 
 
 So with swift steps, which left small pads 
 of damp upon the rock-ledges, Oona ran 
 toward the great boulder which overhung the 
 cataract. 
 
 As she passed the place where, a few hours 
 ago, she had left her foster-father and the 
 woman Anabal, she glanced here and there for 
 any trace of either she might not have seen 
 before. The next moment she caught sight 
 of Nial. 
 
 310
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 She watched him curiously. What did it 
 mean? she wondered. He was crouching, 
 with his back to her, on the extreme of the 
 ledge overlooking the Kelpie's Pool — that 
 deep caldron which received all that was at 
 last disgorged from the maelstrom of the Linn. 
 His head was bent forward, and sometimes 
 he leaned on his hands, and sometimes swayed 
 backward or sideways. 
 
 What startled her more were the strange, 
 wild, barbaric words that Nial was chanting, 
 with thin, hoarse, monotonous wail. What 
 was this rune he chanted ? Why did he crouch 
 there, chanting and swaying, swaying and 
 chanting? 
 
 Sometimes he ceased for a few moments 
 that crooning, mourning, appealing, inexpli- 
 cable chant, and appeared to be speaking, and 
 to gesticulate as he spoke. 
 
 Fantastic thoughts flashed through the 
 child's brain. Perhaps it was the kelpie who 
 was trying to lure Nial to her arms ; or may- 
 hap Nial had seen her, and was putting a 
 rosad upon her. She knew that the people of 
 the Strath, and even Murdo the shepherd — in 
 truth, Alan, too, and perhaps Sorcha, though 
 she would not say it — believed that the elf-man 
 was in league with all the mysterious or 
 dreadful creatures of the shadow, from the 
 
 311
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 harmless " guiclfolk " of the hill-hollow to the 
 yellow-clad demon-woman who drove her 
 herd of deer and sang her death-song, and to 
 the dark and terrible kelpie who lurked in the 
 deep pool in that wild place beyond the Linn 
 o' Mairg. Or, again, Nial might be uttering 
 some incantation: or be at his old quest, the 
 seeking of his lost soul. 
 
 Surely it must be that, she thought, as 
 soundlessly she approached him. 
 
 Within the last minute or two a change had 
 come over him. Every now and then he 
 raised his head, often clasping and unclasping 
 his hands, swaying to and fro the while, and 
 speaking or chanting rapidly, with wild, 
 scarce coherent words. He was as one in an 
 ecstasy. Oona, for the first time, feared him. 
 She stood, only a few yards behind him now, 
 and listened. 
 
 i 'Ochan, ochone, arone! and so fair too, and so fair! 
 O white you are as the canna that floats in the breeze, 
 Or as the wool of the young lamb that Murdo found 
 
 dead in the heather, 
 Or as the breast of Sorcha, or as Oona, little Oona! 
 O, O, arone, arone, Death of me, Woe! 
 Oh, white too and fair, and I black as the wet peats, 
 Black and ugly, so that even the deer know, 
 And Fior and Donn and all the dogs 
 Think me no more than a sheep, than the kye, ochan, 
 
 ochone! 
 
 312
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 But oh, it's dead you are and drowned, Anam, my 
 
 Soul! 
 And it's there you lie . . . grey and still . . . with 
 
 . . . and you laugh at me, maybe . . . 
 And it may be you are the shadow only that will go 
 
 if I leap at you! 
 . . . and hair like mine thick with dew . . . 
 Or . . . the kelpie . . . 
 And true it was, with the fee-ach, and the feannag, and 
 
 the corbie, 
 The corbie, the hoodie-craw, and the raven!" 
 
 At these words Oona glanced swiftly to 
 right and left. Nowhere had she heard again 
 the croaking of the raven, and now she could 
 descry neither of Nial's three birds of omen. 
 But just as her gaze was wandering back to 
 the dwarf, she caught sight of the fitheach 
 further downstream, perched upon a dead 
 branch near some rocks, and even as she 
 looked she heard its harsh, savage croak! 
 croak! 
 
 "Ay, ay, roc, Fee-ach, roc! Dean roc ail, 
 dean rocail! " began Nial again, with a wild 
 gesture. . . . 
 
 "Nial! Nial!" 
 
 He ceased all movement, all sound, as 
 though smitten into silence. Her fear par- 
 tially overcome, now that she had gathered 
 from his words that he thought he had found 
 his soul at last, but that it was dead — yet with 
 
 V3
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 a dread in her heart because of the thing that 
 lav there in the pool, whether alive, dead, or 
 asleep, or treacherously assuming life — she 
 called again, and more loudly: 
 
 " Nial ! Nial ! " 
 
 Slowly he looked round. A bewildered 
 terror in his eyes waned. It was only Oona. 
 
 "Nial, Nial-mo-gbraidh, what is it?" 
 
 " Hush, mo-muirnean," he muttered, beck- 
 oning to her to creep close to him. The 
 slight breeze that had sprung up for its brief 
 life crept along the stream, and whispered 
 along the grass and in the hot-smeViing fern. 
 The murmurous sound of it made the child 
 glance apprehensively behind her. She 
 dreaded the elfin footsteps that folk said 
 could be heard at times near Nial. 
 
 "What is it, dear Nial?" 
 
 " Ssh! Hush! Come here: look J . . . 
 look ! " he whispered. 
 
 Gently she stole beside him, leaned over 
 the ledge, and stared down into the pool. A 
 mere breath of the breeze ruffled the surface, 
 and all she could see was a dark mass with 
 a dusky white splatch, looming shadowily 
 through the amber water, and strangely dis- 
 torted by the silver shimmer caused by the 
 wind-eddy, which came and went round the 
 circuit of the pool like a baffled bird. 
 
 314
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 "What is it? Who is it? What is it, 
 Nial?" 
 
 " Hush, do not speak so loud ! It is my 
 soul." 
 
 "Your soul, Nial?" 
 
 " Ay, true. Sure it is my soul. All night I 
 was in the woods, and I heard a tap-tapping 
 going ever before me, and at dawn it led me 
 down by the Mairg, and then the spirit flew 
 away before me, and the annir-choiUc was just 
 like a woodpecker ! And when it flew up by 
 the Linn, I . . ." 
 
 " Whisper louder, Nial ! I can't hear." 
 
 " When it flew up by the Linn, I saw it 
 change into a curlew, and it wheeled over the 
 Linn and called cian-cian-cianalas, and then I 
 was afraid, though the annir-choille that was 
 like a woodpecker had made hope to me of 
 finding my soul." 
 
 "Who is the annir-choille, Nial?" 
 
 He gloomed at her silently. Then in a con- 
 strained voice, and with averted eyes : 
 
 " How should I know ? I know nothing. I 
 am Nial." 
 
 " But what have you been told ? " 
 
 " They call her the wood-maid — the tree- 
 maid." 
 
 "Ah-h! . . . and Nial . . ." 
 
 " But when I came near, the curlew flew 
 
 315
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 away. Then it was that I looked into the 
 pool. And then, and then it was, Oona-mo- 
 run, that I saw my soul lying here — big as 
 a man's soul should be, and with a face 
 as white as yours ; ay, a fair, good body 
 like Alan's, an' with clothes on, too — dark, 
 beautiful clothes; an' the hands of him that 
 moved about were white; an' . . . oh, Oona- 
 birdeen, look you now, and see if it is not as 
 I say ! " 
 
 The awed child stared into the brown 
 depths, where the surface was still ruffled sil- 
 very here and there, with a glinting, glancing 
 shimmer that made all things below shiftily 
 uncertain. 
 
 ''Do you see it, Oona?" cried an eager 
 whisper at her ear. 
 
 "Ay, sure." 
 
 "Oona, Oona, is it dead? Oona, birdeen, 
 Oona-mo-graidh, it may — it may be living! 
 O Oona, the white soul o' me — white as you, 
 my fawn ! " 
 
 The blue eyes glanced up from the pool, 
 and at the speaker. She looked at him, then 
 downward again. 
 
 " Nial ! " 
 
 " Yes . . . yes, Oona . . ." 
 
 ' The wood-maid has been playing with 
 you." 
 
 316 

 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 " No, no, no — that is not a true word on 
 your lips ! " 
 
 " Sure, a true thing it is. Look, Nial ; see 
 how big it is. The white face of it is yonder 
 by the salmon-hole, and one foot is moving 
 against the rock below us ! " 
 
 " And what of that ! Sure, it is a beautiful 
 soul, dead or alive ; and big as a man's should 
 be, and fair and white and strong ! " 
 
 " Nial. . . . Nial ... it may be alive, for 
 I see its hands moving . . . but . . . but " — 
 and here tears came into the child's eves, and 
 her voice shook with sorrow for her hapless 
 friend — " but . . . oh, Nial ... so big a 
 soul will never be able to creep into your 
 body . . . for you are small, dear, small, and 
 — and . . . an' then it is so big and strong ! " 
 
 Alas, the pity of it! Never once had Nial 
 thought of this ; never had he dreamed that 
 so large a soul could not get into his dwarfish, 
 misshapen frame. 
 
 He stared in wild amaze, first at Oona, then 
 at the drowned thing in the water — his soul, 
 or a phantom, or a body, or mayhap the kel- 
 pie, he knew not which, now — then at Oona 
 again. A fierce pain was in his eyes. He bit 
 his lip, in the way he did whenever Mani- 
 Gorm struck him — a thing that had not been 
 for months past. A little rivulet of blood 
 
 317
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 trickled into his thin matted beard, tangled 
 and twisted this way and that like a goat's. 
 
 " Nial ! Nial ! " moaned Oona pitifully. 
 
 " Ay, it is true . . . that is a true thing that 
 you will be saying, Oona. Sure, it would need 
 to be a soul as small as your own that would 
 do for poor Nial." 
 
 " No, no, Nial ! " cried the child comfort- 
 ingly, "bigger than mine, really, really — yes, 
 and . . . and . . . fatter ! " 
 
 A sob shook his heavy frame. Oh, the long 
 seeking, and the near goal, and the bitter fu- 
 tile finding! Still, Oona's sympathy was 
 sweet. Dear birdeen that she was, to say he 
 would have a bigger soul than hers, bigger 
 and fatter too ! But, no, he thought — no, bet- 
 ter to have one the same as Oona's, for all he 
 was so much older and bigger and stronger 
 than she was. 
 
 " Ah, Oona-muirnean, if I could only find 
 my soul at all — anywhere, anywhere ! " 
 
 " But you will find it, Nial ! You will find 
 it ! Sorcha told me that you are sure to find 
 it. Never mind what they say down there in 
 the Strath. What do they know about souls? 
 And . . . and . . . Nial ! " 
 
 " Yes, my birdeen." 
 
 " If . . . if . . . you can't find your soul 
 anywhere — and all this summer we'll go seek- 
 
 3i8
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 ing, seeking, for it, till we have listened at 
 every tree in the forest and on the mountain- 
 side — if you can't find it anywhere, / am go- 
 ing to marry you! " 
 
 Nial looked at the child bewildered. He 
 knew little of what marriage was, save that in 
 the Strath two married people lived in one 
 house, and that the woman was called by the 
 name of her man, and that they were sadder, 
 and led duller lives — so at least it seemed to 
 him. Sure, it would be for pleasure that he 
 and Oona should have a cot of their own, 
 though he, and she too for that, preferred the 
 pinewood ; and a thing for laughter that she, 
 the bit birdeen Oona, should be called Bean 
 Nial! 
 
 ' Why would you be marrying poor Nial, 
 Oona my doo ? " 
 
 ' Because you would then have half my 
 soul. Yes, yes, Nial ! don't shake your head 
 like that ; I know you would. Sorcha told me 
 it was in the Book." 
 
 For the moment the outcast forgot what lay 
 in the pool. Of three things he stood ever in 
 awe. First, Torcall Cameron, the man of 
 men. Second, the Book, which was a mys- 
 tery, and held all the sians and rosads, all the- 
 spells and incantations in the world, and, as he 
 had heard, was full of " living words," though 
 
 319
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 never had he, being soulless, seen any coming 
 or going to it, like bees, where it lay on the 
 shelf above TorcalFs bed. Third, the in- 
 scrutable powers which worked somewhere, 
 somehow, behind Torcall, before which even 
 he, Mam-Gorm, was, almost incredible though 
 it seemed, as mist before the wind. 
 
 When, therefore, he heard Oona speak of 
 the Book, his awe held him for a moment 
 spellbound. Never had he so much as 
 dreamed that his name was even mentioned 
 there at all. The wonder, the mystery of it, 
 almost took his breath away. What an ill 
 thing, then, that word of the preaching-man 
 he had met once in the Strath, who had told 
 him, in answer to his asking, that he, Nial, 
 could have no name in the Book of Life, be- 
 cause he was unbaptised, and a godless heath- 
 en, and a soulless elf-man at that ! And now — 
 now — Sorcha had seen his name in the Book 
 — ay, and not in any poor, small Strath Bible, 
 but in the great Bioball that was Torcall Cam- 
 eron's own, up at Mam-Gorm, on the hillside 
 of Iolair! 
 
 But of that mystery he was to hear no more 
 then and there. A cry had come from Oona, 
 a cry of such terror, with moan upon moan, 
 that his heart within him was as a flame in a 
 windy place. 
 
 320
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 What had happened to the child? Was 
 there a spell upon her ? he wondered ; was that 
 down there in truth no other than the treach- 
 erous, quiet-seeming, murderous kelpie ! 
 
 He saw that she was shivering all over; 
 that her body was as pallid as her white face. 
 
 Not a word came from her. She kneeled 
 forward, staring stonily into the pool. 
 
 " Oona ! Oona ! " he whispered chokingly, 
 terrified beyond further power of speech. 
 Without averting her gaze, she slowly raised 
 an arm and pointed at what had hitherto been 
 but a blurred figure at the bottom of the 
 water. The arm, the pointing hand, remained 
 thus, as though paralysed. 
 
 Nial bent over the ledge. The slight breeze 
 had now passed. Not a breath shook the 
 feather-leaf of a rowan. The sunflood poured 
 out of the east upon the shimmering land. 
 Though but an hour after sunrise, the heat 
 palpitated. For the first time that morning 
 there was no wind-eddy upon the pool. The 
 brown water was as lucid as a mirror. 
 
 The thing — corpse, or soul, or kelpie — had 
 begun to move. It was slowly rising to the 
 surface. 
 
 He shuddered. This, then, was the cause 
 of Oona's fear. Yet, even as this thought 
 passed through his brain, he knew that there 
 
 321
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 was some other reason for the frozen agony 
 of the child. 
 
 The body ascended gradually, face down- 
 ward, the arms trailing stiffly beneath it. One 
 foot was still caught by the weeds, which had 
 caught it as in a net. With a slow gyration 
 the corpse swung round, face upward. The 
 weed-thrall gave way. The drowned rose 
 with outstretched arms. 
 
 Oona shrieked, then sank back, cowering, 
 and covered her eyes with her hands. Nial ! 
 Nial neither thought nor felt; he was stunned 
 by a blank, bewildering amaze. 
 
 For what he saw, and what Oona had seen, 
 was the drowned body and the dead face of 
 . . . Torcall Cameron ! 
 
 In the awful, throbbing silence, broken only 
 by the turmoil of the Linn and by the inces- 
 sant moaning of the child, the dwarf stared 
 as at some horrible impossibility. 
 
 It could not be ! Mam-Gorm, of all men in 
 the world ! Mam-Gorm, the great, strong, 
 stern man of the hills ! no, no, no — sure, it 
 could not be ! Moreover, as he knew, Mam- 
 Gorm never left the hillside ; in all the time 
 he had known him, he had never come nigh 
 the Linn o' Mairg, nor even near Mairg 
 Water, and how could he be there? And 
 would not Oona for sure have seen him that 
 
 322
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 very morning in his own bed belike ? Besides 
 . . . Mam-Gorm ... it was as though the 
 preaching-man were to cry out, " There is no 
 God! " 
 
 At his ear he heard a moaning whisper: 
 " It is my doing; it is my doing." 
 
 " Oona, Oona-lassie, is it mad that you will 
 be ! " 
 
 " O Nial, Nial, Nial ! it is of me, this thing ! 
 Ay, sure — ay, sure ! O arone ! arone ! it was 
 I who left him sleeping nigh the Linn last 
 night, thinking to make peace between him 
 and the woman Anabal that is Alan's mother ! 
 And oh, oh, she has gone away in the gloam- 
 ing not seeing him, and he will be for going 
 home when he wakes, and will be calling 
 Oona, Oona, Oona, and I not be hearing him, 
 for I was away in the wood, with the fear 
 upon me ! And then he will be moving 
 through the dark, and — and — O Nial, Nial! 
 He is drowned, drowned, and the water is on 
 him because of me! Nial! Nial ! " 
 
 The child swayed to and fro in her pas- 
 sionate grief. A new fear came upon Nial: 
 that she might throw herself into the pool, to 
 be drowned even as her foster-father was. 
 
 But at that moment both were hushed into 
 staring silence. 
 
 Slowly the corpse began to sink again. 
 
 3?3
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 Down, down it went, leaning forward more 
 and more, till it seemed as though it were 
 standing upright on some unseen ledge of 
 rock. Then, gradually, it revolved further, 
 till once more it hung suspended in the depths, 
 face downward, and with stiff arms adroop 
 beneath. 
 
 Without further gyration, motionlessly it 
 seemed, the body sank, till it became blurred, 
 obscure, shapeless. Then there was no more 
 of it than a black shadow far down in the 
 brown depths. 
 
 Oona rose to her full height. She gave a 
 long sigh, one short, choking sob. Her eyes 
 stared unwaveringly at nothing; the nails of 
 her fingers cut the small clenched hands. The 
 raven on the dead branch beyond the pool, 
 that had been croaking monotonously ever 
 since she had first heard it, became suddenly 
 still. 
 
 Nial rose too. He knew, without word 
 from her, without thought even, what she 
 meant to do. 
 
 " Oona ! " 
 
 She did not glance round, but he saw her 
 throat quiver. 
 
 " My birdeen, my birdeen, ah, my bonnie 
 wee fawn ! Come back, come back ! Sure, it 
 is not him at all ! It is the kelpie, Oona, it is 
 
 3 2 4
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 the kelpie ! " When the words came from her, 
 hushed and strange, he knew that she knew 
 the truth. 
 
 " I will be going . . . now." 
 
 " Oona ! come . . ." — then in a flash his 
 arms were about her as she leaped, and with 
 an effort that nearly hurled both into the pool 
 he swung her back to the ledge. 
 
 There she lay on the grass-covered rock, 
 white and still. Nial bent over her, moaning, 
 trembling, moaning. 
 
 An hour later, Murdo the shepherd, coming 
 down from the mountain, and going by the 
 Linn o' Mairg, so as to reach Inverglas by the 
 west side of the Strath, heard a wild barking 
 of his dogs. Through the heat-haze he stared 
 indifferently, then curiously, at two stooping 
 figures. 
 
 He approached the pool slowly. The dogs 
 were silent. One had stopped, and was snif- 
 fing and staring, the other whined at his 
 feet. 
 
 Yes, he was right, he muttered ; it was Nial 
 
 . . and Oona ! But what did it mean ? 
 
 Both sat silently by the Kelpie's Pool. The 
 wild, fantastic, shrunken figure of Nial was 
 black against the light. He seemed as though 
 rapt, spellbound. The child was naked, her 
 
 325
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 shoulder reddening under the flame of the 
 sun. He could see her strained, streaming 
 eyes. 
 
 His heart beat quick with a vague fear as 
 he moved toward them. He stopped, when 
 Oona's low, irregular sobbing was audible. 
 
 Beside him the collies crouched, whining. 
 
 Nial looked round, rose, and touched Oona. 
 She, too, rose ; her sobbing breath ceasing. 
 
 " Mam-Gorm is dead," said Nial simply ; 
 " he is dead — there." 
 
 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 whis- 
 pered 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 
 
 326
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 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 mo- 
 mentary 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 emo- 
 tion 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 sat- 
 isfaction moved into his mind, along with his 
 dull pain ; for now he remembered how his 
 father, who had been shepherd on Mam- 
 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 Mam-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 
 
 3V
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 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, mean- 
 while. 
 
 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 speed- 
 ily 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 
 
 328
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 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, un- 
 daunted 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 slip- 
 pery 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. Mam-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 
 Mam-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 
 
 329
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 mhic Diarmid had heard them. . . . Thus, 
 over and over, variously, yet ever on the same 
 lines, Murdo revolved in his mind the passing 
 of Mam-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 Cam- 
 eron 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 Mam-Gorm's 
 
 330
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 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. Mur- 
 do stalked in front, the rope-bridle looped 
 over his arm ; Raoilt, the white mare, stag- 
 gered 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 up- 
 ward, 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 clut- 
 tered. 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 
 
 33i
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 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 Mam-Gorm, it was doubtless 
 of the minister's house, which lay three miles 
 beyond Ardoch-beag, at the far end of Inver- 
 ■ glas. 
 
 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 
 
 332
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 the ring-stone, between the byre and the cot- 
 tage, 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 door- 
 way 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 Ana- 
 bal 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 spec- 
 tacles. 
 
 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 mut- 
 tered savagely, and as he spoke he drew from 
 his pocket a gold ring. 
 
 333
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 " 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 zvedding- 
 ring of Anabal Gilchrist!" 
 
 The outcast stared, vaguely impressed, but 
 without understanding what Murdo was driv- 
 ing 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 
 
 334
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 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' Mam- 
 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 ; what- 
 ever 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 
 
 335
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 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 : Mam-Go rm 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' Mam-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, dan! Cian! Cian- 
 alas! Dubhachas!" 1 
 
 1 Pron. Ke-an ! Ke-an! Keen-al-us ! Doov-ach-us ! 
 To Celtic ears, not unlike the wailing cry of the 
 plover. The words, moreover, mean For long, 
 ever ! Melancholy ! Gloom ! The word jeadag (pron. 
 
 336
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 " 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 to. 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. Mam- 
 
 Fddd'ak), in the ensuing sentences, has two mean- 
 ings — a plover, and a flute. The bitin jhcadag 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) 
 tdv&sk moves through the gloom of night. 
 
 337
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 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 him- 
 self ; " 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 do- 
 ing 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. 
 
 338
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 He stooped, and with pointing finger read 
 slowly and with difficulty, word by word : 
 
 "Cuir, a Thigheama, faire air mo bheul ; gleidh 
 
 dorus mo bhilean ! " 
 "Set, O Lord, a watch before my mouth; keep the 
 
 door of my lips I ' ' 
 
 ' 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 zvatch before 
 the month, keep the door of the lips." You 
 understand . . . ? Ay, sure: poor, faithful 
 creature that loved Mam-Gorm ; ay, an' that 
 Mam-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 . . . Mam-Gorm 
 . . . into the byre just now. And you wait, 
 you will be minding! " 
 
 339
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 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 sul- 
 lenly. 
 
 "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, 
 
 340
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 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 un- 
 easy 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 
 
 34i
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 more all around him. Then he listened at the 
 byre, to hear if Raoilt were munching at her 
 hay. What if Mam-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 dou- 
 ble ledge runs out from the great boulder 
 which overhangs the Strath, and whence for 
 
 342
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 nigh upon a score of miles the eye can follow 
 the course of Mairg Water. 
 
 At the far end a heat-haze obscured moun- 
 tain-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, un- 
 wavering. 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. 
 
 343
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 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. 
 
 It was within an hour of nightfall when, 
 from the verge of the forest below Mam- 
 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 
 
 344
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 back to the forest, thinking that he would de- 
 scend toward the Linn o' Mairg, and see if 
 Alurdo 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 ap- 
 peared : 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! 
 
 345
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 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 An- 
 gus Og, as Anabal's son was called by the 
 strath folk on account of his beauty and be- 
 cause 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 
 
 346
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 spirit or wraith he had seen sitting on Cnoc- 
 Ruadh that is beyond Ardoch-beag on Tor- 
 nideon ? 
 
 The flanks of the cows gleamed in the light 
 as with filled udders they swung slowly home- 
 ward, 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 but- 
 tress 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. Beauti- 
 ful 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 
 
 347
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 spilling into branchy crevices or dark green 
 underglooms. 
 
 Doubtless Alan was waiting to see her 
 reach Mam-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 de- 
 scried him, for she did not follow the cows, 
 but stood, waiting. The gloaming was al- 
 ready 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 
 
 348
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 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 al- 
 ready 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 Mam-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, Sorclia-nighean-Thorcall, but one that 
 will be glad and warm in your heart." 
 
 " Speak." 
 
 ' There is . . . there is peace now between 
 Mam-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 Ar- 
 doch-beag." 
 
 Sorcha stared bewildered. Even her joy at 
 the news, which meant so much for her and 
 
 349
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 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 beau- 
 tiful 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 hill- 
 
 350
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 side, 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 Sor- 
 cha'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 wom- 
 an, 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 be- 
 cause 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-Danan. and Mam-Go rm 
 had told him once were old, forgotten gods — 
 fair, deathless folk ! 
 
 In truth it was with joy that Sorcha has- 
 tened toward Alan. He saw the light in her 
 eyes before she was near enough to speak. 
 Often, beholding her, he was aware of some- 
 
 35i
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 thing 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 minis- 
 ter at Inverglas to marry them, because of the 
 
 352
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 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 * 
 
 1 The "mircath," or war-frenzy, is mire-chath, the 
 " passion of battle," as the " mirdeeay " is mire- 
 dheidh, the "passion of longing." The word Dar- 
 thula — infra — is a later Gaelic variant of Dearduil 
 (almost identically pronounced), the Scoto-Gaelic 
 equivalent of the Erse Deirdre, the most beautiful 
 woman of old. 
 
 353
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 in love now and again in the world, in die 
 green, remote places at least. Aodh the is- 
 lander, and Ian-ban 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. 
 
 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 Bandia-nan-slcibhtcan, a god- 
 dess of the hills, fair as the Banrigh-nan-Aill- 
 sean, the fairy queen. Often, singing or tell- 
 ing her some of the songs of Oisin mhic 
 Fhionn, he had called her his Darthula, after 
 that fairest of women in the days of old, be- 
 cause 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 . . . Darthala-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 
 
 354
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 waned, and the wonder of his love — the won- 
 der 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 be- 
 came a shadowy place — a foreign strand 
 where their voyaging boats need never coast. 
 
 When the moon rose, first through a tremu- 
 lous flood of amber-yellow light, thence to 
 emerge as a pale-gold flower, low in the Lios- 
 nan-speur, the " garden of the starry heav- 
 ens," the mountain lovers were already far up 
 Ben Iolair, and nigh the great Sg6rr-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 choir e-na-gaoithe , " the shad- 
 ing 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. 
 
 355
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 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 fur- 
 tive 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 Sruantsrha, 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 Sgorr-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 do- 
 ing?" 
 
 The dwarf saw that as yet she had not re- 
 
 356
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 membered. 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, mochrce, 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 Aill- 
 sha-ban, 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-ban : 
 
 "Aillsha-ban, Aillsha-ban, 
 Give way to the milking! 
 The holy St. Bridget 
 Is milking, milking 
 
 357
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 This self-same even 
 The white kye in heaven — 
 Ay, sure, my eyes scan 
 The green place she is in, 
 Aillsha-ban, Aillsha-ban: 
 And her hand is so soft 
 And her crooning is sweet 
 As my milking is soft 
 Upon thee, Aills ha-ban — 
 As my crooning is sweet 
 Upon thee, Aillsha-ban, 
 
 Aillsha-ban — 
 So soft is my hand and 
 My crooning so sweet, 
 
 Aillsha-ban!" 
 
 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 be- 
 fore 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 
 
 358
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 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. 
 
 359
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 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 striv- 
 ing 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 sheil- 
 ing-song to the way of the wind among leaves. 
 
 " Nial : what is the thing that Sorcha sings 
 often . . . and that . . . that he sang some- 
 times, about the quiet at the end ? " 
 
 360
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 Nial stared, puzzled for a moment : then he 
 repeated in a low voice : 
 
 "Deireadh gach comuinn, sgaoileadh: 
 Deireadh gach cogaidh, sith!" 
 
 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 sor- 
 row 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, mur- 
 muring 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 un- 
 dersides 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 
 
 361
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 on him. He dozed, woke, stared at the shad- 
 owy 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 audi- 
 ble. 
 
 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: 
 
 362
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 " Oona-muirnean, 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 learn 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. 
 
 3 r >3
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 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 say- 
 ing to you, my bird ? " 
 
 "She says: ' Leanabh, dh' eirich dha; dh' 
 eirich 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 bon- 
 nie, 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 
 . . . s\th . . . and then, with " sleep " and 
 " peace " still on her lips, she lay back, smil- 
 ing. 
 
 364
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 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-sJi-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 fit- 
 fully, waking often, and ever when he woke 
 pondering that last saying of the child, Is 
 blath anail na mathar. 
 
 3^5
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 XI 
 
 That night, any wayfarer going down 
 Strath Iolair, between the Pass of the Eagles 
 and Inverglas, must have been startled by a 
 windy blaze of flame against the slope of Tor- 
 nideon. 
 
 Since sundown the wind had increased in 
 strength. The loud clarion-call could be heard 
 unceasing on the hills. Through the Pass it 
 came with long wail or dreary sough, then 
 with a howl would swoop along Mairg Water, 
 with a noise that washed away the roar of the 
 Linn. 
 
 One man, at least, saw it. Under an arch of 
 rock, in a space half filled with fragrant dry 
 bracken, Murdo the shepherd watched. 
 
 Doggedness was at once Murdo's strength 
 and weakness. He had been convinced that 
 Anabal Gilchrist, guilty or innocent, had per- 
 ished along with Torcall Cameron. He had 
 come to the Linn, and till he found her he 
 would wait. Moreover, had he not the word 
 of the Scriptures for it, bidding him be silent? 
 What need, then, for him to go about as an 
 idle rumour? All would be known in time 
 without his telling. 
 
 When at last the twilight came, he was still 
 there. If he could not see the body of Anabal 
 
 366
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 in Mairg Water — and he knew that, if there, 
 it would soon or late be swirled out of the 
 Linn or the Kelpie's Pool — he would wait till 
 he saw her wraith. 
 
 There were many things — like certain 
 stories told of the speed of great vessels at sea, 
 and about what the electricity, out of which 
 the lightning came, could be made to do — 
 which he doubted, or at least discounted in 
 the telling. But in the sure wisdom of his 
 fathers he knew there was no rock of stum- 
 bling; therefore he was well aware that the 
 wraith of the dead comes to and fro between 
 its death-place and that darkness which is 
 deeper than the mirk of the blackest night, on 
 the night following its severance from the 
 body. So, he would wait and see. If her 
 wraith came from up the Strath or from down 
 the hill, he would know that she had not died 
 in the water. Wherever it came from, he 
 would follow it. 
 
 He had seen too much, he muttered again 
 and again to himself, with quaking heart: he 
 had seen too much in hill-gloamings and drear 
 mountain nights to have fear of the wraith of 
 a poor widow-body, who lived no further 
 away than over against Cnoc-Ruadh on Tor- 
 nideon. The moaning and loud soughing of 
 the wind tried him sore. But the night was 
 
 3 6 7
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 cloudless, and the moon hung above Iolair, a 
 beacon everywhere in the dark. Then, too, 
 as the hours went, he grew warm and com- 
 fortable in his rocky lair; moreover, fresh 
 text after text came into his mind. In mul- 
 tiplicity of these was safety; even were some 
 of them no more than " And Chelub, the 
 brother of Shunah, begat Mehir," or than that 
 (to Murdo, blasphemously familiar) saying in 
 Isaiah, "In that day shall the Lord shave 
 with a razor that is hired "—though, sure, to 
 his shepherd mind, there was comfortable 
 word as of home, as well as sacred influence, 
 in " And it shall come to pass in that day, that 
 a man shall nourish a young cow, and two 
 sheep." 
 
 He had been dozing when the first spurt of 
 flame broke out upon Tornideon. A little 
 later he roused with a start, and looked out 
 upon the Pool. There was a gleam there, or 
 somewhere; could it be the woman Anabal? 
 
 Then his gaze was drawn swift and stead- 
 fast, as iron to a magnet. He realised what 
 and where the flames were. Ardoch-beag was 
 on fire. 
 
 In a moment there flashed upon him the 
 recollection of Mam-Gorm, on the white mare 
 Raoilt, in the byre there. 
 
 With the thought came another, that he had 
 
 368
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 been mad to believe Anabal was in the Pool 
 at all. She must have discovered the body of 
 Torcall, and set fire to the place — corpse, 
 mare, and byre! There was not a moment 
 to lose. Yet, perhaps it was Alan; well, 
 even then, he muttered, he must go. But 
 supposing . . . but supposing . . . that . . . 
 that Mam-Gorm himself . . . 
 
 Murdo did not know what to do. The 
 dogs would help him, he thought. Crawling 
 from his hiding-place, he whistled to Donn 
 and Luath. Both collies had already crept 
 from the fern, and were standing with stiff- 
 ened tails and rigid bodies, intently watching 
 the shooting, darting, leaping, ever-spreading 
 flame on the hill opposite. Abruptly, Luath 
 began to growl. Then Donn stole, whining, 
 to the shepherd's feet. 
 
 "What ails the dogs?" he muttered, half 
 angrily. 
 
 A few minutes later his keen eyes discerned 
 the cause of their uneasiness. The full flood 
 of the moonlight was upon the flank of Tor- 
 nideon, and it was now possible to see along 
 the whole path from Ardoch-beag to the Ford, 
 " glan mar a ghrian," as he said to himself — 
 clear as in the sunlight. 
 
 And this was the thing that Murdo the 
 shepherd saw, to be with him to his death-day, 
 
 369
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 and to be for ever in Strath Iolair a legend of 
 terror. 
 
 Down the steep descent that began to fall 
 away a few yards beyond Ardoch-beag, he 
 saw a tall, gaunt woman, with rent garments 
 and long, loosened hair fluttering in the wind, 
 striding down the hillway, often with wild 
 gestures. And before the woman trampled 
 and snorted a horse, mad with the fear of the 
 flame, and knowing, too, it may be, the awful 
 burden of death it bore, now swung crosswise 
 upon its back. As a mad horse will do, it 
 pranced in a strange, stiff - , fantastic way : 
 wild to leap forward and race like the wind 
 from what lay behind, from what jerked and 
 jolted above ; yet constrained as by another 
 than human force. 
 
 Ever and again, in a momentary lull of the 
 wind, Murdo could hear its shrill, appalling 
 neighing. Once, too, he shrank, because of 
 the screaming laughter of the woman. 
 
 Furlong by furlong he watched this ghastly 
 march of the dead and dying. Were it not 
 for the flames at Ardoch-beag, where both 
 house and byre were now caught in a swirl- 
 ing blaze, he would have believed the other 
 to be no more than a vision. 
 
 With difficulty he silenced the dogs. He 
 would stay where he was now, and see what 
 
 37o
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 was going to be done that night : for it was 
 clear that Anabal, seemingly mad, and having 
 set fire to Ardoch-beag, was now driving 
 Raoilt and its corpse-burthen either down to 
 Mairg Water, or with intent to cross and go 
 up the mountain of Mam-Gorm. 
 
 This last, indeed, was evidently her aim: 
 for, when at last the Ford was reached, Murdo 
 could see her striving to make the affrighted 
 mare enter the shallows. Raoilt, however, 
 would not budge. With forelegs planted firm- 
 ly, with head thrown up, quivering flanks, 
 and long tail slashing this way and that, the 
 white mare showed some strange horror of 
 the swift-running ford-water. Suddenly she 
 swung round, and with a grotesque pranc- 
 ing moved along the north bank toward the 
 Linn. 
 
 They were now close to him. Murdo could 
 see the bloodshot, gleaming eyeballs of Raoilt : 
 the white set face and staring eyes of Anabal. 
 Either the roar of the whirlpool, or the sight 
 of one of the collies slinking terrified through 
 the fern, added a new terror to the mare. She 
 swerved wildly. The burden she bore became 
 still further unloosed. With scraping hoofs 
 she pawed at a bank of heather, in a vain at- 
 tempt to find solid footing. A plunge . . . 
 a fall backward ... a staggering recovery 
 
 37*
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 among the very rocks of the Linn . . . and 
 . . . freedom at last! 
 
 But, for the second time since Murdo had 
 last seen him in life, Torcall Cameron was 
 hurled headlong into the Linn o' Mairg. 
 
 With a cry the shepherd sprang forward. 
 Anabal heard, but did not see. All she knew 
 was the roar of the linn, the wail of the kel- 
 pie, and that — that withering scream of the 
 dead man. 
 
 For a moment she stood on the verge of the 
 cataract. Her arms were upraised : her whole 
 body moved with one unutterable supplication. 
 
 "Fergus! Fergus!" 
 
 The wild appeal rang through the night, 
 above the turmoil of the falling water, the in- 
 creasing moan and loud blasting vehemence 
 of the wind. 
 
 Murdo did not see her leap or fall. His 
 gaze had for a moment sought the mare, who, 
 at that cry, had leaped as though stung by fire, 
 and was careering at breakneck speed up the 
 boulder-strewn bank by which she had come. 
 
 But when the shepherd looked again, Ana- 
 bal Gilchrist was gone. 
 
 Throughout that night there was a wilder 
 sound on the hillside than any wail of the 
 wind. This was the screaming of the white 
 
 372
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 horse, as, wrought now to a death-madness, 
 it leaped waywardly through the dark, so 
 passing from height to height upward along 
 the whole mountainal flank of Iolair. 
 
 At dawn, in the sheiling high up on Druim- 
 nan-Damh, Sorcha awoke, trembling. 
 
 For a time she listened in awe to the ma- 
 jesty of the wind, a vast choric chant that 
 filled the morning-twilight with an ocean of 
 flowing sound. Then, again and again, she 
 heard that strange, horrible scream. 
 
 Alan stirred. She whispered as she drew 
 closer to him. He, too, listened. A great fear 
 lay upon both. This screaming voice in the 
 night was an omen of sorrow, of doom. Who 
 could it be but the Bandruidh — that evil sor- 
 ceress of the hills, dark daughter of the 
 Haughty Father, who had already won the 
 soul out of Nial? 
 
 Sleep was impossible. It was banished 
 even from thought, when a wild neighing 
 close to the walls of the cot made Sorcha cry 
 out and cling to Alan as though death were 
 already upon them. 
 
 They lay shuddering. Clearly this was one 
 of the water-bulls or water-horses which 
 roam the mountain-ways on nights of storm: 
 dread demon-creatures, to see whom even is 
 almost certain death. 
 
 373
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 " It will not be long till sunrise," Alan whis- 
 pered ; and by that Sorcha was comforted, for 
 she knew that the ravening thing outside 
 would have to haste back to loch or river or 
 sea. 
 
 And by daybreak, in truth, the beast was 
 already away. They heard the clamour of 
 its hoofs against the granite stones and rock, 
 as it sped upward still. 
 
 When, hand clasping hand, they ventured to 
 go out, they could see no living thing, but an 
 eagle soaring high above the extreme peak of 
 Iolair : for the light of the new glorious day 
 was in their eyes as they faced the Ridge of 
 the Stags. 
 
 But suddenly Sorcha caught sight of some- 
 thing white leaping against the sunrise. 
 
 Alan's gaze followed her trembling arm and 
 outstretched finger. He, too, saw, but unre- 
 cognisingly, a white horse, prancing and 
 screaming along the verge of the granite 
 precipice of Sgorr-Glan. 
 
 The mad beast was now on the Sgorr itself. 
 Behind were deep corries and ravines : in 
 front, nothing but the flaming disc of fire, 
 nothing but that sheer blank wall of granite, 
 straight from the brow of the Sgorr to where 
 the Sruantsrha surged darkly its tortuous 
 way, two thousand feet below. 
 
 374
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 A faint, impalpable mist was in the air. 
 This, doubtless, it was that made the white 
 horse loom larger and larger, till it stood out 
 against the morning, vast as Liath-Macha, the 
 untamable phantom steed, " grey to white- 
 ness," that Cuculain the Hero rode triumph- 
 antly through the valley of the shadow of 
 death. 
 
 Then it was as though it leaped against the 
 sun itself. 
 
 XII 
 
 Week after week went by, changelessly 
 fine, so that in the Strath men began to 
 shake their heads ominously because of the 
 long drought. In the memory of none had 
 there been an autumn so lovely. For a brief 
 spell, in mid August, coming indeed with the 
 storm of wind which had helped the flames ut- 
 terly to consume the few poor buildings of 
 Anabal Gilchrist on Tornideon, great clouds 
 had travelled inland from the Atlantic, and 
 had burst floodingly upon hill and valley. But 
 in less than a week the sky was clear again, 
 and of a richer, deeper blue. The whole 
 mountain-land was veiled in beauty. 
 
 The woods at the end of October were, 
 other than the pine-forests, a blaze of glory. 
 
 375
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 Few leaves had fallen, except from the limes 
 and sycamores, and these sparsely only . . . 
 scarce enough to lay a pathway of flakes 
 of yellow gold before the hinds and fawns 
 that trooped through the sunlit glades. 
 The innumerable rowan-trees wore fiery 
 hues upon their feathery foliage: everywhere 
 the scarlet berries suspended in blood-red 
 clusters against the blue sky or the cool green- 
 ness. 
 
 The dream, the spell, was not only upon the 
 beautiful green earth. It lay elsewhere than 
 there, or in the deeps of heaven : elsewhere 
 than on the quiet waters which slept against 
 the shores beyond the mountains and slum- 
 bered immeasurably toward the ever-reced- 
 ing west, with a soft moaning only, wonder- 
 ful and sweet to hear. 
 
 For it was upon the heart and in the brain 
 of each of the mountaineers of Iolair: but 
 most upon Sorcha and Alan. 
 
 For them the days had gone past, days of 
 rapt happiness in that golden weather. Al- 
 ready the world had become to them no more 
 than a dream. They went to and fro, hushed, 
 upon the hills, each oblivious of all save the 
 other, all save the ceaseless thrilling wonder 
 of the pageant of the hours from dawn to 
 moonset. That strange rapture which comes 
 
 376
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 at times to isolated, visionary dreamers upon 
 the hills, wrought a spell upon Alan. Scarce 
 less was it upon Sorcha, and that less only, 
 if at all, because of the second life that she 
 sustained. The " mirdeeay " was a glamour 
 in their eyes, in their mind;, in their heart, 
 from the hour of the waning star to the com- 
 ing of night. Not all an evil thing is it to 
 dream. The world well lost! Ah, shadowy- 
 eyed dreamers that know the secret wisdom, 
 it is well to dream ! 
 
 None of the Strath-folk saw them now. 
 The people murmured against them because 
 of the tragic mystery of the deaths of Torcall 
 Cameron and Anabal Gilchrist. Little had 
 been learned from Murdo, and none now en- 
 countered Oona or Nial. But a dropped 
 word, a reluctant admission, a careful eva- 
 sion, from the shepherd, went far. Hints 
 grew into a legend : soon a perverted yet not 
 wholly misleading version of the facts became 
 current. 
 
 On the same morning when, from the moun- 
 tain-sheiling, they had seen the white mare, 
 screaming in her madness, leap from the 
 precipice of Sgorr-Glan, as though full 
 against the sun, Alan and Sorcha learned 
 from Murdo what had happened. Below all 
 the grief and horror of the double tragedy, 
 
 377
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 there was one thing not to be gainsaid. The 
 hand of God was here. 
 
 After their first passionate sorrow they 
 whispered this thing the one to the other. It 
 was ordained. God had wrought thus with 
 the thread of all their lives. There was none 
 to blame, neither Torcall, nor Anabal, nor 
 the child Oona, unwitting instrument of the 
 Divine will. Is duilich cuir an aghaidh dan: 
 Who can oppose Fate, who set himself 
 against Destiny? 
 
 A strange thing, that had a terrifying sig- 
 nificance for the Strath-dwellers, was this : 
 never were the bodies of Torcall Cameron and 
 Anabal Gilchrist found. The Linn was 
 dragged, the Kelpie's Pool poled over and 
 over, the lower reaches of Mairg Water were 
 examined under every shelving bank, or wher- 
 ever a sunken bole or submerged boulder 
 might have caught the castaways. No trace 
 was seen anywhere, then or later. Possibly 
 it was true, what an old man of Inverglas 
 averred, that there was a slope at the bottom 
 of the Kelpie's Pool, which ran in beneath a 
 shelving ledge, whence the water poured down 
 a funnel-like passage into a cavern filled with 
 stalactites, through the innumerable holes and 
 crannies at the base of which the flow van- 
 ished even as it came. 
 
 378
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 He had this knowledge, he said, from his 
 father before him, who in the great drought 
 of the first year of the century had seen the 
 Pool shrunken so that a man might stand in 
 it and yet not be wet above the knees. " And 
 the word of my father will not be for doubt- 
 ing," the old crofter added : " for he lived 
 with God before him till he died, and now was 
 with his own folk in Flaitheanas itself, prais- 
 ing Himself for evermore." 
 
 Thereafter, as was but natural, the home 
 upon Tornideon being no more, Alan and 
 Sorcha lived at Mam-Gorm. There was none 
 to dispute their possession, for Torcall Cam- 
 eron was without blood-kin, and all that was 
 his was Sorcha's. 
 
 So week after week went by. Even in the 
 Strath the people said : " It was willed." 
 There was no man nor woman among them, 
 even of those who were angry with Sorcha 
 that she was not wedded before the minister 
 — forgetful, always, that it was the minister 
 who had refused to wed Alan and Sorcha, be- 
 cause of the feud between Torcall and Ana- 
 bal (and, though none had inkling of it, be- 
 cause of the sin he knew of that lay between 
 them, the sin that lived and moved and had 
 its being in the person of the child Oona) — 
 and still more who were angry with her be- 
 
 379
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 cause she came never among them, but was 
 as one lost to the world, and she too with the 
 second life in her, when she ought to be see- 
 ing and talking to older womenfolk — there 
 was none among these who, in his or her 
 heart of hearts, did not recognise that it is 
 ever an idle thing for small wings to baffle 
 against a great wind. It was to be: it would 
 be. That was the unspoken refrain of all 
 thoughts : the undertone of all comments. 
 
 The tragic end of Anabal Gilchrist, the 
 doom that had fulfilled itself for Torcall Cam- 
 eron : what was either but apiece with the 
 passing of the ancient language, though none 
 wished it to go; with the exile of the sons, 
 though they would fain live and die where 
 their fathers wooed their mothers; with the 
 coming of strangers, and strange ways, and 
 a new bewildering death-cold spirit, that had 
 no respect for the green graves, and jeered 
 at ancient things and the wisdom of old 
 — strangers whom none had sought, none 
 wished, and whose coming meant the going of 
 even the few hillfolk who prospered in the 
 machar, the fertile meadows and pastures 
 along the mountain bases? It was to be: it 
 would be. 
 
 Among the old there was exceeding bitter- 
 ness. An angry and a brooding pain frowned 
 
 380
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 in many hearts. But, alas, what good to meet 
 the inevitable with wailing? What had to be, 
 surely would be. Old wifeless men, old child- 
 less women, took comfort in that bitter-sweet 
 saying of the Psalmist : " is iad iobairtean Dhe 
 spiorad briste " — " the sacrifice of God is a 
 broken spirit." 
 
 But, with the harvesting, the Strath-folk 
 forgot for a while the very existence of the 
 mountain-lovers. 
 
 Smitten with the strange rapt elation of 
 their dream, Alan and Sorcha still went to 
 and fro as though spellbound. Sometimes he 
 herded the cows alone : as before, Sorcha 
 milked the sweet-breath kine, singing low her 
 songs of holy St. Bridget or old-world ca- 
 dences rare and nigh- forgotten now as the 
 Fonnsheen, the fairy melodies once wont to 
 be heard on the hills and in remote places. 
 But, though apart for a brief while, it was 
 only to dream the more. 
 
 Yet, strange to say, Alan knew in his heart 
 that this could not endure. It could not be 
 for over long: God, soon or late, lays winter 
 upon the heart, as well as upon the song of 
 the bird, the bloom of the flower. 
 
 Nevertheless, he had no trouble because of 
 this. There is, at times, in deep happiness, a 
 gloom as of dark water filled with sunlight. 
 
 38i
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 While the glow is there, a living joy, the 
 gloom is no more than the quiet sorrow of 
 the world. 
 
 Often, of late, he had noticed upon the hill- 
 side, upon brier and bramble, fern-covert or 
 dwarf-elder, that indescribable shadow of 
 light, visible too at full noon in that golden 
 weather as well as at the passing of the sun : 
 that glow of omen, known of Celtic poets and 
 seers in far-gone days. The first line of a 
 fragmentary rune, come down from one of 
 these singers, who walked nearer to nature 
 than does any now among the sons of men, 
 was upon his lips over and over, because of 
 this thing: 
 
 " Tha bruaillean air aghaidh nan torn." 
 
 " There is boding gloom on the face of the bushes." 
 
 Once only the gloom lay upon him, the 
 gloom that is upon the mind as a dark cloud 
 upon a field of grain. What if ill should have 
 come to Sorcha? 
 
 He turned, and went swiftly home. The 
 gloaming had fallen, and Sorcha was sitting 
 before the flaming peats, with clasped hands 
 and dreaming eyes. She was crooning, half 
 breathing, half crooning, a song, low and 
 sweet against his ear as the noise of a run- 
 ning brook heard in sleep as one fares by 
 
 382 ,
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 green pastures under a moon strange and 
 new in a strange land. And the song was 
 one he had not known, not since he was a 
 child, and heard Morag, the wife of Ken- 
 neth, foster-brother of Fergus Gilchrist, sing 
 it before, in a day of mourning, she brought 
 forth her firstborn: 
 
 "An' O, an' O, St. Bride's sweet song 'tis I am hear- 
 ing, dearie, 
 
 Dearie, dearie, dearie, my wee white babe that's 
 weary, 
 
 Weary, weary, weary, with this my womb sae 
 weary, 
 
 And Bride's sweet song ye hear it too, and stir and 
 sigh, my dearie! 
 
 "Oh, oh, leanaban-mo, 
 Wee hands that give me pain and woe: 
 Pain and woe, but be it so, 
 Tis his dear self that now doth grow, 
 Leanaban-mo, leanaban-mo, 
 'Tis his dear self one day you'll know, 
 Leanaban-mo, leanaban-mo! 
 
 " St. Bridget dear, the cradle show, 
 My baby comes, and I must go, 
 Leanaban-mo, leanaban-mo! 
 Arone! . . . Aro! 
 Arone! . . . Ard!" 
 
 He had stood in the shadow, silent, listen- 
 ing with awe and a strange joy. His heart 
 
 383
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 yearned to go to her, but he knew that a 
 mother's first tears were in the dreaming eyes, 
 and that it was not for him, nor any save 
 God, to be seeing them. 
 
 So Alan turned, and went up through the 
 dusk to the low green summit of Cnoc-na- 
 shee, a brief way from the sheiling. And 
 when he was there he looked and saw nothing 
 in all the light-gloom sky but one star low in 
 the south — Rcul-na-dhnil, the star of hope. 
 Peace was in his heart. He kneeled down and 
 made a prayer for Sorcha, and the child she 
 bore, and for him too. And when he rose, 
 and went home, and looked back at green 
 Cnoc-na-shee, he saw there for a moment a 
 figure as of an angel, shining bright. 
 
 Night and day they were alone there. 
 Murdo the shepherd was up at the high sheil- 
 ing on Ben Iolair, and rarely came to Mam- 
 Gorm save to help with the kye, or do what 
 was needed about the steading. Oona, too, 
 was seldom seen of them ; and of late, even she 
 had not always come at sunrise for the food 
 Sorcha placed for her on the bench by the 
 door each morning. As for Nial, he was for 
 long seen of none, save Oona, and where and 
 when that was no one knew. 
 
 As October waned, the day of the moun- 
 tain lovers became more and more a life of 
 
 384
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 joy. Hand in hand they would sit on the 
 bench in the sun, happily content: or dream, 
 hand clasping hand, before the glowing peats. 
 It was in vain that Murdo, fearing " the 
 quiet madness," reproached Alan, urging 
 upon him that he should go down into Inver- 
 glas and see to the sale of the cattle and the 
 sheep. The young man shook his head, smiled 
 gently at the shepherd, and once at least mur- 
 mured these ominous words : " There is a 
 time for all things, and it is my time to be 
 still. I have peace." 
 
 Sorcha, being heavy with child, could not 
 now walk far, and indeed cared little to go 
 beyond the door-bench, or, at farthest, to the 
 green slope of the hillock of Cnoc-na-shee. 
 Her beauty had not waned because of her 
 trouble. Her eyes had grown more large and 
 beautiful: wonderful stars of light to Alan 
 alwavs — stars that shone out of infinite 
 depths, wherein his soul could sink till it 
 reached that ninth wave of darkness which is 
 the sea of light beating upon the coasts of 
 heaven. 
 
 So, ever and again, glad with his joy and 
 ungrievingly gloomed because of the shadow 
 that day by day wove a closer veil about his 
 spirit, he not grieving because not in himself 
 knowing the mystery, he went out upon the 
 
 385
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 hillside or into the forest. Often it was, then, 
 that he heard the singing of Oona in the 
 woods at sunrise and during the hot noons. 
 Sometimes now, too, when late-wandering 
 through the forest at gloaming, he saw afar 
 off the still figure of Nial crouching by the 
 tarn, or seated with bent head among the 
 flags and rushes of the drought-dried pools. 
 More than once, as he went home by the re- 
 moter glades, he heard the elf-man chanting 
 wildly among the pines at night. 
 
 It was on one such evening that, returning 
 with his mind strangely troubled because of 
 the soulless man of the woods, and of his fu- 
 tile quest and the bitter wrong and pity of it, 
 he was met by Murdo with startling news. 
 Sorcha had had a vision ; and, being wrought 
 by it, had fallen into premature labour. But 
 she was not alone. He, Murdo, had brought 
 his foster-sister, Anna MacAnndra, back with 
 him from the clachan by the Ford of the 
 Sheep : for as he had gone down with some 
 young ewes that noontide he had seen a look 
 like death in Sorcha's face, so white and 
 drawn was it with sudden pain. Anna, he 
 added, was a leal friend and dear to Sorcha, 
 so that all was well. 
 
 And that night, in truth, the child of their 
 great love was born to them. A night it was 
 
 386
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 of pain and joy, of agony and rapture. But 
 when at last the long-waited dawn came — 
 when, as the woman Anna said, there was 
 no more need to fear, for the death-hour of 
 woman in travail was well past — there was 
 deep breathing of quiet happiness upon the 
 sleeping mother, deep slumber of birth- 
 weariness upon the child that lay against her 
 breast, deep peace in the heart of Alan. 
 
 It was not till the eve of that day that Sor- 
 cha told him of her vision. She had been sit- 
 ting in the sun upon Cnoc-na-shee, when she 
 was amazed to see three people pass from the 
 forest and make their way up the hill. Be- 
 cause of the noon-glare she could not discern 
 who they were, though each seemed vaguely 
 familiar. Dark in the glowing light, their 
 figures were visible till they reached the an- 
 cient stones beside the cairn of Marsail. 
 There she thought they passed into the long 
 hollow beyond; but, when she looked again, 
 she saw that they were now four in number, 
 and that they were coming down the kye-path 
 to Mam-Gorm. Her heart had begun to 
 waver ; but it was not till they were half-way 
 down that she recognised the white faces of 
 them: Torcall her father and Marsail her 
 mother, Anabal and her man Fergus. All 
 
 387
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 four walked in peace. And she heard a thin 
 song in the air, that may have been from 
 them or may have been behind her: a song 
 that said, " Beannachd do t'anam is buaidh," 
 " Blessing to thy soul, and victory," " Bless- 
 ing, blessing to thy soul, and peace ! " But 
 still the spirit in her was strong, for why 
 should she fear, dead, those whom she had 
 loved, living? 
 
 But as they drew nearer she saw the woman 
 Anabal waving her arms slowly as she ad- 
 vanced, even as the prophesying women of old 
 did before the Lord; and, so waving, she 
 chanted a rune. And the rune that she 
 chanted was the Rune of the Passion of the 
 Mother, that no man has ever heard since time 
 was, and that has been in the ears of those 
 women, only, who are to lose life in the 
 giving of a life unto Life. So, hearing this 
 rune, she fell sobbing, with the pains already 
 upon her: and, but for the coming of Murdo 
 with Anna, she would have borne her child 
 on Cnoc-na-shee, the fairy hill — and who 
 knows but its doom might have been that of 
 Nial the soulless? 
 
 This vision, Sorcha added, she would not 
 have told to any one had she felt the death- 
 breath enter her as the child was delivered ; 
 but now that the boy was born, and was so 
 
 388
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 fair and lusty, blue-eyed and golden-haired as 
 his father had been before him when he too 
 was a breast-babe, and, too, that all was well 
 with her, she told it. Moreover, sure, no 
 harm could come of a song of peace: and as 
 for the Rune of the Passion of Mary, it was no 
 more than an idle tale, that saying of Anna 
 MacAnndra's and of other women, that who- 
 so shall hear it shall surely die within the 
 birth-month. 
 
 And because of her smiling lips and loving 
 eyes, and of the fair, lusty child whose little 
 hands wandered clingingly about the white 
 breast of Sorcha, Alan believed that the an- 
 cient wisdom was an idle tale. 
 
 When the dark fell, and pinelogs were 
 thrown upon the rcdhot peats, the two talked 
 in low, hushed tones, with eyes that ever 
 sought each other lovingly — dreamed and 
 talked, whispered and dreamed, far into the 
 night. 
 
 Then, with close-clasping arm holding her 
 child to her bosom, as though in her exceed- 
 ing weakness — a weakness nigh unto death, 
 now that it seemed to float up to her from 
 within, rather than descend upon her from 
 above — she feared her white blossom of love 
 might be taken from her, Sorcha sank sud- 
 denly into drowning sleep. 
 
 389
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 Sitting by the bedside, with his hand strok- 
 ing or holding hers, Alan revolved other 
 thoughts than those of love only. 
 
 Passing strange, passing strange, this mys- 
 tery of motherhood over which he brooded 
 obscurely. And, truly, who can know the 
 long, bitter travail of the spirit, as well as 
 the pangs of the body, which many women en- 
 dure — except just such a woman, suffering in 
 just that way? Can any man know? Hardly 
 can it be so. For though a man can under- 
 stand the agony of birthtide, and even the long 
 ache and strain of the double life, can he com- 
 prehend the baffled sense of overmastering 
 weakness, the vague informulate cry against 
 all powers that be — Man, overlord of the 
 womb : God, overlord of men. How many 
 women have prayed not to Him, but to the 
 one Pontiff before whom all thoughts 
 bow down, worshipping in dread : to that 
 shadowy Lord of the veiled face whom 
 some call Death, that Woman of the compas- 
 sionate eyes whom others call Oblivion, be- 
 cause of the poppied draught she gives 
 the weary to drink, and the quiet glooms of 
 rest that she holds in the hollow of her hand, 
 and the hushed breath of her that is Forget- 
 fulness. 
 
 Thoughts such as these, though in crude 
 
 390
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 words and simple symbols, were in Alan's 
 mind. 
 
 No, he knew : never again could he even 
 listen to men jeering at birth. He, though he 
 had come to her virginal-pure, yet feared 
 Sorcha's eyes at times, because — though not 
 knowing for what it was — of the deep-buried 
 spiritual anathema which, in the gaze of the 
 purest and noblest of women, affronts the 
 chained brute that is in the man. 
 
 Ah, do men know, do men know — many a 
 woman cries in her heart — do men know that 
 a woman with child dies daily : that she wakes 
 up to die, and that she lies down to die : 
 and that even as hourly she dies, so hourly 
 does the child inherit life? Do they know 
 that her body is the temple of a new soul? 
 What men are they, in any land, who pro- 
 fane the sacred altars? Death was of old 
 the just penalty of those who defiled the 
 holy place where godhood stood revealed 
 in stone or wood or living Bread : shall they 
 go free who defile the temple of the human 
 soul? 
 
 " Sure, sure," Alan breathed rather than 
 whispered, with some such thought as this 
 in his mind, " sure I am the priest of God, 
 and she there my temple . . . and lo, my 
 God ! " . . . and with that he leaned over and 
 
 391
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 kissed the little rosy fingers, and the hot tears 
 in his eyes fell upon Sorcha's breast, so that 
 she stirred in her sleep and smiled, dreaming 
 that a soft rain was falling upon her out of 
 the Healing Fountain of Tears that is in the 
 midmost Heaven. 
 
 It was at sunrise that the door opened and 
 Oona entered. The child was wet with dew 
 which glistered all over her as though she 
 were a new-plucked flower. 
 
 " Ah, birdeen, it is you ! " whispered Alan 
 softly, lest the sleepers should wake. " See, 
 I have been dreaming and sleeping all night 
 before the peats." 
 
 Oona stared at the bed, where all she could 
 see was Sorcha's pale face among its mass of 
 dusky hair. 
 
 "Is it true, Alan? That . . . over there 
 ... is that true ? " 
 
 " It is true, dear." 
 
 " Are you sure that a baby has come to 
 Sorcha?" 
 
 " It is Himself that sent it." 
 
 " Alan, has it a soul ? " 
 
 " A soul ? . . . Yes, sure no evil eye is 
 upon it, to the Stones be it said ! But why do 
 you ask 'that thing?" 
 
 The child sighed, but made no answer, her 
 
 392
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 gaze wandering from Alan round the room, 
 and then to where Sorcha lay. 
 
 ' Why do you say that, Oona ? It is not 
 a safe thing to say: sure, it is not a good 
 wishing. Who knows who may be hearing, 
 though I wish evil to no one, banned or 
 blest ! " 
 
 " I see no one," Oona began calmly : " I see 
 no one, and how can no one hear? But I will 
 not be for saying an unlucky thing: sure, you 
 know that, dear Alan. Happiness be in this 
 house! . . . And, now, I will be going, Alan, 
 for I . . ." 
 
 "Going? Hush-sh! wait, Oona, wait: sure, 
 you will be wanting to see the little one?" 
 
 " I want to see Nial." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " He must not come . . . just now." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " At dawn we went up to the top of the 
 hillock, for the ' quiet people ' are ever away 
 by then, it is said. And we prayed. I prayed, 
 and Nial said whatever I said. And then, at 
 sunrise, we rose, and went three times round 
 Cnoc-na-shee south-ways, and each time cried 
 Djayseenl! " * 
 
 1 Deasiul: " the way of the south [i.e. of the sun] 
 (to you!)" From deas, the south, and seol, way of, 
 direction. The common Gaelic exclamation for 
 
 393
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 " And what was it you would be praying, 
 Oona?" 
 
 " That no soul might be in the body of 
 Sorcha's baby." 
 
 Alan stared at her, too amazed at first to be 
 angry. 
 
 "What madness is this, lassie?" 
 
 " Sure it is no madness at all, at all, Alan ! 
 It is a good thought, and no madness. . . . 
 For . . . for why. . . . There is poor Nial ; 
 and when Murdo met him on the hillside last 
 night, and told him about Sorcha, Nial found 
 me out by calling through the woods like a 
 cuckoo, and sure a good way too, for there 
 are no cooaks now ; and then he and I hoped 
 the baby would have no soul . . . and . . ." 
 
 " Hush-sh ! Hush-sh ! Enough ! enough ! 
 bi savach! I am not being angered with you, 
 because of the good thought that was in your 
 heart. But say these things no more. Come ; 
 look at Sorcha and the child." 
 
 With a light, swift step Oona moved across 
 the room. Silently she looked into Sorcha's 
 face ; silently she stood looking awhile at the 
 child. 
 
 Alan had no word from her, to his sorrow. 
 
 luck, in the Highlands at any rate. Many old 
 crofters still, on coming out of a morning, cry 
 " Deasiul!" 
 
 394
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 Steadfastly she stared ; but breathed no whis- 
 per even. Then^ with a faint sigh, she 
 turned, moved like a ray of light across the 
 room, and, before he knew what had hap- 
 pened, she was gone. 
 
 Bewildered at the child going thus quietly 
 away, he went slowly to the door; but she 
 had already vanished. So small a lass could 
 soon be lost in that sunlit sea of green-gold 
 bracken. 
 
 For some days thereafter he caught at 
 times a faint echo of her singing in the woods. 
 Once, in a gleaming silver-dusk, he saw the 
 imprint of her small feet, darkly distinct in 
 the wet dew, underneath the little window be- 
 hind which Sorcha lay. But she did not come 
 again. 
 
 It was on the eve of the morning that Oona 
 came that Nial also, for the first and last time, 
 beheld the little Ivor — so called after Ivor, 
 the brother of Marsail that was Sorcha's 
 mother, the noblest man Alan had ever 
 known ; " Ivor the good," as he was called by 
 some, " Ivor the poet " by others. 
 
 Alan was out, talking to Anna MacAnndra, 
 when Nial stole into the room. One hope was 
 in his heart : that Sorcha slept. 
 
 With gleaming eyes, seeing that this was 
 so, he drew near. The sight of the little 
 
 395
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 white child, close lain against his mother's 
 bosom, made a pain in his heart greater than 
 ever the stillest moonlit night had done — a 
 suffocating pain, that made him tremble. 
 
 He drew a long breath. He, too, he knew, 
 had once been small, perhaps white and sweet, 
 like that. 
 
 Was it possible that so small, so frail a 
 thing could have a soul? Sure, it could not 
 be. If not, should he not take it, and keep it 
 by him in the forest, till the day when it could 
 be mate to him, Nial the soulless? But if . . . 
 
 His hand touched the skin of the little rosy 
 arm. The child opened its eyes of wonder 
 full upon him. 
 
 They gazed unwaveringly, seeing nothing, 
 it may be : if seeing, heeding not. Had it 
 cried, even, or turned away its head ; but, no, 
 its blue, unfearing eyes were fixed upon this 
 creature of another world. 
 
 It was enough. With a low, sobbing moan 
 he turned and stole unseen from the room, 
 and so out on the hillside, and past that pray- 
 ing-place of Cnoc-na-shee, where so vainly he 
 and Oona had urged that which might not 
 be ; and so to the forest, that was the home of 
 the wild fawns, and of the red fox, and of 
 Nial. 
 
 None, save the child Oona, ever saw again 
 
 396
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 the elf-man that was called Nial the Soulless : 
 none, though Murdo the shepherd averred 
 that, once, as he passed through the forest in 
 the darkness of a black dawn, he heard a wail- 
 ing cry come from a great hollow oak that 
 grew solitary among the endless avenues of 
 the pines. 
 
 It was far within that first month of moth- 
 erhood, presaged by the secret rune heard of 
 Sorcha, the Rune of the Passion of Mary, that 
 only women dying of birth may hear: it was 
 within this time that an unspeakable weakness 
 came upon Sorcha. 
 
 Day by day she grew frail and more frail. 
 Her eyes were pools for the coming shadows 
 of death. 
 
 Strange had been their love: strange the 
 coming of it: stranger still was their joy in 
 the hour of death. 
 
 For this thing upbore her, that was to go, 
 and him, that was to stay : Joy. 
 
 Not vainly had they lived in dream. Sweet 
 now was the waning of the dream into long 
 sleep. Sweet is sleep that will never stir to 
 any waking : sweeter that sleep which is but a 
 balm of rest. 
 
 For they knew this: that they would awake 
 in the fulness of time. 
 
 397
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 When, for the first time, the doom-word 
 passed her lips, Alan shuddered slightly, but 
 he did not quail. 
 
 " I am dying, dear heart ! " 
 
 " Sorcha, this thing has been near to us 
 many days. It is not for long." 
 
 " And thou wilt look to thine own dark 
 hour with joy? " 
 
 " Even so." 
 
 " And our legacy to this our child . . . 
 shall be . . . shall be . . ." 
 
 " It shall be Joy. He shall be, among men, 
 Ivor the Joy-bringer." 
 
 No more was said between them, then, nor 
 later. 
 
 It was in the afternoon of the day follow- 
 ing this that Sorcha died. She was fain to 
 breathe her last breath on the mountain-side. 
 Tenderly, to the green hillock by the home- 
 stead, Alan had carried her. Soft was the 
 west wind upon her wandering hands; warm 
 the golden light out of the shining palaces of 
 cloud whence that wind came. 
 
 He was stooping, with his arm upholding 
 her, and whispering low, when, suddenly, she 
 lifted the little Ivor toward him. Quietly she 
 lay back against the slope of the green grass. 
 She was dead. 
 
 Alan quivered. All the tears of his life 
 
 398
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 rose up in a flood, and drowned his heart. He 
 could not see the child in his arms ; but he did 
 not sway nor fall. Sorcha strengthened him. 
 
 Then silently the wave of grief, of a grief 
 that might not be spoken, ebbed. Out of the 
 sea of bitterness his soul rose, a rock with the 
 sun shining upon it. 
 
 Slowly he raised the child above his head, 
 till the wind was all about it, and the flooding 
 glory of light out of the west. 
 
 A look of serene peace came into his face: 
 within him the breath of an immortal joy 
 transcended the poor frailty of the stricken 
 spirit. 
 
 When the words that were on his lips were 
 uttered, they were proud and strong as the 
 fires of the sun against the dawn : 
 
 " Behold, O God, this is Ivor, the son of 
 Sorcha, that I boon unto Thee, to be, for all 
 the days Thou shaft give him, Thy servant of 
 Joy among men" 
 
 There was peace that night upon Iolair. 
 But toward dawn — the morrow of that new, 
 strange life wherein Alan and the child, with 
 Oona mayhap, were to go forth toward those 
 distant isles where, as Sorcha had seen in a 
 vision, Ivor's ministry of joy was to be — a 
 great wind arose. 
 
 399
 
 The Mountain Lovers 
 
 The hills heard, and the moan of them went 
 up before it. The mountains awoke, and were 
 filled with a sound of rejoicing. 
 
 Through the darkness that lightened mo- 
 mently it came down the glens and the dim 
 braes of bracken. Many waters felt the 
 breath of it, and leaped. 
 
 The silences of the forest were as yet un- 
 broken. Unbroken of the wind, at least : for, 
 faint and far, there rose and fell a monotonous 
 chanting, the chanting of a gaunt, dwarfed, 
 misshapen figure that moved like a drifting 
 shadow from pine-glade to pine-glade. 
 
 But as dawn broke wanly upon the tallest 
 trees, the wings of the tempest struck one and 
 all into a mighty roar, reverberatingly pro- 
 longed : a solemn, slow-sounding anthem, full 
 of the awe of the Night, and of the majesty 
 of the Day, hymning mysteries older than the 
 first dawn, deeper than the deepest dark. 
 
 And after the passing of that great wind 
 the forest was still. Only a whisper as of the 
 sea breathed through its illimitable green wave. 
 
 400
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 BY MRS. WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 Pharais, the first book written by William Sharp 
 over the signature of "Fiona Macleod," was pub- 
 lished, in 1004, by Mr. Frank Murray (Derby), as 
 the third volume of the "Regent Library," (of 
 which Vistas, by "William Sharp, was the second 
 volume). It was reissued, in 1907, by Mr. T. N. 
 Foulis. In America Pharais was originally pub- 
 lished by Messrs. Stone & Kimball (Chicago), as 
 the first volume of their "Green Tree Library," 
 and was reissued by Messrs. Duffield & Co. in 
 1906. 
 
 The Mountain Lovers was published in 1895, in 
 England and America by Mr. John Lane, and a 
 second edition was brought out in 1907. 
 
 401
 
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