ia
 
 GREEN FIRE 
 
 TRomance 
 
 BY 
 
 FIONA MACLEOD 
 
 1 While still 1 may, I -write for you 
 The love I lived, the dream I knew ' 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 1896
 
 Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. 
 
 All righti reserved.
 
 TO 
 ESCLARMOUNDO 
 
 ' Nee sine te nee tecum vivere possum," OVID 
 
 2060B37
 
 "There are those of us -who -would rather be -with Catltal of the 
 Woods, and be drunken tuith green fire, than gain t/ie paradise 
 of the holy Molios -who banned him, if in that gain ivere to be 
 heard no more the earth-sioeet ancient song of the blood that is 
 in the reins of youth. . . . 
 
 "O green fire of life, ptt/.te of the world ! O Love, O Youth, 
 O Dream of Dreams I 
 
 "THE ANNIR CHOILLE."
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK FIRST 
 THE BIRDS OF ANGUS OGUE 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 j. EUCHARIS 3 
 
 II. THE HOUSE OF KERIVAL 22 
 
 III. STORM 37 
 
 IV. THE DREAM AND THE DREAMERS .... 53 
 V. THE WALKER IN THE NIGHT 69 
 
 VI. VIA OSCURA 99 
 
 VII. " DEIREADH GACH COGAIDH, SITH " (THE 
 
 END OF ALL WARFARE, PEACE) . . . 114 
 
 VIII. THE UNFOLDING OF THE SCROLL .... 12$ 
 
 BOOK SECOND 
 
 THE HERDSMAN 
 
 IX. RETROSPECTIVE : FROM THE HEBRID ISLES . 149 
 
 X. AT THE EDGE OF THE SHADOW 175 
 
 XI. MYSTERY 195 
 
 XII. IN THE GREEN ARCADES 2O8 
 
 XIII. THE MESSAGE 224 
 
 XIV. THE LAUGHTER OF THE KING 239 
 
 BOOK THIRD 
 
 XV. THE BEAUTY OF THE WORLD 259
 
 GREEN FIRE 
 
 BOOK FIRST 
 THE BIRDS OF ANGUS OGUE
 
 Hither and thither, 
 
 And to and fro, 
 They thrid the Maze 
 
 Of Weal and Woe : 
 
 O winds that blow 
 For golden weather 
 
 Blow me the birds, 
 
 All white as snow 
 On the hillside heather 
 Blow me the birds 
 
 That Angus know : 
 Blow me the birds, 
 
 Be it Weal or Woe !
 
 CHAPTER I 
 EUCHARIS 
 
 Then, in the violet forest, all a-bourgeon, Eucharis 
 said to me: "It is Spring." ARTHUR RIMBAUD. 
 
 AFTER the dim purple bloom of a suspended 
 spring, a green rhythm ran from larch to 
 thorn, from lime to sycamore; spread from 
 meadow to meadow, from copse to copse, 
 from hedgerow to hedgerow. The black- 
 thorn had already snowed upon the nettle- 
 garths. In the obvious nests among the 
 bare boughs of ash and beech the eggs of the 
 blackbird were blue-green as the sky that 
 March had bequeathed to April. For days 
 past, when the breath of the equinox had 
 surged out of the west, the missel-thrushes 
 had bugled from the wind-swayed topmost 
 branches of the tallest elms. Everywhere the 
 green rhythm ran.
 
 4 Green Fire 
 
 In every leaf that had uncurled there was a 
 delicate bloom, that which is upon all things in 
 the first hours of life. The spires of the grass 
 were washed in a green, dewy light. Out of 
 the brown earth a myriad living things thrust 
 tiny green shafts, arrow-heads, bulbs, spheres, 
 clusters. Along the pregnant soil keener ears 
 than ours would have heard the stir of new 
 life, the innumerous whisper of the bursting 
 seed; and, in the wind itself, shepherding the 
 shadow-chased sunbeams, the voice of that 
 vernal gladness which has been man's clarion 
 since Time began. 
 
 Day by day the wind-wings lifted a more 
 multitudinous whisper from the woodlands. 
 The deep hyperborean note, from the invisi- 
 ble ocean of air, was still audible: within the 
 concourse of bare boughs which lifted against 
 it, that surging voice could not but have an 
 echo of its wintry roar. In the sun-havens, 
 however, along the southerly copses, in 
 daisied garths of orchard-trees, amid the 
 flowering currant and guelder and lilac bushes 
 in quiet places where the hives were all 
 a-murmur, the wind already sang its lilt of
 
 Eucharis 5 
 
 spring. From dawn till noon, from an hour 
 before sundown till the breaking foam along 
 the wild cherry flushed fugitively because of 
 the crimson glow out of the west, there was 
 a ceaseless chittering of birds. The star- 
 lings and the sparrows enjoyed the commune 
 of the homestead; the larks and fieldfares 
 and green and yellow linnets congregated in 
 the meadows, where, too, the wild bee al- 
 ready roved. Among the brown ridgy fal- 
 lows there was a constant flutter of black, 
 white-gleaming, and silver-gray wings, where 
 the stalking rooks, the jerking pewets, and the 
 wary, uncertain gulls from the neighboring 
 sea, feasted tirelessly from the teeming earth. 
 Often, too, the wind-hover, that harbinger 
 of the season of the young broods, quivered 
 his curved wings in his arrested flight, while 
 his lance-like gaze penetrated the whins, 
 beneath which a new-born rabbit crawled, or 
 discerned in the tangle of a grassy tuft the 
 brown, watchful eyes of a nesting quail. 
 
 In the remoter woodlands the three forest- 
 ers of April could be heard: the woodpecker 
 tapping on the gnarled boles of the oaks;
 
 6 Green Fire 
 
 the wild-dove calling in low, crooning mono- 
 tones to his silent mate; the cuckoo tolling 
 his infrequent peals from skyey belfries built 
 of sun and mist. 
 
 In the fields, where the thorns were green 
 as rivulets of melted snow and the grass had 
 the bloom of emerald, and the leaves of 
 docken, clover, cinquefoil, sorrel, and a thou- 
 sand plants and flowers, were wave-green, the 
 ewes lay, idly watching with their luminous 
 amber eyes the frisking and leaping of the 
 close-curled, tuft-tailed, woolly-legged lambs. 
 In corners of the hedgerows, and in hollows 
 in the rolling meadows, the primrose, the cel- 
 andine, the buttercup, the dandelion, and the 
 daffodil spilled little eddies of the sun-flood 
 which overbrimmed them with light. All day 
 long the rapture of the larks filled the blue 
 air with vanishing spirals of music, swift and 
 passionate in the ascent, repetitive and less 
 piercing in the narrowing downward gyres. 
 From every whin the poignant, monotonous 
 note of the yellow-hammer reechoed. Each 
 pastoral hedge was alive with robins, chaf- 
 finches, and the dusky shadows of the wild-
 
 Euchan's 7 
 
 mice darting here and there among the green- 
 ing boughs. 
 
 Whenever this green fire is come upon 
 the earth, the swift contagion spreads to the 
 human heart. What the seedlings feel in the 
 brown mould, what the sap feels in the trees, 
 what the blood feels in every creature from 
 the newt in tne pool to the nesting bird so 
 feels the strange, remembering ichor that 
 runs its red tides through human hearts and 
 brains. Spring has its subtler magic for us, 
 because of the dim mysteries of unremember- 
 ing remembrance and of the vague radiances 
 of hope. Something in us sings an ascendant 
 song, and we expect, we know not what; 
 something in us sings a decrescent song, and 
 we realize vaguely the stirring of immemorial 
 memories. 
 
 There is none who will admit that spring 
 is fairer elsewhere than in his own land. 
 But there are regions where the season 
 is so hauntingly beautiful that it would 
 seem as though Angus Ogue knew them 
 for his chosen resting-places in his green 
 journey.
 
 8 Green Fire 
 
 Angus Og, Angus MacGreine, Angus the 
 Ever Youthful, the Son of the Sun, a fair 
 god he indeed, golden-haired and wonder- 
 ful as Apollo Chrusokomes. Some say that 
 he is Love; some, that he is Spring; some, 
 even, that in him, Thanatos, the Hellenic 
 Celt that was his far-off kin, is reincarnate. 
 But why seek riddles in flowing water? 
 It may well be that Angus Ogue is Love, 
 and Spring, and Death. The elemental gods 
 are ever triune; and in the human heart, 
 in whose lost Eden an ancient tree of 
 knowledge grows wherefrom the mind has 
 not yet gathered more than a few windfalls, 
 it is surely sooth that Death and Love are 
 oftentimes one and the same, and that 
 they love to come to us in the apparel of 
 Spring. 
 
 Sure, indeed, Angus Ogue is a name above 
 all sweet to lovers, for is he not the god the 
 fair youth of the Tuatha-de-Danann, the 
 Ancient People, with us still, though for ages 
 seen of us no more from the meeting of 
 whose lips are born white birds, which fly 
 abroad and nest in lovers' hearts till the
 
 Eucharis 9 
 
 moment come when, on the yearning lips of 
 love, their invisible wings shall become kisses 
 again? 
 
 Then, too, there is the old legend that 
 Angus goes to and fro upon the world, a 
 weaver of rainbows. He follows the spring, 
 or is its herald. Often his rainbows are 
 seen in the heavens; often in the rapt gaze 
 of love. We have all perceived them in 
 the eyes of children, and some of us have 
 discerned them in the hearts of sorrowful 
 women and in the dim brains of the old. 
 Ah! for sure, if Angus Og be the lovely 
 Weaver of Hope he is deathless comrade of 
 the spring, and we may well pray to him to 
 let his green fire move in our veins, whether 
 he be but the Eternal Youth of the World, 
 or be also Love, whose soul is youth, or 
 even though he be likewise Death himself, 
 Death to whom Love was wedded long, 
 long ago. 
 
 But nowhere was spring more lovely, no- 
 where was the green fire of life so quick with 
 impulsive ardors, as, one year of the years, in
 
 io Green Fire 
 
 a seaward region to the north of the ancient 
 forest of Broceliande, in what of old was 
 Arraorica and now is Brittany. 
 
 Here spring often comes late, but ever 
 lingers long. Here, too, in the dim green 
 avenues of the oak-woods of Kerival, the 
 nightingales reach their uttermost western 
 flight. Never has the shepherd, tending 
 his scant flock on the upland pastures of 
 Finistere, nor the fisherman lying a-dream 
 amid the sandy thickets of Ushant, heard 
 that quaint music that primeval and 
 ever young song of the passionate heart 
 which Augustine might well have had in 
 mind when he exclaimed "Sero te amavi, 
 Pulchritudo, tarn antiqua et tarn nova, 
 sero te amavi." But, each April, in the 
 woods of Kerival, the nightingales congregate 
 from afar, and through May their songs 
 make the forest like a sanctuary filled with 
 choristers swinging incense of a delicate 
 music. 
 
 It is a wonderful region, that which lies 
 betwixt Ploumaliou on the east and Kerloek 
 on the west; the oldest, remotest part of an
 
 Eucharis n 
 
 ancient, remote land. Here the few hamlets 
 and fewer scattered villages are, even in ex- 
 ternals, the same as they were a hundred or 
 three hundred years ago. In essentials, there 
 is no difference since St. Henre* or St. Ronan 
 preached the new faith, or indeed since Ahes 
 the Pale rode through the forest aisles in the 
 moonlight and heard the Nains chanting, or 
 since King Gradlon raced his horse against 
 the foam when his daughter let the sea in 
 upon the fair city of Ys. The good curts 
 preach the religion of Christ and of Mary to 
 the peasants; but in the minds of most of 
 these there lingers much of the bygone faith 
 that reared the menhirs. Few indeed there 
 are in whose ears is never an echo of the old 
 haunted world, when every wood and stream, 
 every barren moor and granite wilderness, 
 every sea-pasture and creek and bay had its 
 particular presence, its spirit of good or ill, 
 its menace, its perilous enchantment. The 
 eyes of the peasants by these shores, these 
 moors, these windy hill-slopes of the south, 
 are not fixed only on the meal-chest and the 
 fallow-field, or, on fete-days, upon the cruci-
 
 iz Green Fire 
 
 fix in the little church; but often dwell upon 
 a past time, more sacred now than ever in this 
 bitter relinquishing age. On the lips of many 
 may be heard lines from that sad folk-song, 
 "Ann Amzer Dremenet " (In the Long Ago) : 
 
 Eur c'havel kaer karn olifant, 
 War-n-han tachou aour hag arc" hant. 
 
 Daelou a ver, daelou c'houero : 
 Neb a zo enn han zo maro ! 
 
 Zo maro, zo maro pell-zo, 
 Hag hi luskel, o kana 'to, 
 
 Hag hi luskel, luskel ato, 
 Kollet ar skiand-vad gant-ho. 
 
 Ar skiand-vad ho deuz kollet ; 
 Kollet ho deuz joaiou ar bed. 
 
 [But when they had made the cradle 
 
 Of ivory and of gold, 
 Their hearts were heavy still 
 With the sorrow of old. 
 
 And ever as they rocked, the tears 
 
 Ran down, sad tears : 
 Who is it lieth dead therein, 
 
 Dead all these weary years ?
 
 Eucharis 13 
 
 And still they rock that cradle there 
 
 Of ivory and gold ; 
 For in their brains the shadow is 
 
 The Shadow of Old. 
 
 They weep, and know not what they weep ; 
 
 They wait a vain rebirth : 
 Vanity of vanities, alas! 
 
 For there is but one birth 
 
 On the wide, green earth.] 
 
 Old sayings they have, too- who knows how 
 old? The charcoal-burner in the woods above 
 Kerloek will still shudder at the thought of 
 death on the bleak, open moor, because of the 
 carrion-crow that awaits his sightless eyes, the 
 fox that will tear his heart out, and the toad 
 that will swallow his soul. Long, long ago 
 Gwenc'hlan the Bard sang thus of his foe and 
 the foes of his people, when every battle field 
 was a pasture for the birds and beasts of prey, 
 and when the Spirit of Evil lurked near every 
 corpse in the guise of a toad. And still the 
 shrimper, in the sands beyond Ploumaliou, will 
 cry out against the predatory sea fowl A gas 
 ar Gall a gas ar Gall! (Chase the Franks!)
 
 14 Green Fire 
 
 and not know that, ages ago, this cry went 
 up from the greatest of Breton kings, when 
 Nomenoe drove the Frankish invaders beyond 
 the Oust and the Vilaine, and lighted their 
 flight by the flames of Nantes and Rennes. 
 
 Near the northern frontier of the remotest 
 part of this ancient region, the Manor of 
 Kerival was the light-house of its forest vici- 
 nage. It was and is surrounded by woods, for 
 the most part of oak and chestnut and beech. 
 Therein are trees of an age so great that they 
 may have sheltered the flight of Jud Mael, 
 when Ahes chased him on her white stallion 
 from glade to glade, and one so venerably old 
 that its roots may have been soaked in the 
 blood of their child Judik, whom she forced 
 her betrayer to slay with the sword before she 
 thrust a dagger into his heart. Northward of 
 the manor, however, the forest is wholly of 
 melancholy spruce, of larch and pine. The 
 pines extend in a desolate disarray to the 
 interminable dunes, beyond which the Breton 
 sea lifts its gray wave against a gray hori- 
 zon. On that shore there are few rocks, 
 though here and there fang-like reefs rise,
 
 Eucharis 15 
 
 ready to tear and devour any boat hurled 
 upon them at full tide in days of storm. At 
 Kerival Haven, too, there is a wilderness of 
 granite rock; a mass of pinnacles, buttresses, 
 and inchoate confusion, ending in long, smooth 
 ledges of black basalt, these forever washed 
 by the green flow of the tides. 
 
 None of the peasants knew the age of the 
 House of Kerival, or how long the Kerival 
 family had been there. Old Yann He*nan, the 
 blind brother of the white-haired cur<f, Pere 
 Alain, who was the oldest man in all the 
 countryside, was wont to say that Kerival 
 woods had been green before ever there was a 
 house on the banks of the Seine, and that a 
 Kerival had been lord of the land before ever 
 there was a king of France. All believed this, 
 except Pere Alain, and even he dissented only 
 when Yann spoke of the seigneur's ancestor 
 as the Marquis of Kerival; for, as he ex- 
 plained, there were no marquises in those far- 
 off days. But this went for nothing; for, 
 unfortunately, Pere Alain had once in his 
 youth preached against the popular belief in 
 Kerrigans and Nains, and had said that these
 
 1 6 Green Fire 
 
 supernatural beings did not exist, or at any 
 rate were never seen of man. How, then, 
 could much credence be placed on the testi- 
 mony of a man who could be so prejudiced? 
 Yann had but to sing a familiar snatch from 
 the old ballad of " Aotru Nann Hag ar Gorri- 
 gan " the fragment beginning 
 
 Ken a gavas eur waz vihan 
 E-kichen ti eur Gorrigan, 
 
 and ending 
 
 Met gwell eo d'in mervel breman 
 'Get dimizi d' eur Gorrigan ! 
 
 [The Lord Nann came to the Kelpie's Pool 
 And stooped to drink the water cool ; 
 
 But he saw the kelpie sitting by, 
 Combing her long locks listlessly. 
 
 " O knight," she sang, " thou dost not fear 
 To draw these perilous waters near ! 
 
 Wed thou me now, or on a stone 
 
 For seven years perish all alone, 
 
 Or three days hence moan your death-moan ! " 
 
 " I will not wed you, nor alone 
 Perish with torment on a stone, 
 Nor three days hence draw my death-moan
 
 Eucharis 17 
 
 For I shall die, O Kelpie fair, 
 When God lets down the golden stair, 
 And so my soul thou shalt not share 
 
 But, if my fate is to lie dead, 
 
 Here, with thy cold breast for my bed, 
 
 Death can be mine, I will not wed ! "] 
 
 When Yann sang this, or told for the hun- 
 dredth time the familiar story of how Paskou- 
 Hir the tailor was treated by the Nains when 
 he sought to rifle the hidden treasure in the 
 grotto, every one knew that he spoke what 
 was authentic, what was true. As for Pere 
 Alain well, priests are told to say many things 
 by the good, wise Holy Father, who rules the 
 world so well but has never been in Brittany, 
 and so cannot know all that happens there, 
 and has happened from time immemorial. 
 Then, again, was there not the evidence of 
 the alien, the strange, quiet man called Yann 
 the Dumb, because of his silence at most times 
 him that was the servitor-in-chief to the 
 Lady Lois, the beautiful paralyzed wife of the 
 Marquis of Kerival, and that came from the far 
 north, where the kindred of the Armorican 
 race dwell among the misty isles and rainy
 
 1 8 Green Fire 
 
 hills of Scotland? Indeed Yann had been 
 heard to say that he would sooner disbelieve 
 in the Pope himself than in the kelpie, for in 
 his own land he had himself heard her devil- 
 ish music luring him across a lonely moor, and 
 he had known a man who had gone fey because 
 he had seen the face of a kelpie in a hill-tarn. 
 
 In the time of the greening, even the Kor- 
 rigans are unseen of walkers in the dusk. 
 They are busy then, some say, winding the 
 white into the green bulbs of the water-lilies, 
 or tinting the wings within the chrysalis of the 
 water-fly, or weaving the bright skins for the 
 newts; but however this may be, the season 
 of the green flood over the brown earth is not 
 that wherein man may fear them. 
 
 No fear of Kerrigan or Nain, or any other 
 woodland creature or haunter of pool or 
 stream, disturbed two who walked in the 
 green-gloom of a deep avenue in the midst 
 of the forest beyond the Manor of Kerival. 
 They were young, and there was green fire in 
 their hearts; for they moved slow, hand claspt 
 in hand, and with their eyes dwelling often on 
 the face of each other. And whenever Ynys
 
 Eucharis 19 
 
 de Kerival looked at her cousin Alan she 
 thought him the fairest and comeliest of the 
 sons of men; and whenever Alan turned the 
 longing of his eyes upon Ynys he wondered if 
 anywhere upon the green earth moved aught 
 so sweet and winsome, if anywhere in the 
 green world was another woman so beautiful 
 in body, mind, and spirit, as Ynys Ynys the 
 Dark, as the peasants called her, though Ynys 
 of the dusky hair and the hazel-green eyes 
 would have been truer of her whom Alan de 
 Kerival loved. Of a truth, she was fair to 
 see. Tall she was, and lithe; in her slim, 
 svelt body there was something of the swift 
 movement of the hill-deer, something of the 
 agile abandon of the leopard. She was of that 
 small clan, the true daughters of the sun. 
 Her tanned face and hands showed that she 
 loved the open air, though indeed her every 
 movement proved this. The sun-life was 
 even in that shadowy hair of hers, which had 
 a sheen of living light wrought into its 
 fragrant dusk; it was in her large, deep, trans- 
 lucent eyes, of a soft, dewy twilight-gray 
 often filled with green light, a,s of the forest-
 
 20 Green Fire 
 
 aisles or as the heart of a sea-wave as it 
 billows over sunlit sand; it was in the heart 
 and in the brain of this daughter of an ancient 
 race and the nostalgia of the green world 
 was hers. For in her veins ran the blood 
 not only of her Armorican ancestors but of 
 another Celtic strain, that of the Gael of the 
 Isles. Through her mother, Lois Macdonald, 
 of the remote south isles of the Outer 
 Hebrides, the daughter of a line as ancient 
 as that of Tristran de Kerival, she inherited 
 even more than her share of the gloom, the 
 mystery, the sea-passion, the vivid oneness 
 with nature which have disclosed to so many 
 of her fellow-Celts secret sources of peace. 
 
 Everywhere in that region the peasant 
 poets sang of Ynys the Dark or of her sister 
 Annaik. They were the two beautiful women 
 of the world, there. But, walking in the 
 fragrant green-gloom of the beeches, Alan 
 smiled when he thought of Annaik, for all her 
 milk-white skin and her wonderful tawny hair, 
 for all her strange, shadowy amber-brown 
 eyes eyes often like dark hill-crystals aflame 
 with stormy light. She was beautiful, and
 
 Eucharis 21 
 
 tall too, and with an even wilder grace than 
 Ynys ; yet there was but one woman in the 
 world, but one Dream, and her name was 
 Ynys. 
 
 It was then that he remembered the line of 
 the unfortunate boy-poet of the Paris that has 
 not forgotten him; and looking at Ynys, who 
 seemed to him the very spirit of the green life 
 all around him, muttered: "Then in the 
 violet forest, all a-bourgeon, Eucharis said to 
 me: 'It is Spring.'"
 
 CHAPTER II 
 THE HOUSE OF KERIVAL 
 
 IT was with a sudden beating of the heart 
 that, midway in Easter, Alan de Kerival re- 
 ceived in Paris two letters: one from the Mar- 
 quis de Kerival, and the other from his cousin 
 Ynys, whom he loved. 
 
 At all times he was ill at ease in the great 
 city; or at all times save when he was alone 
 in his little study in the Tour de 1'Ile, or in 
 the great circular room where the master 
 astronomer, Daniel Dare, wrought unceas- 
 ingly. On rare occasions, golden afternoons 
 these, he escaped to the green places near 
 Paris to Rambouillet or St. Germain, or even 
 to Fontainebleau. There, under the leafless 
 trees of winter or at the first purpling of 
 spring, he was wont to walk for hours, dream- 
 ing his dream. For Alan was a poet, and to 
 dream was his birthright.
 
 The House of Kerival 23 
 
 And for dream, what had he? There was 
 Ynys above all, Ynys whom he loved with ever 
 deepening joy and wonder. More and more 
 she had become to him his real life; he lived 
 in her, for her, because of her. More and 
 more, too, he realized that she was his 
 strength, his inspiration. But besides this 
 abiding delight, which made his heart leap 
 whenever he saw a Breton name above a shop 
 or on a volume on the bookstalls, he was ever 
 occupied by that wonderful past of his race 
 which was to him a living reality. It was 
 perhaps because he so keenly perceived the 
 romance of the present the romance of the 
 general hour, of the individual moment that 
 he turned so insatiably to the past with its 
 deathless charm, its haunting appeal. The 
 great astronomer whom he loved and served 
 knew the young man well, and was wont to say 
 that his favorite assistant was born a thousand 
 years too late. 
 
 One day a Breton neighbor of the Marquis 
 de Kerival questioned Daniel Dare as to 
 who the young man's friends were. " No- 
 menoe, Gradlon-Maur, Gwenc'hlan, Taliesin,
 
 24 Green Fire 
 
 Merlin, and Oisin," was the reply. And it 
 was true. Alan's mind was as irresistibly 
 drawn to the Celtic world of the past as the 
 swallow to the sun-way. In a word, he was 
 not only a poet, but a Celtic poet; and not 
 only a Celtic poet, but a dreamer of the Celtic 
 dream. 
 
 Perhaps this was because of the double 
 strain in his veins. Doubtless, too, it was 
 continuously enhanced by his intimate knowl- 
 edge of two of the Celtic languages, that of 
 the Breton and that of the Gael. It is lan- 
 guage that is the surest stimulus to the re- 
 membering nerves. We have a memory within 
 memory, as layers of skin underlie the epider- 
 mis. With most of us this anteHor remem- 
 brance remains dormant throughout life; but 
 to some are given swift ancestral recollec- 
 tions. Alan de Kerival was of these few. 
 
 His aunt, the Marquise, true Gael of the 
 Hebrid Isles as she was, loved the language of 
 her people, and spoke it as she spoke English, 
 even better than French. Of Breton, save a 
 few words and phrases, she knew almost 
 nothing though Armorican was exclusively
 
 The House of Kerival 25 
 
 used throughout the whole Kerival region, 
 was the common tongue in the Manor itself, 
 and was habitually affected even by the Mar- 
 quis de Kerival on the few occasions when 
 Tristran the Silent, as the old nobleman was 
 named, cared to speak. But with two mem- 
 bers of the household she invariably spoke in 
 Gaelic; with her nephew Alan, the child of 
 her sister Silis Macdonald, and her old servi- 
 tor, Ian Macdonald, known among his fellows 
 as Yann the Dumb, mainly because he seldom 
 spoke to them, having no language but his 
 own. Latterly, her daughter Ynys had be- 
 come as familiar with the one Celtic tongue 
 as the other. 
 
 With this double key, Alan unlocked many 
 doors. All the wonderful romance of old 
 Armorica and of ancient Wales was familiar 
 to him, and he was deeply versed in the still 
 more wonderful and magical lore of the Gaelic 
 race. In his brain ran ever that Ossianic tide 
 which has borne so many marvellous argosies 
 through the troubled waters of the modern 
 mind. Old ballads of his native isles, with 
 their haunting Gaelic rhythms and idioms and
 
 26 Green Fire 
 
 their frequent reminiscences of the Norse vi- 
 king and the Danish summer-sailor, were often 
 in his ears. He had lived with his hero Cuch- 
 ullin from the days when the boy showed his 
 royal blood at Emain-Macha till that sad hour 
 when his madness came upon him and he died. 
 He had fared forth with many a Lifting of the 
 Sunbeam, and had followed Oisin step by step 
 on that last melancholy journey when Malvina 
 led the blind old man along the lonely shores 
 of Arran. He had watched the crann-tara 
 flare from glen to glen, and at the bidding of 
 that fiery cross he had seen the whirling of 
 swords, the dusky flight of arrow-rain, and, 
 from the isles, the leaping forth of the war 
 birlinns to meet the viking galleys. How 
 often, too, he had followed Nial of the Nine 
 Hostages, and had seen the Irish Charle- 
 magne ride victor through Saxon London, or 
 across the Norman plains, or with onward 
 sword direct his army against the white walls 
 of the Alps! How often he had been with the 
 great king Nomonoe,when he with his Armori- 
 cans chased the Frankish wolves away from 
 Breton soil, or had raced with Gradlon-Maur
 
 The House of Kerival 27 
 
 from the drowning seas which overwhelmed Ys, 
 where the king's daughter had at the same 
 moment put her hands on the Gates of Love 
 and Death! How often he had heard Merlin 
 and Taliesin speak of the secret things of the 
 ancient wisdom, or Gwenc'hlan chant upon 
 his wild harp, or the fugitive song of Vivien in 
 the green woods of Broceliande, where the en- 
 chanted seer sleeps his long sleep and dreams 
 his dream of eternal youth. 
 
 It was all this marvellous life of old which 
 wrought upon Alan de Kerival's life as by a 
 spell. Often he recalled the words of a 
 Gaelic sian he had heard Yann croon in his 
 soft, monotonous voice words which made a 
 light shoreward eddy of the present and were 
 solemn with the deep-sea sound of the past, 
 that is with us even as we speak. 
 
 He was himself, too, a poet, and loved to 
 tell anew, in Breton, to the peasants of Keri- 
 val, some of the wild north tales, or to relate 
 in Gaelic to his aunt and to Ynys the beauti- 
 ful folk-ballads of Brittany, which Annaik 
 knew by heart and chanted with the strange, 
 wailing music of the forest-wind.
 
 28 Green Fire. 
 
 In that old Manor, moreover, another 
 shadow put a gloom into his mind this was 
 another shadow than that which made the 
 house so silent and chill, the inviolate isola- 
 tion of the paralyzed but still beautiful 
 Marquise Lois from her invalid husband, limb- 
 useless from his thighs because of a hurt done 
 in the war into which he had gone brown- 
 haired and strong, and whence he had come 
 broken in hope, shattered in health, and gray 
 with premature age. And this other shadow 
 was the mystery of his birth. 
 
 It was in vain he had tried to learn the 
 name of his father. Only three people knew 
 it: the Marquis Tristran, the Marquise Lois, 
 and Yann the Dumb. From none of these 
 could he elicit more than what he had long 
 known. All was to be made clear on his 
 twenty-fifth birthday; till then he had to be 
 content with the knowledge that he was Alan 
 de Kerival by courtesy only; that he was the 
 son of Silis Macdonald, of an ancient family 
 whose ancestral home was in one of the isles 
 of the Southern Hebrides, of Silis, the dead 
 sister of Lois de Kerival; and that he was the
 
 The House of Kerival 29 
 
 adopted child of the Marquis and Marquise 
 who bore that old Armoric name. 
 
 That there was tragedy inwrought with his 
 story he knew well. From fugitive words, 
 too, he had gained the idea that his father, in 
 common with the Marquis Tristran, had been 
 a soldier in the French army; though as to 
 whether this unknown parent was Scottish or 
 Breton or French, or as to whether he was 
 alive or dead, there was no homing clew. 
 
 To all his enquiries of the Marquise he 
 received no answer, or was told simply that he 
 must wait. The Marquis he rarely saw, and 
 never spoke with. If ever he encountered 
 the stern, white-haired man as he was wheeled 
 through the garden ways or down one of the 
 green alleys, or along the corridors of the 
 vast, rambling chateau, they passed in silence. 
 Sometimes the invalid would look at him with 
 the fierce, unwavering eyes of a hawk; but 
 for the most part the icy, steel-blue eyes 
 ignored the young man altogether. 
 
 Yann, too, could not, or would not confide 
 any thing more than Alan had already learned 
 from the Marquise. The gaunt old Hebrid-
 
 30 Green Fire 
 
 can whose sole recreation, when not sitting 
 pipe in mouth before the flaming logs, was to 
 wander along the melancholy dunes by the 
 melancholy gray sea, and mutter continuously 
 to himself in his soft island-Gaelic would 
 talk slowly by the hour on old legends, and 
 ballad-lore, and on seanachas of every kind. 
 When, however, Alan asked him about the 
 sisters Lois and Silis Macdonald, or how Lois 
 came to marry a Breton, and as to the man 
 Silis loved, and what the name was of the isle 
 whereon they lived, or even as to whether 
 Ian himself had kith or kin living, Yann 
 would justify his name. He took no trouble 
 in evasion: he simply became dumb. 
 
 Sometimes Alan asked the old man if he 
 cared to see the Isles again. At that, a look 
 ever came into Ian Macdonald's eyes which 
 made his young clansman love him. 
 
 "It will never, never be forgetting my own 
 place I will be," he replied once, "no, never. 
 I would rather be hearing the sea on the 
 shores there than all the hymns of heaven, and 
 I would rather be having the canna and the 
 heather over my head than be under the altar
 
 The House of Kerival 31 
 
 of the great church at Kerloek. No, no, it 
 is the pain I have for my own place, and the 
 isle where my blood has been for hundreds of 
 years, and where for sure my heart is, Alan 
 Mac " 
 
 With eager ears Alan had hoped for the 
 name whereat the old man had stopped short. 
 It would have told him much. "Alan, son 
 
 of ! " Even that baptismal name would 
 
 probably have told him if his father were a 
 Gael or a Breton, an Englishman or a French- 
 man. But Yann said no more, then or later. 
 
 Alan had hoped, too, that when he came 
 back, after his first long absence from Kerival, 
 his aunt would be more explicit with him. A 
 vain hope, for when once more he was at the 
 chateau he found the Marquise even less 
 communicative than was her wont. Her 
 husband was more than ever taciturn, and a 
 gloom seemed to have descended upon the 
 house. For the first time he noticed a change 
 in the attitude of Annaik. Her great, scorn- 
 ful, wild-bird eyes looked at him often 
 strangely. She sought him, and then was 
 silent. If he did not speak, she became
 
 32 Green Fire 
 
 morose; if he spoke, she relapsed into her 
 old scornful quiescence. Sometimes, when 
 they were alone, she unbent, and was his 
 beautiful cousin and comrade again; but in 
 the presence of Ynys she bewildered him 
 by her sudden ennui or bitterness or even 
 shadowy hostility. As for Ynys, she was un- 
 happy, save in Alan's love a love that 
 neither her father nor mother knew, and of 
 which she never spoke to Annaik. 
 
 If Alan were a dreamer, Ynys was even 
 more so. Then, too, she had what Annaik 
 had not, though she lacked what her sister 
 had. For she was mystical as that young 
 saint of the Bretons who saw Christ walking 
 by night upon the hills, and believed that he 
 met there a new Endymion, his Bride of the 
 Church come to him in the moonshine. Ynys 
 believed in St. Guennik, as she believed in 
 Jeanne d'Arc, and no legend fascinated her 
 more than that strange one she had heard 
 from Yann, of how Arthur the Celtic hero 
 would come again out of Flath-innis, and 
 redeem his lost, receding peoples. But, unlike 
 Annaik, she had little of the barbaric passion,
 
 The House of Kerival 33 
 
 little of that insatiate nostalgia for the life of 
 the open moor and the windy sea, though 
 these she loved not less whole-heartedly than 
 did her sister. The two both loved Nature as 
 few women love her; but to Annaik the forest 
 and the moorland were home, while to Ynys 
 they were rather sanctuaries or realms of 
 natural romance. This change to an un- 
 welcome taciturnity had been noted by Alan 
 on his home visit at Christmas. Still, he 
 had thought little of it after his return to 
 Paris, for the Noel-tide had been sweetened 
 by the word given to him by Ynys. 
 
 Then Easter had come, and with it the two 
 letters of such import. That from the Mar- 
 quise was short and in the tongue he and she 
 loved best: but even thus it was written guard- 
 edly. The purport was that, now his twenty- 
 fifth Di'rthday was at hand, he would soon 
 learn what he had so long wished to know. 
 
 That from Ynys puzzled him. Why should 
 
 dispeace have arisen between Ynys and 
 
 Annaik? Why should an already gloomy 
 
 house have been made still more sombre? 
 
 3
 
 34 Green Fire 
 
 One day, Ynys wrote, she had come upon 
 Annaik riding Sultan, the black stallion, and 
 thrashing the horse till the foam flew from the 
 champed bit. When she had cried to Annaik 
 to be merciful, and asked her why she 
 punished Sultan so, her sister had cried 
 mockingly, "It is my love! Addw, Amore! 
 Addio! Addio! Addio! " and at each addio had 
 brought her whip so fiercely upon the stal- 
 lion's quivering flanks that he had reared, and 
 all but thrown her, till she swung him round 
 as on a pivot and went at a wild gallop down 
 a long beech-alley that led into the heart of 
 the forest. 
 
 Well, these things would be better under- 
 stood soon. In another week he would be 
 out of Paris, possibly never to return. And 
 then . . . Brittany Kerival Ynys! 
 
 Nevertheless his heart was not wholly away 
 from his work. The great astronomer had 
 known and loved Hersart de Kerival, the 
 younger brother of Tristran, and it was for 
 his sake that he had taken the young man 
 into his observatory. Soon he had dis- 
 covered that the youth loved the beautiful
 
 The House of Kerival 35 
 
 science, and was apt, eager, and yet patient 
 to learn. In the five years which Alan 
 spent with brief Brittany intervals in the 
 observatory of the Tour de 1'Ile, he had come 
 to delight in the profession which he had 
 chosen, and of which the Marquise had 
 approved. 
 
 He was none the less close and eager a stu- 
 dent because that he brought to this enthrall- 
 ing science that spirit of the poetry of the 
 past, which was the habitual atmosphere 
 wherein his mind dwelt. Even the most 
 eloquent dissertations of Daniel Dare failed 
 to move him so much as some ancient strain 
 wherein the stars of heaven were hailed as 
 kindred of men; and never had any exposition 
 of the lunar mystery so exquisitely troubled 
 him as that wonderful cry of Ossian which 
 opens the poem of "Darthula": 
 
 "Daughter of heaven, fair art thou! the 
 silence of thy face is pleasant. Thou comest 
 forth in loveliness; the stars attend thy blue 
 steps in the east. The clouds rejoice in thy 
 presence, O moon, and brighten their dark- 
 brown sides. Who is like thee in heaven,
 
 36 Green Fire 
 
 daughter of the night? The stars are ashamed 
 in thy presence, and turn aside their green 
 sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou retire 
 from thy course, when the darkness of thy 
 countenance grows? Hast thou thy hall like 
 Ossian? Dwellest thou in the shadow of grief? 
 Have thy sisters fallen from heaven? Are 
 they who rejoiced with thee, at night, no 
 more? Yes! They have fallen, fair light! 
 and thou dost often retire to mourn. But 
 thou thyself shalt fail, one night; and leave 
 thy blue path in heaven. The stars will then 
 lift their green heads; they, who were ashamed 
 in thy presence, will rejoice."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 STORM 
 
 YES, he was glad to leave Paris, although 
 that home of lost causes thus designate in 
 a far truer sense than is the fair city by the 
 Isis had a spell for him. But not Paris, 
 not even what, night after night, he beheld 
 from the Tour de Tile, held him under a spell 
 comparable with that which drew him back 
 to the ancient land where his heart was. 
 
 In truth, it was with relief at last that he 
 saw the city recede from his gaze, and merge 
 into the green alleys north-westward. With 
 a sigh of content, he admitted that it was 
 indeed well to escape from that fevered life 
 a life that, to him, even in his lightest mood, 
 seemed far more phantasmal than that which 
 formed the background to all his thoughts 
 and visions. Long before the cherry 
 orchards above Rouen came into view he
 
 38 Green Fire 
 
 realized how glad he was even to be away from 
 the bare, gaunt room where so many of his 
 happiest hours had been spent; that windy 
 crow's-nest of a room at the top of the Tour 
 de 1'Ile, whence nightly he had watched the 
 procession of the stars, and nightly had 
 opened the dreamland of his imagination to 
 an even more alluring procession out of the 
 past. 
 
 His one regret was in having to part from 
 Daniel Dare, that strange and impressive 
 personality who had so fascinated him, and the 
 spell of whose sombre intellect, with its daunt- 
 less range and scope, had startled the thought 
 of Europe, and even given dreams to many to 
 whom all dreams had become the very Fata 
 Morgana of human life. 
 
 Absorbed as he was, Daniel Dare realized 
 that Alan was an astronomer primarily because 
 he was a poet rather than an astronomer by 
 inevitable bias. He saw clearly into the 
 young man's mind, and certainly did not 
 resent that his favorite pupil loved to dwell 
 with Merlin rather than with Kepler, and 
 that even Newton or his own master Arago
 
 Storm 39 
 
 had no such influence over him as the far- 
 off, nigh inaudible music of the harp of 
 Aneurin. 
 
 And, in truth, below all Alan's passion for 
 science of that science which is at once the 
 oldest, the noblest, and the most momentous; 
 the science of the innumerous concourse of 
 dead, dying, and flaming adolescent worlds, 
 dust about the threshold of an unfathomable 
 and immeasurable universe, wherein this 
 Earth of ours is no more than a mere whirl- 
 ing grain of sand below all this living 
 devotion lay a deeper passion still. 
 
 Truly, his soul must have lived a thousand 
 years ago. In him, at least, the old Celtic 
 brain was reborn with a vivid intensity which 
 none guessed, and none except Ynys knew 
 if even she, for Alan himself only vaguely sur- 
 mised the extent and depth of this obsession. 
 In heart and brain that old world lived anew. 
 Himself a poet, all that was fair and tragically 
 beautiful was forever undergoing in his mind 
 a marvellous transformation a magical resur- 
 rection rather, wherein what was remote and 
 bygone, and crowned with oblivious dust,
 
 40 Green Fire 
 
 became alive again with intense and beautiful 
 
 life. 
 
 It did not harmonize ill with Alan's mood 
 that, on the afternoon of the day he left 
 Rouen, great, bulbous storm-clouds soared out 
 of the west and cast a gloom upon the 
 landscape. 
 
 That is a strange sophistry which registers 
 passion according to its nearness to the blithe 
 weal symbolized in fair weather. Deep pas- 
 sion instinctively moves toward the shadow 
 rather than toward the golden noons of 
 light. Passion hears what love at the most 
 dreams of; passion sees what love mayhap 
 dimly discerns in a glass darkly. A million 
 of our fellows are "in love" at any or every 
 moment; and for these the shadowy way 
 is intolerable. But for the few, in whom 
 love is, the eyes are circumspect against 
 the dark hour which comes when heart and 
 brain and blood are aflame with the para- 
 mount ecstasy of life. 
 
 Deep passion is always in love with death. 
 The temperate solicitudes of affection know
 
 Storm 41 
 
 not this perverse emotion, which is simply 
 the darker shadow inevitable to a deeper 
 joy as the profundity of an Alpine lake is 
 to be measured by the height of the remote 
 summits which rise sheer from its marge. 
 
 When Alan saw this gloom slowly absorb 
 the sunlight, and heard below the soft spring 
 cadences of the wind the moan of coming 
 tempest, his melancholy lightened. Soon he 
 would see the storm crushing through the 
 woods of Kerival; soon feel the fierce rain 
 come sweeping inland from Ploumaliou; soon 
 hear, confusedly obscure, the noise of the 
 Breton Sea along the reef-set sands. Already 
 he felt the lips of Ynys pressed against his 
 own. 
 
 The sound of the sea called through the 
 dusk, now with the muffled under roar of 
 famished lions, now with a loud, continuous 
 baying like that of eager hounds. 
 
 Seaward, the deepening shadows passed 
 intricately from wave to wave. The bays and 
 sheltered waters were full of a tumult as of 
 baffled flight, of fugitives jostling each other
 
 42 Green Fire 
 
 in a wild and fruitless evasion. Along the in- 
 terminable reach of the Dunes of Kerival the 
 sea's lips writhed and curled; while out of the 
 heart of the turbulent waste beyond issued a 
 shrill, intermittent crying, followed by stifled 
 laughter. Ever and again tons of whirling 
 water, meeting, disparted with a hoarse thun- 
 der. This ever-growing and tempestuous 
 violence was reiterated in a myriad raucous, 
 clamant voices along the sands and among the 
 reefs and rocks and weed-covered wave-hol- 
 lowed crags. 
 
 Above the shore a ridge of tamarisk- 
 fringed dune suspended, hanging there dark 
 and dishevelled, like a gigantic eyebrow on 
 the forehead of a sombre and mysterious 
 being. Beyond this, again, lay a stretch of 
 barren moor, caught and claspt a mile away 
 by a dark belt of pines, amid which the inces- 
 sant volume of the wind passed with a shrill 
 whistling. Further in among the trees were 
 oases of a solemn silence, filled only at inter- 
 vals with a single flute-like wind-eddy, falling 
 there as the song of a child lost and baffled in 
 a waste place.
 
 Storm 43 
 
 Over and above the noise of the sea was a 
 hoarse cry thridding it as a flying shuttle in 
 a gigantic loom. This was the wind, which 
 continuously swept from wave to wave 
 shrewd, salt, bitter with the sterile breath of 
 the wilderness whereon it roamed, crying and 
 moaning, baying, howling, insatiate. 
 
 The sea-fowl, congregating from afar, had 
 swarmed inland. Their wailing cries filled the 
 spray-wet obscurities. The blackness that 
 comes before the deepest dark lay in the hollow 
 of the great wings of the tempest. Peace no- 
 where prevailed, for in those abysmal depths 
 where the wind was not even a whisper,- there 
 was listless gloom only,because no strife is there, 
 and no dream lives amid those silent apathies. 
 
 Neither upon the waters nor on the land 
 was there sign of human life. In that remote 
 region, solitude was not a dream but a reality. 
 An ancient land, this loneliest corner of sea- 
 washed Brittany; an ancient land, with ever 
 upon it the light of olden dreams, the gloom 
 of indefinable tragedy, the mystery of a des- 
 tiny long ago begun and never fulfilled. 
 
 Lost like a rock in a forest, a weather-worn,
 
 44 Green Fire 
 
 ivy-grown chateau stood within sound, though 
 not within sight, of this tempestuous sea. All 
 about it was the deep, sonorous echo of wind 
 and wave, transmuted into a myriad cries 
 among the wailing pines and oaks and vast 
 beeches of the woods of Kerival. Wind and 
 wave, too, made themselves audible amid the 
 gables and in the huge chimneys of the old 
 manor-house; even in the draughty corridors 
 an echo of the sea could be heard. 
 
 The pathways of the forest were dank with 
 sodden leaves, the debris of autumn which 
 the snows of winter had saved from the whirling 
 gales of January. Underneath the brushwood 
 and the lower boughs these lay in brown, 
 clotted masses, emitting a fugitive, indefinite 
 odor, as though the ghost of a dead year 
 passed in that damp and lifeless effluence. 
 But along the frontiers of the woods there 
 was an eddying dust of leaves and small twigs, 
 and part at least of the indeterminate rumor 
 which filled the air was caused by this frail 
 lapping as of innumerable minute wings. 
 
 In one of those leaf-quiet alleys, shrouded 
 in a black-green darkness save where in one
 
 Storm 45 
 
 spot the gloom was illumined into a vivid 
 brown, because of a wandering beam of light 
 from a turret in the chateau, a man stood. 
 The head was forwardly inclined, the whole 
 figure intent as a listening animal. He and 
 his shadow were as those flowers of darkness 
 whose nocturnal bloom may be seen of none 
 save in the shadowy land of dream. 
 
 When for a moment the wind-wavered beam 
 of light fell athwart his face so dark and 
 wild that he might well have been taken for a 
 nameless creature of the woods he moved. 
 
 With a sudden gesture he flung his arms 
 above his head. His shadow sprang to one 
 side with fantastic speed, leaping like a diver 
 into the gulf of darkness. 
 
 "Annaik," he cried, " Annaik, Annaik!" 
 
 The moan of the wind out of the sea, the 
 confused noise of the wind's wings baffling 
 through the woods; no other answer than 
 these, no other sound. 
 
 "Annaik, Annaik!" 
 
 There was pain as of a wounded beast in 
 the harsh cry of this haunter of the dark; but 
 the next moment it was as though the lost
 
 46 Green Fire 
 
 shadow had leapt back, for a darkness came 
 about the man, and he lapsed into the obscu- 
 rity as a wave sinks into a wave. 
 
 But, later, out of the silence came a voice. 
 
 "Ah, Annaik! " it cried, "ah, Annaik, for- 
 sooth! It is Annaik of Kerival you are, and 
 I the dust upon the land of your fathers but, 
 by the blood of Ronan, it is only a woman 
 you are; and, if I had you here it is a fall of 
 my fist you would be having aye, the stroke 
 and the blow, for all that I love you as I do, 
 white woman, aye, and curse you and yours 
 for that loving! " 
 
 Then, once again, there was silence. Only 
 the screeching of the wind among the leaves 
 and tortured branches; only the deep roar of 
 the tempest at the heart of the forest; only 
 the thunder of the sea throbbing pulse-like 
 through the night. Nor when, a brief while 
 I later, a white owl, swifter but not less silent 
 than a drift of vapor, swooped that way, was 
 there living creature in that solitary place. 
 
 The red-yellow beam still turned into 
 brown the black-green of that windy alley; 
 but the man, and the shadow of him, and the
 
 Storm 47 
 
 pain of the beast that was in him, and the cry 
 of the baffled soul, the cry that none might 
 know or even guess of all this sorrow of the 
 night, nothing remained save the red light 
 lifting and falling through the shadowy hair 
 of what the poets of old called The Dark 
 Woman . . . Night. 
 
 Only, who may know if, in that warmth and 
 glow within the House of Kerival, some 
 sudden menace from the outside world of life 
 did not knock at the heart of Annaik, where 
 she, tall and beautiful in her cream-white 
 youth and with her mass of tawny hair, stood 
 by Ynys, whose dusky loveliness was not less 
 than her own both radiant in the fire-light, 
 with laughter upon the lips and light within 
 their eyes. 
 
 Oh, flame that burns where fires of home 
 are lit! and oh, flame that burns in the heart 
 to whom life has not said, Awake! and oh, 
 flame that smoulders from death to life, and 
 from life to death, in the dumb lives of those 
 to whom the primrose way is closed! Every- 
 where the burning of the burning, the flame 
 of the flame; pain and the shadow of pain, joy
 
 48 Green Fire 
 
 and the rapt breath of joy, flame of the flame 
 that, burning, destroyeth not till the flame is 
 no more! 
 
 It was the night of the home-coming of 
 Alan. So long had Ynys and Annaik looked 
 forward to this hour, that now hardly could 
 they believe the witness of their eyes when 
 with eager glances they scrutinized the new- 
 comer their Alanik of old. 
 
 He stood before the great fire of logs. 
 Upon his face the sharp, damp breath of the 
 storm still lingered, but in his eyes was a 
 light brighter than any dancing flame would 
 cause, and in his blood a pulse that leapt - 
 because of another reason than that swift ride 
 through the stormy woods of Kerival. 
 
 At the red and stormy break of that day 
 Ynys had awaked with a song of joy in her 
 heart that from hour to hour had found ex- 
 pression in bird-like carollings, little words 
 and fugitive phrases which rippled from her 
 lips, the sunshine-spray from the fount of life 
 whereon her heart swam as a nenuphar on an 
 upwelling pool. Annaik also had waked at
 
 Storm 49 
 
 that dawn of storm. She had risen in silence, 
 and in silence had remained all day; giving 
 no sign that the flame within her frayed the 
 nerves of her heart. 
 
 Throughout the long hours of tempest, and 
 into that dusk wherein the voice of the sea 
 moved, moaning, across the land, laughter and 
 dream had alternated with Ynys. Annaik 
 looked at her strangely at times, but said 
 nothing. Once, standing in the twilight of 
 the dark-raftered room, Ynys clasped her 
 hands across her bosom and murmured, 
 "Oh, heart be still! My heaven is come." 
 And in that hour, and in that place, she who 
 was twin to her strange irony of mother- 
 hood, that should give birth in one hour to 
 Day and Night, for even as day and night 
 were these twain, so unlike in all things in 
 that hour and in that place Annaik also 
 clasped her hands across her bosom, and the 
 words that died across the shadow of her lips 
 were, " Oh, heart be still ! My hell is near." 
 
 And now he for whom both had waited 
 stood, flooded in the red fire glow which leaped 
 from panel to panel, and from rafter to rafter, 
 4
 
 So Green Fire 
 
 while, without, the howling of the wind rose 
 and fell in prolonged, monotonous cadences, 
 anathemas, rather, whirled through a dark- 
 ness full of bewilderment and terror. 
 
 As for Alan, it was indeed for joy to him to 
 stand there, home once more, with not only 
 the savagery of the tempest behind him, but 
 also left behind, that unspeakably far-off, 
 bewilderingly remote city of Paris whence he 
 had so swiftly come. 
 
 It is said of an ancient poet of the Druid 
 days that he had the power to see the lives of 
 the living, and these as though they were 
 phantoms, separate from the body. Was 
 there not a young king of Albainn who, in a 
 perilous hour, discovered this secret of old 
 time, and knew how a life may be hidden 
 away from the body so that none may know 
 of it, save the wind that whispers all things, 
 and the tides of day and night that bear all 
 things upon their dark flood? 
 
 King of Albainn, poet of the old time, not 
 alone three youthful dreamers would you 
 have seen, there, in that storm-beset room. 
 For there you would have seen six figures
 
 Storm 51 
 
 standing side by side. Three of these would 
 have been Alan de Kerival, and Ynys the 
 Dark, and Annaik the Fair; and of the other 
 three, one would be of a dusky-haired woman 
 with starry, luminous eyes; and one a pale 
 woman with a wealth of tawny hair, with eyes 
 aflame, meteors in a desert place; and one 
 a man, young and strong and fair to see as 
 Alan de Kerival, but round about him a 
 gloom, and through that gloom his eyes as 
 stars seen among the melancholy hills. 
 
 Happy laughter of the world that is always 
 young happy, in that we are not all seers of 
 old or kings of Albainn! For who, looking 
 into the mirrors of Life and seeing all that is 
 to be seen, would look again, save those few 
 to whom Life and Death have come sisterly 
 and whispered the secret that some have dis- 
 cerned, how these twain are one and the same. 
 
 Nevertheless, in that happy hour for him, 
 Alan saw nothing of what Ynys feared. 
 Annaik had abruptly yielded to a strange 
 gayety, and her swift laugh and gypsy smile 
 made his heart glad. 
 
 Never had he seen, even in Paris, women
 
 52 Green Fire 
 
 more beautiful. Deep-set as his heart was in 
 the beauty of Ynys, he found himself admir- 
 ing that of Annaik with new eyes. Truly, she 
 was just such a woman as he had often imag- 
 ined when Ian had recited to him the ballad 
 of the Sons of Usna or that of how Dermid 
 and Graine fled from the wrath of Fionn. 
 
 And they, too, looking at their tall cousin, 
 with his wavy brown hair, broad, low brows, 
 gray-blue eyes, and erect carriage, thought 
 him the comeliest man to be seen in France; 
 and each in her own way was proud and glad, 
 though one, also, with killing pain.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 THE DREAM AND THE DREAMERS 
 
 SOON after supper Annaik withdrew. 
 Ynys and Alan were glad to be alone, and 
 yet Annaik's absence perturbed them. In 
 going she bade good-night to her cousin, but 
 took no notice of her sister. 
 
 At first the lovers were silent though they had 
 much to say, and in particular Alan was anx- 
 ious to know what it was that Ynys had alluded 
 to in her letter when she warned him that 
 unforeseen difficulties were about their way. 
 
 It was pleasant to sit in that low-roofed, 
 dark old room, and feel the world fallen away 
 from them. Hand in hand they looked at 
 each other lovingly, or dreamed into the 
 burning logs, seeing there all manner of 
 beautiful visions. Outside, the wind still 
 moaned and howled, though with less of 
 savage violence, and the rain had ceased. 
 
 For a time Ynys would have no talk of Keri-
 
 54 Green Fire 
 
 val; Alan was to tell all he could concerning 
 his life in Paris, what he had done, what he 
 had dreamed of, and what he hoped for now. 
 But at last he laughingly refused to speak more 
 of himself, and pressed her to reveal what had 
 been a source of anxiety. 
 
 "You know, dear," she said, as she rose 
 and leaned against the mantel-piece, her tall 
 figure and dusky hair catching a warm glow 
 from the fire "you know how pitiable is this 
 feud between my father and mother how for 
 years they have seen next to nothing of each 
 other; how they live in the same house and yet 
 are strangers? You know, too, how more than 
 ever unfortunate this is, for themselves, and 
 for Annaik and me, on account of our mother 
 being an invalid, and of our father being 
 hardly less frail. Well, I have discovered 
 that the chief, if not indeed the only abiding 
 source of misunderstanding is you t dear Alan ! " 
 
 "But why, Ynys?" 
 
 "Ah, why? That is, of course, what I 
 cannot tell you. Have you no suspicion, 
 no idea? " 
 
 "None. All I know is that M. de Kerival
 
 The Dream and the Dreamers 55 
 
 allows me to bear his name, but that he dis- 
 likes, if, indeed, he does not actually hate 
 me." 
 
 "There is some reason. I came upon him 
 talking to my mother a short time ago. She 
 had told him of your imminent return. 
 
 " 'I never wish to see his face,' my father 
 cried, with fierce vehemence; then, seeing me, 
 he refrained." 
 
 "Well, I shall know all the day after to- 
 morrow. Meanwhile, Ynys, we have the night 
 to ourselves. Dear, I want to learn one 
 thing. What does Annaik know? Does she 
 know that we love each other? Does she 
 know that we have told each other of this 
 love, and that we are secretly betrothed? " 
 
 "She must know that I love you; and some- 
 times I think she knows that you love me. 
 But . . . oh, Allan! I am so unhappy about 
 it. ... I fear that Annaik loves you also, 
 and that this will come between us all. It 
 has already frozen her to me and me to her." 
 
 Alan looked at Ynys with startled eyes. 
 He knew Annaik better than any one did; 
 and he dreaded the insurgent bitterness of
 
 56 Green Fire 
 
 that wild and wayward nature. Moreover, in 
 a sense he loved her, and it was for sorrow to 
 him that she should suffer in a way wherein 
 he could be of no help. 
 
 At that moment the door opened, and 
 Matieu, a white-haired old servant, bowing 
 ceremoniously, remarked that M. le Marquis 
 desired to see Mamzelle Ynys immediately. 
 
 Ynys glanced round, told Matieu that she 
 would follow, and then turned to Alan. 
 How beautiful she was! bethought; more and 
 more beautiful every time he saw her. Ah! 
 fair mystery of love, which puts a glory about 
 the one loved; a glory that is no phantasmal 
 light, but the realized beauty evoked by see- 
 ing eyes and calling heart. On her face was 
 a wonderful color, a delicate flush that came 
 and went. Again and again she made a char- 
 acteristic gesture, putting her right hand to 
 her forehead and then through the shadowy, 
 wavy hair which Alan loved so well and ever 
 thought of as the fragrant dusk. How glad 
 he was that she was tall and lithe, graceful as 
 a young birch; that she was strong and kissed 
 brown and sweet of sun and wind; that her
 
 The Dream and the Dreamers 57 
 
 beauty was old as the world, and fresh as 
 every dawn, and new as each recurrent spring! 
 No wonder he was a poet, since Ynys was the 
 living poem who inspired all that was best in , 
 his life, all that was fervent in his brain. 
 
 Thought, kindred to this, kept him a long 
 while by the fire in deep revery, after Ynys 
 had thrilled him by her parting kisses and 
 had gone to her father. He realized, then, 
 how it was she gave him the sense of woman- 
 hood as no other woman had done. In her, 
 he recognized the symbol as well as the indi- 
 vidual. All women shared in his homage 
 because of her. His deep love for her, his 
 ever growing passion, could evoke from him a 
 courtesy, a chivalry, toward all women which 
 only the callous or the coarse failed to note. 
 She was his magic. The light of their love 
 was upon every thing: everywhere he found 
 synonyms and analogues of "Ynys." Deeply 
 as he loved beauty, he had learned to love it 
 far more keenly and understandingly, because 
 of her. He saw now through the accidental, 
 and everywhere discerned the eternal beauty, 
 the echoes of whose wandering are in every
 
 58 Green Fire 
 
 heart and brain, though few discern the white 
 vision or hear the haunting voice. 
 
 And with his love had come knowledge of 
 many things hidden from him before. Se- 
 quences were revealed, where he had per- 
 ceived only blind inconsequence. Nature 
 became for him a scroll, a palimpsest with 
 daily mutations. With each change he found 
 a word, a clew, leading to the fuller elucida- 
 tion of that primeval knowledge which, frag- 
 mentarily, from age to age has been painfully 
 lost, regained, and lost again, though never 
 yet wholly irrecoverable. 
 
 Through this new knowledge, too, he had 
 come to understand the supreme wonder and 
 promise, the supreme hope of our human life 
 in the mystery of motherhood. All this and 
 much more he owed to Ynys, and to his love 
 for her. She was all that a woman can be to a 
 man. In her he found the divine abstractions 
 which are the beacons of the human soul 
 in its obscure wayfaring Romance, Love, 
 Beauty. It was not enough that she gave 
 him romance, that she gave him love, that she 
 was the most beautiful of women in his eyes.
 
 The Dream and the Dreamers 59 
 
 When he thought of the one, it was to see the 
 starry eyes and to hear the charmed voice of 
 Romance herself, in the voice and in the eyes 
 of Ynys: when he thought of Love it was to 
 hear Ynys's heart beating, to listen to the 
 secret rhythms in Ynys's brain, to feel the 
 life-giving sun-flood that was in her pure but 
 intense and glowing passion. 
 
 Thus it was that she had for him that im- 
 mutable attraction which a few women have 
 for a few men; an appeal, a charm, that atmos- 
 phere of romance, that air of ideal beauty, 
 wherein lies the secret of all passionate art. 
 The world without wonder, the world without 
 mystery! That, indeed, is the rainbow with- 
 out colors, the sunrise without living gold, 
 the noon void of light. 
 
 To him, moreover, there was but one 
 woman. In Ynys he had found her. This 
 exquisite prototype was at once a child of 
 nature, a beautiful pagan, a daughter of the 
 sun; was at once this and a soul alive with the 
 spiritual life, intent upon the deep meanings 
 lurking everywhere, wrought to wonder even 
 by the common habitudes of life, to mystery
 
 60 Green Fire 
 
 even by the familiar and the explicable. In- 
 deed, the mysticism which was part of the 
 spiritual inheritance come with her northern 
 strain was one of the deep bonds which united 
 them. 
 
 What if both at times were wrought too 
 deeply by this beautiful dream? What if the 
 inner life triumphed now and then, and each 
 forgot the deepest instinct of life, that here 
 the body is overlord and the soul but a divine 
 consort? There are three races of man. 
 There is the myriad race which loses all, 
 through (not bestiality, for the brute world is 
 clean and sane) perverted animalism; and 
 there is the myriad race which denounces 
 humanity, and pins all its faith and joy to a 
 life the very conditions of whose existence 
 are incompatible with the law to which we are 
 subject the sole law, the law of Nature. 
 Then there is that small untoward clan, which 
 knows the divine call of the spirit through the 
 brain, and the secret whisper of the soul in 
 the heart, and forever perceives the veils of 
 mystery and the rainbows of hope upon our 
 human horizons; which hears and sees, and
 
 The Dream and the Dreamers 61 
 
 yet turns wisely, meanwhile, to the life of the 
 green earth, of which we are part; to the 
 common kindred of living things, with which 
 we are at one is content, in a word, to live, 
 because of the dream that makes living so 
 mysteriously sweet and poignant; and to 
 dream, because of the commanding immediacy 
 of life. 
 
 As yet, of course, Alan and Ynys had 
 known little of the vicissitudes of aroused 
 life. What they did know, foresee, was due 
 rather to the second-sight of the imagination 
 than to the keen knowledge of experience. 
 
 In Alan Ynys found all that her heart 
 craved. She discovered this nearly too late. 
 A year before this last home-coming of her 
 cousin, she had been formally betrothed to 
 Andrik de Morvan, the friend of her child- 
 hood and for whom she had a true affection, 
 and in that betrothal had been quietly glad. 
 When, one midwinter day, she and Alan 
 walked through an upland wood and looked 
 across the snowy pastures and the white 
 slopes beyond, all aglow with sunlight, and 
 then suddenly turned toward each other, and
 
 62 Green Fire 
 
 saw in the eyes of each a wonderful light, and 
 the next moment were heart to heart, it was 
 all a revelation. 
 
 For long she did not realize what it meant. 
 On that unforgettable day, when they had 
 left the forest ridge and were near Kerival 
 again, she had sat for a time on one of the 
 rude cattle-gates which are frequent in these 
 woodlands, while Alan had leant beside her, 
 looking up with eyes too eloquent, and speak- 
 ing of what he dreamed, with sweet stammer- 
 ing speech of new found love. 
 
 How she had struggled, mentally, with her 
 duty, as she conceived it, toward Andrik. 
 She was betrothed to him; he loved her; she 
 loved him too, although even already she 
 realized that there is a love which is not only 
 invincible and indestructible but that comes 
 unsought, has no need for human conven- 
 tions, is neither moral nor immoral but 
 simply all-potent and thenceforth sovereign. 
 To yield to that may be wrong; but, if so, 
 it is wrong to yield to the call of hunger, the 
 cry of thirst, the whisper of sleep, the breath 
 of ill, the summons of death. It comes, and
 
 The Dream and the Dreamers 63 
 
 that is all. The green earth may be another 
 Endymion, and may dream that the cold 
 moonshine is all in all; but when the sun 
 rises, and a new heat and glory and passion 
 of life are come, then Endymion simply 
 awakes. 
 
 It had been a sadness to her to have to tell 
 Andrik she no longer loved him as he was 
 fain to be loved. He would have no finality, 
 then; he held her to the bond and in Brit- 
 tany there is a pledge akin to the "hand- 
 fast " of the north, which makes a betrothal 
 almost as binding as marriage. 
 
 Andrik de Morvan had gone to the Mar- 
 quis de Kerival, and told him what Ynys had 
 said. 
 
 "She is but a girl," the seigneur remarked 
 coldly. "And you are wrong in thinking she 
 can be in love with any one else. There is no 
 one for whom she can care so much as for 
 you; no one whom she has met with whom 
 she could mate; no one with whom I would 
 allow her to mate." 
 
 " But that matters little, if she will not 
 marry me! " the young man had urged.
 
 6 4 Green Fire 
 
 " My daughter is my daughter, De Morvan. 
 I cannot compel her to marry you. I know 
 her well enough to be sure that she would 
 ignore any command of this kind. But 
 women are fools; and one can get them to 
 do what one wants, in one way if not in 
 another. Let her be a while." 
 
 "But the betrothal!" 
 
 "Let it stand. But do not press it. In- 
 deed, go away for a year. You are heir to 
 your mother's estates in Touraine. Go there, 
 work, learn all you can. Meanwhile, write 
 occasionally to Ynys. Do not address her 
 as your betrothed, but at the same time let 
 her see that it is the lover who writes. Then, 
 after a few months, confide that your absence 
 is due solely to her, that you cannot live 
 without her; and that, after a vain exile, you 
 write to ask if you may come and see her. 
 They are all the same. It is the same thing 
 with my mares, for which Kerival is so famous. 
 Some are wild, some are docile, some skittish, 
 some vicious, some good, a few flawless 
 but . . . Well, they are all mares. One 
 knows. A mare is not a sphinx. These
 
 The Dream and the Dreamers 65 
 
 complexities of which we hear so much, what 
 are they? Spindrift. The sea is simply the 
 sea, all the same. The tide ebbs, though the 
 poets reverse nature. Ebb and flow, the lift- 
 ing wind, the lifted wave; we know the way of 
 it all. It has its mystery, its beauty; but we 
 don't really expect to see a nereid in the 
 hollow of the wave, or to catch the echo of a 
 triton in the call of the wind. As for Venus 
 Anadyomene, the foam of which she was made 
 is the froth in poets' brains. Believe me, 
 Annaik, my friend, women are simply women; 
 creatures not yet wholly tamed, but tractable 
 in the main, delightful, valuable often, but 
 
 certainly not worth the tribute of passion 
 
 \ 
 
 and pain they obtain from foolish men like 
 yourself." 
 
 With this worldly wisdom Andrik de Mor- 
 van had gone home, unconvinced. He loved 
 Ynys; and sophistries were an ineffectual 
 balm. 
 
 But as for Ynys, she had long made up her 
 mind. Betrothal or no betrothal, she be- 
 longed now only to one man, and that man, 
 Alan de Kerival. She was his and his alone,
 
 66 Green Fire 
 
 by every natural right. How could she help 
 the accident by which she had cared for 
 Andrik before she loved Alan? Now, indeed, 
 it would be sacrilege to be other than wholly 
 Alan's. Was her heart not his, and her life 
 with her heart, and with both her deathless 
 devotion? 
 
 Alan, she knew, trusted her absolutely. 
 Before he went back to Paris, after their love 
 was no longer a secret, he had never once 
 asked her to forfeit any thing of her intimacy 
 with Andrik, nor had he even urged the open 
 cancelling of the betrothal. But she was well 
 aware his own absolute loyalty involved for 
 him a like loyalty from her; and she knew 
 that forgiveness does not belong to those 
 natures which stake all upon a single die. 
 
 And so the matter stood thus still. Ynys 
 and Andrik de Morvan were nominally be- 
 trothed; and not only the Marquis and the 
 Marquise de Kerival, but Andrik himself, 
 looked upon the bond as absolute. 
 
 Perhaps Lois de Kerival was not without 
 some suspicion as to how 'matters were 
 between the betrothed pair. Certainly she
 
 The Dream and the Dreamers 67 
 
 knew that Ynys was not one who would give 
 up any real or imagined happiness because of 
 a conventional arrangement or on account of 
 any conventional duty. 
 
 In Alan, Ynys found all that he found in 
 her. When she looked at him, she wondered 
 how she could ever have dreamed of Andrik 
 as a lover, for Alan was all that Andrik was 
 not. How proud and glad she felt because of 
 his great height and strength, his vivid feat- 
 ures with their gray-blue eyes and spiritual 
 expression, his wavy brown hair, a very 
 type of youthful and beautiful manhood! 
 Still more she revered and loved the inner 
 Alan whom she knew so well, and recognized 
 with a proud humility that this lover of hers, 
 whom the great Daniel Dare had spoken of as 
 a man of genius, was not only her knight, but 
 her comrade, her mate, her ideal. 
 
 Often the peasants of Kerival had specu- 
 lated if the young seigneur would join hands 
 with her or with Annaik. Some hoped the 
 one, some the other; but those who knew 
 Alan otherwise than merely by sight felt cer- 
 tain that Ynys was the future bride.
 
 68 Green Fire 
 
 "They are made for each other," old 
 Jeanne Mael, the village authority, was wont 
 to exclaim; "and the good God will bring 
 them together soon or late. 'Tis a fair, sweet 
 couple they are; none so handsome anywhere. 
 That tall, dark lass will be a good mother 
 when her hour comes; an' the child o' him 
 an' her should be the bonniest in the whole 
 wide world." 
 
 With that all who saw them together 
 
 % 
 
 agreed.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 THE WALKER IN THE NIGHT 
 
 IT was an hour from midnight when Alan 
 rose, opened a window, and looked out. The 
 storm was over. He could see the stars 
 glistening like silver fruit among the upper 
 branches of the elms. Behind the great 
 cypress known as the Fate of Kerival there 
 was a golden radiance, as though a disk of 
 radiant bronze were being slowly wheeled 
 round and round, invisible itself but casting a 
 quivering gleam upon the* fibrous undersides 
 of the cypress spires. Soon the moon would 
 lift upward, and her paling gold become foam- 
 white along the wide reaches of the forest. 
 
 The wind had suddenly fallen. In this 
 abrupt lapse into silence there was something 
 mysterious. After so much violence, after 
 that wild, tempestuous cry, such stillness! 
 There was no more than a faint rustling
 
 70 Green Fire 
 
 sound, as though invisible feet were stealthily 
 flying along the pathway of the upper boughs 
 and through the dim denies in the dense 
 coverts of oak and beech in the very heart 
 of the woods. Only, from hitherward of the 
 unseen dunes floated a melancholy, sighing 
 refrain, the echo of the eddying sea-breath 
 among the pines. Beyond the last sands, 
 the deep, hollow boom of the sea itself. 
 
 To stay indoors seemed to Alan a wanton 
 forfeiture of beauty. The fragrance of the 
 forest intoxicated him. Spring was come, in- 
 deed. This wild storm had ruined nothing, 
 for at its fiercest it had swept overhead; and 
 on the morrow the virginal green world would 
 be more beautiful than ever. Everywhere the 
 green fire of spring would be litten anew. A 
 green flame would pass from meadow to 
 hedgerow, from hedgerow to the tangled 
 thickets of bramble and dog-rose, from the 
 underwoods to the inmost forest glades. 
 Everywhere song would be to the birds, 
 everywhere young life would pulse, every- 
 where the rhythm of a new rapture would run 
 rejoicing. The miracle of spring would be
 
 The Walker in the Night 71 
 
 accomplished in the sight of all men, of all 
 birds and beasts, of all green life. Each, in its 
 kind, would have a swifter throb in the red 
 blood or the vivid sap. 
 
 No, he could not wait. No, Alan added to 
 himself with a smile, not even though to sleep 
 in the House of Kerival was to be beneath the 
 same roof as Ynys to be but a few yards, a 
 passage, a corridor away. Ah! for sure, he 
 could dream his dream as well out there 
 among the gleaming boughs, in the golden 
 sheen of the moon, under the stars. Was 
 there not the silence for deep peace, and the 
 voice of the unseen sea for echo to the deep 
 tides of love which surged obscurely in his 
 heart? Yes, he would go out to that beauti- 
 ful redemption of the night. How often, in 
 fevered Paris, he had known that healing, 
 either when his gaze was held by the quiet 
 stars, as he kept his hours-long vigil, or when 
 he escaped westward along the banks of the 
 Seine, and could wander undisturbed across 
 grassy spaces or under shadowy boughs! 
 
 In the great hall of the Manor he found 
 white-haired Matieu asleep in his wicker
 
 72 Green Fire 
 
 chair. The old man silently opened the 
 heavy oaken door, and, with a smile which 
 somewhat perplexed Alan, bowed to him as 
 he passed forth. 
 
 Could it be a space only of a few hours that 
 divided him from his recent arrival, he won- 
 dered. The forest was no longer the same. 
 Then it was swept by the wind, lashed by the 
 rains, and was everywhere tortured into a 
 tempestuous music. Now it was so still, 
 save for a ceaseless faint dripping from wet 
 leaves and the conduits of a myriad sprays 
 and branches, that he could hear the occa- 
 sional shaking of the wings of hidden birds, 
 ruffling out their plumage because of the 
 moonlit quietudes that were come again. 
 
 And then, too, he had seen Ynys; had held 
 her hand in his; had looked in her beautiful, 
 hazel-green eyes, dusky and wonderful as a star- 
 lit gloaming because of the depth of her dear 
 love; had pressed his lips to hers, and felt the 
 throbbing of her heart against his own. There, 
 in the forest-edge, it was difficult to realize 
 all this. It would be time to turn soon, to 
 walk back along the sycamore-margined Seine
 
 The Walker in the Night 73 
 
 embankment, to reach the Tour de 1'Ile and 
 be at his post in the observatory again. Then 
 he glanced backward, and saw a red light shin- 
 ing from the room where the Marquis de 
 Kerival sat up late night after night, and he 
 wondered if Ynys were still there, or if she 
 were now in her room and asleep, or if she 
 lay in a waking dream. 
 
 For a time he stared at this beacon. Then, 
 troubled by many thoughts, but most by his 
 love, he moved slowly into one of the beech 
 avenues which radiated from the fantastic 
 mediaeval sun-dial at the end of the tulip 
 garden in front of the chateau. 
 
 While the moon slowly lifted from branch to 
 branch a transient stir of life came into the 
 forest. 
 
 Here and there he heard low cries, some- 
 times breaking into abrupt eddies of arrested 
 song; thrushes, he knew, ever swift to slide 
 their music out against any tide of light. Once 
 or twice a blackcap, in one of the beeches 
 near the open, sang so poignantly a brief 
 strain that he thought it that of a nightingale. 
 Later, in an oak glade, he heard the unmis- 
 takable song itself,
 
 74 Green Fire 
 
 The sea sound came hollowly under the 
 boughs like a spent billow. Instinctively he 
 turned that way, and so crossed a wide glade 
 that opened on the cypress alley to the west 
 of the chateau. 
 
 Just as he emerged upon this glade he 
 thought he saw a stooping figure glide swiftly 
 athwart the northern end of it and disappear 
 among the cypresses. Startled, he stood still. 
 
 No one stirred. Nothing moved. He 
 could hear no sound save the faint sighing of 
 the wind-eddy among the pines, the dull 
 rhythmic beat of the sea falling heavily upon 
 the sands. 
 
 "It must have been a delusion," he mut- 
 tered. Yet, for the moment, he had felt cer- 
 tain that the crouching figure of a man had 
 moved swiftly out of the shadow of the soli- 
 tary wide-spreading thorn he knew so well, 
 and had disappeared into the darker shadow 
 of the cypress alley. 
 
 After all, what did it matter? It could 
 only be some poor fellow poaching. With a 
 smile, Alan remembered how often he had 
 sinned likewise. He would listen, however,
 
 The Walker in the Night 75 
 
 and give the man a fright, for he knew that 
 Tristran de Kerival was stern in his resent- 
 ment against poachers, partly because he was 
 liberal in certain woodland-freedom he 
 granted, on the sole condition that none of 
 the peasants ever came within the home 
 domain. 
 
 Soon, however, he was convinced that he 
 was mistaken. Deep silence prevailed every- 
 where. Almost, he fancied, he could hear 
 the soft fall of the dew. A low whirring 
 sound showed that a night-jar had already 
 begun his summer wooing. Now that, as he 
 knew from Ynys, the cuckoo was come, and 
 that the swallows had suddenly multiplied 
 from a score of pioneers into a battalion of 
 ever-flying darts; now that he had listened to 
 the nightingales calling through the moonlit 
 woods and had heard the love-note of the 
 night-jar, the hot weather must be come at 
 last that glorious tide of golden life which 
 flows from April to June and makes them the 
 joy of the world. 
 
 Slowly he walked across the glade. At the 
 old thorn he stopped, and leaned a while
 
 7 6 Green Fire 
 
 against its rugged, twisted bole, recalling inci- 
 dent after incident associated with it. 
 
 It was strangely restful there. Around him 
 was the quiet sea of moonlight; yonder, 
 behind the cypresses and the pine-crowned 
 dunes, was the quiet sea of moving waters; 
 yet, in the one, there was scarce less of 
 silence than in the other. Ah! he remem- 
 bered abruptly, on just such a night, years 
 ago, he and Annaik had stood long there, 
 hand in hand, listening to a nightingale. 
 What a strange girl she was, even then! 
 Well he recalled how, at the end of the song 
 and when the little brown singer had slipped 
 from its bough, like a stone slung from a 
 sling, Annaik had laughed, though he knew 
 not at what, and had all at once unfastened 
 her hair, and let its tawny bronze-red mass 
 fall about her shoulders. She was so beauti- 
 ful and wild that he had clasped her in his 
 arms, and had kissed her again and again. And 
 Annaik . . . oh, he remembered, half shyly, 
 half exultantly . . . she had laughed again, 
 but more low, and had tied the long drifts of 
 her hair around his neck like a blood-red scarf.
 
 The Walker in the Night 77 
 
 It gave him a strange emotion to recall all 
 this. Did Annaik also think of it ever, he 
 wondered? Then, too, had they not prom- 
 ised somewhat to each other? Yes . . . 
 Annaik had said: " One night we shall come 
 here again, and then, if you do not love me 
 as much as you do now, I shall strangle you 
 with my hair: and if you love me more we 
 shall go away into the forest, and never re- 
 turn, or not for long, long; but if you do not 
 love me at all, then you are to tell me so, 
 and I will " 
 
 "What?" he had asked, when she stopped 
 abruptly. 
 
 At that, however, she had said no more as 
 to what was in her mind, but had asked him 
 to carve upon the thorn the "A" of her name 
 and the "A" of his into a double "A." Yes, 
 of course, he had done this. Where was it? he 
 pondered. Surely midway on the southward 
 side, for then as now the moonlight would be 
 there. 
 
 With an eagerness of which he was conscious 
 he slipped from where he leaned, and ex- 
 amined the bole of the tree. A heavy branch
 
 78 Green Fire 
 
 intervened. This he caught and withheld, 
 and the light flooded upon the gnarled trunk. 
 
 With a start, Alan almost relinquished the 
 branch. There, unmistakable, was a large 
 carven " A," but not only was it the old double 
 "A" made into a single letter, but clearly 
 the change had been made quite recently, 
 apparently within a few hours. Moreover, it 
 was now linked to another letter. The legend 
 ran: "A & /." 
 
 Puzzled, he looked close. There could be 
 no mistake. The cutting was recent. The 
 "y," indeed, might have been that moment 
 done. Suddenly an idea flashed into his mind. 
 He stooped and examined the mossed roots. 
 Yes, there were the fragments. He took one 
 and put it between his teeth; the wood was 
 soft, and had the moisture of fibre recently 
 severed. 
 
 Who was " J " ? Alan pondered over every 
 name he could think of. He knew no one 
 whose baptismal name began thus, with the 
 exception of Jervaise de Morvan, the brother 
 of Andrik, and he was married and resi- 
 dent in distant Pondicherry. Otherwise
 
 The Walker in the Night 79 
 
 there was but Jak Bourzak, the woodcutter 
 a bent, broken-down old man who could not 
 have cut the letters for the good reason that 
 he was unable to write and was so ignorant 
 that, even in that remote region, he was called 
 Jak the Stupid. Alan was still pondering over 
 this when suddenly the stillness was broken 
 by the loud screaming of peacocks. 
 
 Kerival was famous for these birds, of 
 which the peasantry stood in superstitious 
 awe. Indeed, a legend was current to the 
 effect that Tristran de Kerival maintained 
 those resplendent creatures because they were 
 the souls of his ancestors, or such of them as 
 before death had not been able to gain absolu- 
 tion for their sins. When they were heard 
 crying harshly before rain or at sundown, 
 or sometimes in the moonlight, the hearers 
 shuddered. "The lost souls of Kerival" be- 
 came a saying, and there were prophets here 
 and there who foreboded ill for Tristran the 
 Silent, or some one near and dear to him, 
 whenever that strange clamor rang forth 
 unexpectedly. 
 
 Alan himself was surprised, startled. The
 
 8o Green Fire 
 
 night was so still, no further storm was immi- 
 nent, and the moon had been risen for some 
 time. Possibly the peacocks had strolled into 
 the cypress alley, to strut to and fro in the 
 moonshine, as their wont was in their wooing 
 days, and two of them had come into jealous 
 dispute. 
 
 Still that continuous harsh tumult seemed 
 rather to have the note of alarm than 
 of quarrel. Alan walked to the seaward 
 side of the thorn, but still kept within its 
 shadow. 
 
 The noise was now not only clamant but 
 startling. The savage screaming, like that of 
 barbaric trumpets, filled the night. 
 
 Swiftly the listener crossed the glade, and 
 was soon among the cypresses. There, while 
 the dull thud of the falling seas was more than 
 ever audible, the screams of the peacocks were 
 so insistent that he had ears for these alone. 
 
 At the eastern end of the alley the glade 
 broke away into scattered pines, and from 
 these swelled a series of low dunes. Alan 
 could see them clearly from where he stood, 
 under the boughs of a huge yew, one of several
 
 The Walker in the Night 81 
 
 that grew here and there among their solemn, 
 columnar kin. 
 
 His gaze was upon this open space when, 
 abruptly, he started. A tall, slim figure, 
 coming from the shore, moved slowly inland 
 across the dunes. 
 
 Who could this walker in the dark be? 
 The shadowy Walker in the Night herself, 
 mayhap; the dreaded soulless woman who 
 wanders at dead of night through forests, or 
 by desolate shores, or by the banks of the 
 perilous marais. 
 
 Often he had heard of her. When any man 
 met this woman, his fate depended on whether 
 he saw her before she caught sight of him. 
 If she saw him first, she had but to sing her 
 wild, strange song, and he would have to go 
 to her; and when he was before her two 
 flames would come out of her eyes, and one 
 flame would burn up his life as though it were 
 dry tinder, and the other would wrap round 
 his soul like a scarlet shawl, and she would 
 take it and live with it in a cavern under- 
 ground for a year and a day. And on that 
 
 last day she would let it go, as a hare is let 
 6
 
 82 Green Fire 
 
 go a furlong beyond a greyhound. Then it 
 would fly like a windy shadow from glade to 
 glade or from dune to dune, in the vain hope 
 to reach a wayside Calvary; but ever in vain. 
 Sometimes the Holy Tree would almost be 
 reached; then, with a gliding swiftness, like 
 a flood racing down a valley, the Walker in 
 the Night would be alongside the fugitive. 
 Now and again unhappy night-farers 
 unhappy they, for sure, for never does weal 
 remain with any one who hears what no human 
 ear should hearken would be startled by 
 a sudden laughing in the darkness. This was 
 when some such terrible chase had happened, 
 and when the creature of the night had taken 
 the captive soul, in the last moments of the 
 last hour of the last day of its possible redemp- 
 tion, and rent it this way and that, as a hawk 
 scatters the feathered fragments of its 
 mutilated quarry. 
 
 Alan thought of this wild legend, and 
 shuddered. Years ago he had been foolhardy 
 enough to wish to meet the phantom, to see 
 her before she saw him, and to put a spell 
 upon her. For, if this were possible, he could
 
 The Walker in the Night 83 
 
 compel her to whisper some of her secret lore, 
 and she could give him spells to keep him 
 scathless till old age. 
 
 But as, with fearful gaze, he stared at the 
 , figure which so leisurely moved toward the 
 cypress alley, he was puzzled by some vague 
 resemblance, by something familiar. The 
 figure was that of a woman, unmistakably; 
 and she moved as though she were in a 
 dream. 
 
 But who could it be, there, in that lonely 
 place, at that hour of the night? Who would 
 venture or care . . . 
 
 In a flash all was clear. It was Annaik! 
 
 There was no room for doubt. He might 
 have known her lithe walk, her wildwood 
 grace, her peculiar carriage; but before 
 recognition of these had come, he had caught 
 a glimpse of her hair in the moonlight. It 
 was like burnished brass, in that yellow shine. 
 There was no other such hair in the world, he 
 believed. 
 
 But . . . Annaik! What could she be 
 doing there? How had she been able to leave 
 the chateau; when had she stolen forth; where
 
 84 Green Fire 
 
 had she wandered; whither was she going; to 
 what end? 
 
 These and other thoughts stormed through 
 Alan's mind. Almost he muttered below his 
 breath almost he would rather have seen the 
 Walker in the Night. 
 
 As she drew nearer he could see her as 
 clearly as though it were daylight. She 
 appeared to be thinking deeply, and ever and 
 again be murmuring disconnected phrases. 
 His heart smote him when he saw her, twice, 
 raise her arms and then wring her hands as if 
 in sore straits of sorrow. 
 
 He did not stir. He would wait, he thought. 
 It might add to Annaik's strange grief, if 
 grief it were, to betray his presence. Again, 
 was it possible that she was there to meet 
 some one to encounter the "J" whose 
 initial was beside her own on the old thorn? 
 How pale she was! he noticed. A few yards 
 away her dress caught; she hesitated, slowly 
 disengaged herself, but did not advance again. 
 For the third time she wrung her hands. 
 
 What could it mean? Alan was about to 
 move forward when he heard her voice:
 
 The Walker in the Night 85 
 
 "Oh, Alan, Alan, Alan!" 
 
 What . . . had she seen him? He flushed 
 there in the shadow, and words rose to his 
 lips. Then he was silent, for she spoke again: 
 
 "I hate her ... I hate her . . . not 
 for herself, no, no, no ... but because 
 she has taken you from me. Why does Ynys 
 have you, all of you, when I have loved you all 
 along? None of us knew any thing none, 
 till last Noel. Then we knew; only, neither 
 you nor Ynys knew that I loved you as a soul 
 in hell loves the memory of its earthly joy." 
 
 Strange words, there in that place, at that 
 hour; but far stranger the passionless voice 
 in which the passionate words were uttered. 
 Bewildered, Alan leaned forward, intent. 
 The words had waned to a whisper, but were 
 now incoherent. Fragmentary phrases, irrele- 
 vant words, what could it all mean? 
 
 Suddenly an idea made him start. He 
 moved slightly, so as to catch the full 
 flood of a moonbeam as it fell on Annaik's 
 face. 
 
 Yes, he was right. Her eyes were open, 
 but were fixed in an unseeing stare. For
 
 86 Green Fire 
 
 the first time, too, he noted that she was 
 clad simply in a long dressing-gown. Her 
 feet were bare, and were glistening with the 
 wet they had gathered; on her lustrous hair, 
 nothing but the moonlight. 
 
 He had remembered. Both Annaik and 
 Ynys had a tendency to somnambulism, a trait 
 inherited from their father. It had been 
 cured years ago, he had understood. But 
 here here was proof that Annaik at any rate 
 was still subject to that mysterious malady of 
 sleep. 
 
 That she was absolutely trance-bound he 
 saw clearly. But what he should do that 
 puzzled, that bewildered him. 
 
 Slowly Annaik, after a brief hesitancy when 
 he fancied she was about to awake, moved for- 
 ward again. 
 
 She came so close that almost she brushed 
 against him; would have done so, indeed, but 
 that he was hidden from contact as well as 
 from sight by the boughs of the yew, which on 
 that side swept to the ground. 
 
 Alan put out his hand. Then he withdrew 
 it. No, he thought, he would let her go un-
 
 The Walker in the Night 87 
 
 molested, and, if possible, unawaked: but he 
 would follow her, lest evil befell. She passed. 
 His nerves thrilled. What was this strange 
 emotion, that gave him a sensation almost as 
 though he had seen his own wraith? But dif- 
 ferent . . . for, oh he could not wait to 
 think about that, he muttered. 
 
 He was about to stoop and emerge from the 
 yew-boughs when he heard a sound which 
 made him stop abruptly. 
 
 It was a step; of that he felt sure. And at 
 hand, too. The next moment he was glad he 
 had not disclosed himself, for a crouching 
 figure stealthily followed Annaik. 
 
 Surely that was the same figure he had seen 
 cross the glade, the figure that had slipped 
 from the thorn? 
 
 If so, could it be the person who had cut the 
 letter " J " on the bark of the tree? The man 
 kept so much in the shadow that it was difficult 
 to obtain a glimpse of his face. Alan waited. 
 In a second or two he would have to pass the 
 yew. 
 
 Just before the mysterious pursuer reached 
 the old tree, he stopped. Alan furtively
 
 88 Green Fire 
 
 glanced to his left. He saw that Annaik had 
 suddenly halted. She stood intent, as though 
 listening. Possibly she had awaked. He 
 saw her lips move. She spoke, or called 
 something; what, he could not hear because of 
 the intermittent screaming of the peacocks. 
 
 When he looked at the man in the shadow 
 he started. A moonbeam had penetrated the 
 obscurity, and the face was white against the 
 black background of a cypress. 
 
 Alan recognized the man in a moment. It 
 was Jud Kerbastiou, the forester. What . . . 
 was it possible: could he be the " J " who had 
 linked his initial with that of Annaik? 
 
 It was incredible. The man was not only a 
 boor, but one with rather an ill repute. At 
 any rate, he was known to be a poacher as 
 well as a woodlander of the old Breton kind 
 men who would never live save in the forest, 
 any more than a gypsy would become a clerk 
 and live in a street. 
 
 It was said among the peasants of Kerival 
 that his father, old louenn Kerbastiou, the 
 charcoal burner, was an illegitimate brother 
 of the late Marquis so that Jud, or Judik, as
 
 The Walker in the Night 89 
 
 he was generally called, was a blood-relation 
 of the great folk at the chateau. Once this 
 had been hinted to the Marquis Tristran. It 
 was for the first and last time. Since then, 
 Jud Kerbastiou had become more morose 
 than ever, and was seldom seen among his 
 fellows. When not with his infirm old father, 
 at the hut in the woods that were to the east- 
 ward of the forest-hamlet of Ploumael, he was 
 away in the densely wooded reaches to the 
 south. Occasionally he was seen upon the 
 slopes of the Black Hills, but this was only 
 in winter, when he crossed over into Upper 
 Brittany with a mule-train laden with cut 
 fagots. 
 
 That he was prowling about the home 
 domain of Kerival was itself ominous; but 
 that in this stealthy manner he should be 
 following Annaik was to Allan a matter of 
 genuine alarm. Surely the man could mean 
 no evil against one of the Big House, and 
 one, too, so much admired, and in a certain 
 way loved, as Annaik de Kerival? And yet, 
 the stealthy movements of the peasant, his 
 crouching gait, his patient dogging of her
 
 90 Green Fire 
 
 steps and this, doubtless, ever since she 
 had crossed the glade from the forest to 
 the cypresses all this had a menacing 
 aspect. 
 
 At that moment the peacocks ceased their 
 wild miaulling. Low and clear, Annaik's 
 voice same thrillingly along the alley: 
 
 11 Alan! Alan! Oh, Alan, darling, are you 
 there?" 
 
 His heart beat. Then a flush sprang to his 
 brow, as with sudden anger he heard Jud 
 Kerbastiou reply, in a thick, muffled tone: 
 
 "Yes, yes, . . . and, and I love you, 
 Annaik! " 
 
 Possibly the sleeper heard and understood. 
 Even at that distance Alan saw the light upon 
 her face, the light from within. 
 
 Judik the peasant slowly advanced. His 
 stealthy tread was light as that of a fox. He 
 stopped when he was within a yard of Annaik. 
 "Annaik," he muttered hoarsely, "Annaik, 
 it was I who was out among the beeches in 
 front of the chateau while the storm was rag- 
 ing. Sure you must have known it; else, why 
 would you come out? I love you, white
 
 The Walker in the Night 91 
 
 woman. I am only a peasant . . . but I 
 love you, Annaik de Kerival, I love you I 
 love you I love you!" 
 
 Surely she was on the verge of waking! 
 The color had come back to her white face, 
 her lips moved, as though stirred by a breath 
 from within. Her hands were clasped, and 
 the fingers intertwisted restlessly. 
 
 Kerbastiou was so wrought that he did not 
 hear steps behind him as Alan moved swiftly 
 forward. 
 
 " Sure, you will be mine at last," the man 
 cried hoarsely, "mine, and none to dispute 
 . . . ay, and this very night, too. " 
 
 Slowly Jud put out an arm. His hand 
 almost touched that of Annaik. Suddenly he 
 was seized from behind, and a hand was 
 claspt firmly upon his mouth. He did not 
 see who his unexpected assailant was, but 
 he heard the whisper that was against his 
 ear: 
 
 " If you make a sound, I will strangle you 
 to death." 
 
 With a nod, he showed that he understood. 
 
 " If I let go for the moment, will you come
 
 9 2 Green Fire 
 
 back under the trees here, where she cannot 
 see or hear us? " 
 
 Another nod. 
 
 Alan relaxed his hold, but did not wholly 
 relinquish his grip. Kerbastiou turned and 
 looked at him. 
 
 " Oh, it's you/" he muttered, as he followed 
 his assailant into the shadow some yards back. 
 
 "Yes, Judik Kerbastiou, it is I, Alan de 
 Kerival." 
 
 " Well, what do you want? " 
 
 "What do I want? How dare you be so 
 insolent, fellow? you, who have been follow- 
 ing a defenceless woman!" 
 
 " What have you been doing?" 
 
 "I ... oh, of course I have been following 
 Mile. Annaik also . . . but that was . . . that 
 was ... to protect her." 
 
 "And is it not possible I might follow her 
 for the same reason? " 
 
 "It is not the same thing at all, Judik Ker- 
 bastiou, and you know it. In the first place 
 you have no right to be here at all. In the 
 next, I am Mile. Annaik's cousin, and " 
 
 "And I am her lover."
 
 The Walker in the Night 93 
 
 Alan stared at the man in sheer amaze. 
 He spoke quietly and assuredly, nor seemed 
 in the least degree perturbed. 
 
 " But . . . but . . . why, Kerbastiou, it 
 is impossible! " 
 
 " What is impossible? " 
 
 " That Annaik could love you. " 
 
 " I did not say she loved me. I said I was 
 her lover." 
 
 "And you believe that you, a peasant, a 
 man held in ill repute even among your fellow- 
 peasants, a homeless woodlander, can gain the 
 love of the daughter of your seigneur, of a 
 woman nurtured as she has been? " 
 
 "You speak like a book, as the saying is, 
 M. de Kerival." Judik uttered the words 
 mockingly, and with raised voice. Annaik, 
 who was still standing as one entranced, 
 heard it: for she whispered again, "Alan! 
 Alan! Alan!" 
 
 " Hush, man! she will hear. Listen, 
 Judik, I don't want to speak harshly. You 
 know me. Every one here does. You must 
 be well aware that I am the last person to 
 despise you or any man because you are poor
 
 94 Green Fire 
 
 and unfortunate. But you must see that such 
 a love as this of yours is madness." 
 
 " All love is madness." 
 
 " Oh, yes; of course! But look you, Judik, 
 what right have you to be here at all, in the 
 home domain, in the dead of night? " 
 
 " You love Ynys de Kerival? " 
 
 "Yes . . . well, yes, I do love her; but 
 what then? What is that to you? " 
 
 "Well, I love Annaik. I am here by the 
 same right as you are." 
 
 "You forget. / am welcome. You come 
 by stealth. Do you mean for a moment to say 
 that you are here to meet Mile. Annaik by 
 appointment? " 
 
 The man was silent. 
 
 "Judik Kerbastiou!" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "You are a coward. You followed this 
 woman whom you say you love with intent to 
 rob her." 
 
 "You are a fool, Alan de Kerival." 
 
 Alan raised his arm. Then, ashamed, he let 
 it fall. 
 
 "Will you go? Will you go now, at once,
 
 The Walker in the Night 95 
 
 or shall I wake Mile. Annaik, and tell her 
 what I have seen and from what I believe I 
 have saved her?" 
 
 " No, you need not wake her, nor tell her 
 any thing. I know she has never even given 
 me a thought." 
 
 Suddenly the man bowed his head. A sob 
 burst through the dark. 
 
 Alan put his hand on his shoulder. 
 
 " Judik ! Judik Kerbastiou! I am sorry 
 for you from my heart. But go ... go now, 
 at once. Nothing shall be said of this. No 
 one shall know any thing. If you wish me 
 to tell my cousin, I will. Then she can see 
 you or not, as she may wish." 
 
 "I go. But . . . yes, tell her. To-morrow. 
 Tell her to-morrow. Only I would not have 
 hurt her. Tell her that. I go now. Adiou" 
 
 With that Judik Kerbastiou lifted his 
 shaggy head, and turned his great black, 
 gypsy-wild eyes upon Alan. 
 
 "She loves you" he said simply. Then he 
 stepped lightly over the path, passed between 
 the cypresses, and moved out across the glade. 
 Alan watched his dark figure slide through
 
 9 6 Green Fire 
 
 the moonlight. He traversed the glade to the 
 right of the thorn. For nearly half a mile he was 
 visible; then he turned and entered the forest. 
 
 An hour later two figures moved, in absolute 
 silence, athwart the sand-dunes beyond the 
 cypress alley. 
 
 Hand in hand they moved. Their faces 
 were in deep shadow, for the moonlight was 
 now obscured by a league-long cloud. 
 
 When they emerged from the scattered pines 
 to the seaward of the chateau, the sentinel 
 peacocks saw them, and began once more 
 their harsh, barbaric screams. 
 
 The twain unclasped their hands, and 
 walked steadily forward, speaking no word, 
 not once looking one at the other. 
 
 As they entered the yew-close at the end of 
 the old garden of the chateau they were as 
 shadows drowned in night. For some minutes 
 they were invisible; though, from above, the 
 moon shone upon their white faces and on 
 their frozen stillness. The peacocks sullenly 
 ceased. 
 
 Once more they emerged into the moon-
 
 The Walker in the Night 97 
 
 dusk. As they neared the ivied gables of the 
 west wing of the Manor the cloud drifted 
 from the moon, and her white flood turned 
 the obscurity into a radiance wherein every 
 object stood forth as clear as at noon. 
 
 Alan's face was white as are the faces of the 
 dead. His eyes did not once lift from the 
 ground. But in Annaik's face was a flush, 
 and her eyes were wild and beautiful as fall- 
 ing stars. 
 
 It was not an hour since she had wakened 
 from her trance; not an hour, and yet already 
 had Alan forgotten forgotten her, and Ynys, 
 and the storm, and the after calm. Of one 
 thing he thought only, and that was of what 
 Daniel Dare had once said to him laughingly: 
 " If the old fables of astrology were true, your 
 horoscope would foretell impossible things." 
 
 In absolute silence they moved up the long 
 flight of stone stairs that led to the chateau; 
 in absolute silence, they entered by the door 
 which old Matieu had left ajar; in silence, they 
 passed that unconscious sleeper; in silence, 
 they crossed the landing where the corridors 
 diverged.
 
 98 Green Fire 
 
 Both stopped, simultaneously. Alan 
 seemed about to speak, but his lips closed 
 again without utterance. 
 
 Abruptly he turned. Without a word he 
 passed along the corridor to the right, and 
 disappeared in the obscurity. 
 
 Annaik stood a while, motionless, silent. 
 Then she put her hand to her heart. On her 
 impassive face the moonlight revealed noth- 
 ing; only in her eyes there was a gleam as of 
 one glad unto death. 
 
 Then she too passed, noiseless and swift as 
 a phantom. Outside, on the stone terrace, 
 Ys, the blind peacock, strode to and fro, 
 uttering his prolonged, raucous screams. 
 When, at last, he was unanswered by the pea- 
 cocks in the cypress alley, his clamant voice 
 no longer tore the silence. 
 
 The moon trailed her flood of light across 
 the earth. It lay upon the waters, and was 
 still a glory there when, through the chill 
 quietudes of dawn, the stars waned one by 
 one in the soft graying that filtered through 
 the morning dusk. The new day was come.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 VIA OSCURA 
 
 THE day that followed this quiet dawn 
 marked the meridian of spring. Thereafter 
 the flush upon the blossoms would deepen; 
 the yellow pass out of the green; and a 
 deeper green involve the shoreless emerald 
 sea of verdure which everywhere covered the 
 brown earth, and swelled and lapsed in end- 
 lessly receding billows of forest and wood- 
 land. Up to that noon-tide height Spring 
 had aspired, ever since she had shaken the 
 dust of snow from her primrose-sandals; now, 
 looking upon the way she had come, she took 
 the hand of Summer and both went forth as 
 one, so that none should tell which was still 
 the guest of the greenness. 
 
 This was the day when Alan and Ynys 
 walked among the green alleys of the woods 
 of Kerival, and when, through the deep glad-
 
 ioo Green Fire 
 
 ness that was his for all the strange, gnawing 
 pain in his mind, in his ears echoed the haunt- 
 ing line of Rimbaud, "Then, in the violet 
 forest all a-bourgeon, Eucharis said to me: 
 ' It is Spring.' " 
 
 Through the first hours of the day Alan 
 had been unwontedly silent. Ynys had 
 laughed at him with loving eyes, but had not 
 shown any shadow of resentment. His word 
 to the effect that his journey had tired him, 
 and that he had not slept at all, was enough 
 to account for his lack of buoyant joy. 
 
 But, in truth, Ynys did not regret this, 
 since it had brought a still deeper intensity 
 of love into Alan's eyes. When he looked at 
 her, there was so much passion of longing, so 
 pathetic an appeal, that her heart smote her. 
 Why should she be the one chosen to evoke a 
 love such as this, she wondered ; she, who was 
 but Ynys, while Alan was a man whom all 
 women might love, and had genius that made 
 him as one set apart from his fellows, and was 
 brow-lit by a starry fate? 
 
 And yet, in a sense she understood. They 
 were so much at one, so like in all essential
 
 Via Oscura 101 
 
 matters, and were in all ways comrades. It 
 would have been impossible for each not to 
 love the other. But, deeper than this, was 
 the profound and intimate communion of the 
 spirit. In some beautiful, strange way, she 
 knew she was the flame to his fire. At that 
 flame he lit the torch of which Daniel Dare 
 and others had spoken. She did not see why 
 or wherein it was so, but she believed, and 
 indeed at last realized the exquisite actuality. 
 
 In deep love, there is no height nor depth 
 between two hearts, no height nor depth, 
 no length nor breadth. There is simply 
 love. 
 
 The birds of Angus Ogue are like the wild- 
 doves of the forest: when they nest in the 
 heart they are as one. And her life, and 
 Alan's, were not these one? 
 
 Nevertheless, Ynys was disappointed as the 
 day went on, and her lover did not seem able 
 to rouse himself from his strange despond- 
 ency. 
 
 Doubtless this was due largely to what was 
 pending. That afternoon he was to have his 
 long anticipated interview with the Marquise,
 
 102 Green Fire 
 
 and would perhaps learn what might affect his 
 whole life. On the other hand, each believed 
 that nothing would be revealed which was not 
 of the past solely. 
 
 Idly, Ynys began to question her com- 
 panion about the previous night. What had 
 he done, since he had not slept; had he read, 
 or dreamed at the window, or gone out, as 
 had once been his wont on summer nights, to 
 walk in the cypress alley or along the grassy 
 dunes? Had he heard a nightingale singing 
 in the moonlight? Had he noticed the pro- 
 longed screaming of the peacocks unusually 
 prolonged, now that she thought of it, Ynys 
 added. 
 
 "I wonder, dear, if you would love me 
 whatever happened whatever I was, or did?" 
 
 It was an inconsequent question. She 
 looked up at him, half perturbed, half 
 pleased. 
 
 "Yes, Alan." 
 
 " But do you mean what you say, knowing 
 that you are not only using a phrase? " 
 
 " I have no gift of expression, dearest. 
 Words come to me without their bloom and
 
 Via Oscura 103 
 
 their fragrance, I often think. But . . . 
 Alan, / love you." 
 
 ''That is sweetest music for me, Ynys, my 
 fawn. All words from you have both bloom 
 and fragrance, though you may not know it, 
 shy flower. But tell me again, do you mean 
 what you say, absolutely? " 
 
 "Absolutely. In every way, in all things, at 
 all times. Dear, how could any thing come be- 
 tween us? It impossible, of course, that circum- 
 stances might separate us. But nothing could 
 really come between us. My heart is yours." 
 
 "What about Andrik de Morvan?" 
 
 "Ah, you are not in earnest, Alan!" 
 
 "Yes; I am more than half in earnest, 
 Ynys, darling. Tell me!" 
 
 "You cannot possibly believe that I care, 
 that I could care, for Andrik as I care for 
 you, Alan." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Why not? Oh, have you so little belief, 
 then, in women in me? Alan, do you not 
 know that what is perhaps possible for a man, 
 though I cannot conceive it, is impossible for a 
 woman. That is the poorest sophistry which
 
 104 Green Fire 
 
 says a woman may love two men at the same 
 time. That is, if by love is meant what you 
 and I mean. Affection, the deepest affection, 
 is one thing; the love of man and woman, as 
 we mean it, is a thing apart!" 
 
 "You love Andrik?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Could you wed your life with his?" 
 
 "I could have done so . . . but for you." 
 
 "Then, by your true heart, is there no 
 possibility that he can in any way ever come 
 between us?" 
 
 "None." 
 
 "Although he is nominally your betrothed, 
 and believes in you as his future wife? " 
 
 "That is not my fault. I drifted into that 
 conditional union, as you know. But after 
 to-dg,y he and every one shall know that I 
 can wed no man but you. But why do you 
 ask me these things, Alan?" 
 
 "I want to know. I will explain later. 
 But tell me; could you be happy with Andrik? 
 You say you love him?" 
 
 " I love him as a friend, as a comrade." 
 
 "As an intimately dear comrade?"
 
 Via Oscura 105 
 
 ff Alan, do not let us misunderstand each 
 other. There can only be one supreme com- 
 rade for a woman, and that is the man whom 
 she loves supremely. Every other affection, 
 the closest, the dearest, is as distinct from 
 that as day from night." 
 
 "If by some malign chance you and Andrik 
 married say, in the event of my supposed 
 death would you still be as absolutely true 
 to me as you are now? " 
 
 "What has the accident of marriage to do 
 with truth between a man and a woman, 
 Alan? " 
 
 "It involves intimacies that would be a 
 desecration otherwise. Oh, Ynys, do you 
 not understand? " 
 
 " It is a matter of the inner life. Men so 
 rarely believe in the hidden loyalty of the 
 heart. It is possible for a woman to fulfil a 
 bond and yet not be a bondswoman. Outer 
 circumstances have little to do with the inner 
 life, with the real self." 
 
 "In a word, then, if you married Andrik 
 you would remain absolutely mine, not only 
 if I were dead, but if perchance the rumor
 
 io6 Green Fire 
 
 were untrue and I came back, though too 
 late?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Absolutely?" 
 
 "Absolutely." 
 
 "And you profoundly know, Ynys, that in 
 no conceivable circumstances can Andrik be 
 to you what I am, or any thing for a moment 
 approaching it?" 
 
 "I do know it." 
 
 "Although he were your husband? " 
 
 "Although he were my husband." 
 
 The worn lines that were in Alan's face 
 were almost gone. Looking into his eyes 
 Ynys saw that the strange look of pain which 
 had alarmed her was no longer there. The 
 dear eyes had brightened; a new hope seemed 
 to have arisen in them. 
 
 "Do you believe me, Alan, dear?" she 
 whispered. 
 
 "If I did not, it would kill me, Ynys." 
 
 And he spoke truth. The bitter sophistica- 
 tions of love play lightly with the possibilities 
 of death. Men who talk of suicide are likely to 
 be long-livers; lovers whose hearts are easily
 
 Via Oscura 107 
 
 broken can generally recover and astonish 
 themselves by their heroic endurance. The 
 human heart is like a wave of the sea; it can 
 be lashed into storm, it can be calmed, it can 
 become stagnant but it is seldom absorbed 
 from the ocean till in natural course the sun 
 takes up its spirit in vapor. Yet, ever and 
 again, there is one wave among a myriad 
 which a spiral wind-eddy may suddenly strike. 
 In a moment it is whirled this way and that; it 
 is involved in a cataclysm of waters; and then 
 cloud and sea meet, and what a moment be- 
 fore had been an ocean wave is become an 
 idle skyey vapor. 
 
 Alan was of the few men of whom that 
 wave is the symbol. To him, death could 
 come at any time, if the wind-eddy of a cer- 
 tain unthinkable sorrow struck him at his 
 heart. 
 
 In this sense, his life was in Ynys's hands 
 as absolutely as though he were a caged bird. 
 He knew it, and Ynys knew it. 
 
 There are a few men, a few women, like this. 
 Perhaps it is well that these are so rare. 
 Among the hills of the north, at least, they
 
 io8 Green Fire 
 
 may still be found; in remote mountain 
 valleys and in lonely isles, where life and 
 death are realized actualities and not the mere 
 adumbrations of the pinions of that lonely 
 fugitive, the human mind, along the endless 
 precipices of Time. 
 
 Alan knew well that both he and Ynys were 
 not so strong as each believed. Knowing 
 this, he feared for both. And yet, there was 
 but one woman in the world for him Ynys; 
 as for her, there was but one man Alan. 
 Without her, he could do nothing, achieve 
 nothing. She was his flame, his inspiration, 
 his strength, his light. Without her, he was 
 afraid to live; with her, death was a beauti- 
 ful dream. To her, Alan was not less. She 
 lived in him and for him. 
 
 But we are wrought of marsh-fire as well as 
 of stellar light. Now, as of old, the gods do 
 not make of the fairest life a thornless rose. 
 A single thorn may innocently convey poison; 
 so that everywhere men and women go to and 
 fro perilously, and not least those who move 
 through the shadow and shine of an imperious 
 passion.
 
 Via Oscura 109 
 
 For a time, thereafter, Alan and Ynys 
 walked slowly onward, hand in hand, each 
 brooding deep over the thoughts their words 
 had stirred. 
 
 "Do you know what Yann says, Alan?" 
 Ynys asked in a low voice, after both had 
 stopped instinctively to listen to a thrush 
 leisurely iterating his just learned love carol, 
 where he swung on a greening spray of honey- 
 suckle under a yellow-green lime. " Do you 
 know what Yann says? . . . He says that you 
 have a wave at your feet. What does that 
 mean? " 
 
 "When did he tell you that, Ynys, mo- 
 chree?" 
 
 "Ah, Alan, dear, how sweet it is to hear 
 from your lips the dear Gaelic we both love so 
 well! And does that not make you more than 
 ever anxious to learn all that you are to hear 
 this afternoon? " 
 
 "Yes . . . but that, that Ian Macdonald 
 said; what else did he say? " 
 
 "Nothing. He would say no more. I 
 asked him in the Gaelic, and he repeated only, 
 ' I see a wave at his feet.' "
 
 no Green Fire 
 
 "What Ian means by that I know well. It 
 means I am going on a far journey." 
 
 "Oh, no, Alan, no!" 
 
 " He has the sight upon him, at times. Ian 
 would not say that thing, did he not mean it. 
 Tell me, my fawn, has he ever said any thing 
 of this kind about you?" 
 
 "Yes. Less than a month ago. I was with 
 him one day on the dunes near the sea. Once, 
 when he gave no answer to what I asked, I 
 looked at him, and saw his eyes fixt. ' What 
 do you see, Yann?' I asked. 
 
 " ' I see great rocks, strange caverns. Sure, 
 it is well I am knowing what they are. They 
 are the Sea-caves of Rona.' 
 
 "There were no rocks visible from where 
 we stood, so I knew that Ian was in one of his 
 visionary moods. I waited, and then spoke 
 again, whisperingly: 
 
 " 'Tell me, Ian Maclain, what do you see? ' 
 
 " ' I see two whom I do not know. And 
 they are in a strange place, they are. And on 
 the man I see a shadow, and on the woman I 
 see a light. But what that shadow is, I do not 
 know; nor do I know what that light is. But
 
 Via Oscura in 
 
 I am for thinking that it is of the Virgin Mary, 
 for I see the dream that is in the woman's 
 heart, and it is a fair wonderful dream that.' 
 
 "That is all Yann said, Alan. As I was 
 about to speak, his face changed. 
 
 " 'What is it, Ian?' I asked. 
 
 "At first he would answer nothing. Then 
 he said: 'It is a dream. It means nothing. 
 It was only because I was thinking of you and 
 Alan MacAlasdair." 
 
 "Oh, Ynys!" Alan interrupted with an 
 eager cry " that is a thing I have long striven 
 to know; that which lies in the words 'Alan 
 MacAlasdair.' My father, then, was named 
 Alasdair ! And was it Rona, you said, was 
 the place of the Sea-caves? Rona . . . that 
 must be an island. The only Rona I know 
 of is that near Skye. It may be the same. 
 Now, indeed, I have a clew, lest I should 
 learn nothing to-day. Did Ian say nothing 
 more? " 
 
 " Nothing. I asked him if the man and 
 woman he saw were you and I, but he would 
 not speak. I am certain he was about to say 
 yes, but refrained."
 
 ii2 Green Fire 
 
 For a while they walked on in silence, each 
 revolving many speculations aroused by the 
 clew given by the words of " Yann the Dumb." 
 Suddenly Ynys tightened her clasp of Alan's 
 hand. 
 
 "What is it, dear?" 
 
 "Alan, some time ago you asked me 
 abruptly what I knew about the forester, Judik 
 Kerbastiou. Well, I see him in that beech- 
 covert yonder, looking at us." 
 
 Alan started. Ynys noticed that for a 
 moment he grew pale as foam. His lips 
 parted, as though he were about to call to the 
 woodlander: when Judik advanced, making at 
 the same time a sign of silence. 
 
 The man had a wild look about him. 
 Clearly, he had not slept since he and Alan had 
 parted at midnight. His dusky eyes had a red 
 light in them. His rough clothes were still 
 damp; his face, too, was strangely white and 
 dank. 
 
 Alan presumed that he came to say something 
 concerning Annaik. He did not know what 
 to do to prevent this, but while he was ponder- 
 ing, Judik spoke in a hoarse, tired voice:
 
 Via Oscura 113 
 
 " Let the Lady Ynys go back to the chateau 
 at once. She is needed there." 
 
 "Why, what is wrong, Judik Kerbastiou? " 
 
 "Let her go back, I say. No time for 
 words now. Be quick. I am not deceiving 
 you. Listen ..." and with that he leaned 
 toward Alan, and whispered in his ear. 
 
 Alan looked at him with startled amaze. 
 Then, turning toward Ynys, he asked her to 
 go back at once to the chateau.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 "DEIREADH GACH COGAIDH, SITH " (THE 
 END OF ALL WARFARE, PEACE) 
 
 ALAN did not wait till Ynys was out of 
 sight, before he demanded the reason of 
 Judik's strange appearance and stranger sum- 
 mons. 
 
 "Why are you here again, Judik Kerbas- 
 tiou? What is the meaning of this haunting 
 of the forbidden home domain? And what 
 did you mean by urging Mile. Ynys to go 
 back at once to the chateau? " 
 
 " Time enough later for your other ques- 
 tions, young sir. Meanwhile come along with 
 me, and as quick as you can." 
 
 Without another word the woodlander 
 turned and moved rapidly along a narrow path 
 through the brushwood. 
 
 Alan saw it would be useless to ask further 
 questions at the moment; moreover, he was
 
 "Deireadh Gach Cogaidh, Sith" 115 
 
 now vaguely alarmed. What could all this 
 mystery mean? Could an accident have 
 happened to the Marquis Tristran? It was 
 hardly likely, for he seldom ventured into the 
 forest, unless when the weather had dried all 
 the ways: for he had to be wheeled in his 
 chair, and, as Alan knew, disliked to leave the 
 gardens or the well-kept yew and cypress 
 alleys near the chateau. 
 
 In a brief while, however, he heard voices. 
 Judik turned, and waved to him to be wary. 
 The forester bent forward, stared intently, 
 and then beckoned to Alan to creep up along- 
 side. 
 
 " Who is it? What is it, Judik? " 
 
 "Look!" 
 
 Alan disparted a bough of underwood which 
 made an effectual screen. In the glade be- 
 yond were four figures. 
 
 One of these he recognized at once. It 
 was the Marquis de Kerival. He was, as 
 usual, seated in his wheeled chair. Behind 
 him, some paces to the right, was Raif Ker- 
 morvan, the steward of Kerival. The other 
 two men Alan had not seen before.
 
 n6 Green Fire 
 
 One of these strangers was a tall, handsome 
 man, of about sixty. His close-cropped white 
 hair, his dress, his whole mien, betrayed the 
 military man. Evidently a colonel, Alan 
 thought, or perhaps a general; at any rate an 
 officer of high rank, and one to whom com- 
 mand and self-possession were alike habitual. 
 Behind this gentleman, one of the most dis- 
 tinguished and even noble-looking men he 
 had ever seen, and again some paces to the 
 right, was a man, evidently a groom, and to 
 all appearances an orderly in mufti. 
 
 The first glance revealed that a duel was 
 imminent. The duellists, of course, were the 
 military stranger and the Marquis de Kerival. 
 
 "Who is that man?" Alan whispered to 
 Kerbastion. " Do you know? " 
 
 "I do not know his name. He is a 
 soldier a general. He came to Kerival to- 
 day; an hour or more ago. I guided him 
 through the wood, for he and his man had 
 ridden into one of the winding alleys and had 
 lost their way. I heard him ask for the Mar- 
 quis de Kerival. I waited about in the 
 shrubbery of the rose garden to see if . .-, ;
 
 "Deireadh Gach Cogaidh, Sith" 117 
 
 if ... some one for whom I waited . . . 
 would come out. After a time, half an hour 
 or less, this gentleman came forth, ushered 
 by Raif Kermorvan, the steward. His man 
 brought around the two horses again. They 
 mounted, and rode slowly away. I joined 
 them, and offered to show them a shorter 
 route than that which they were taking. The 
 General said they wished to find a glade 
 known as Merlin's Rest. Then I knew what he 
 came for, I knew what was going to happen." 
 
 "What, Judik?" 
 
 "Hush! not so loud. They will hear us! 
 I knew it was for a duel. It was here that 
 Andrik de Morvan, the uncle of him whom 
 you know, was killed by a man I forget his 
 name." 
 
 "Why did the man kill Andrik de Mor- 
 van?" 
 
 "Oh, who knows? Why does one kill any 
 body? Because he was tired of enduring the 
 Sieur Andrik longer; he bored him beyond 
 words to tell, I have heard. Then, too, the 
 Count, for he was a count, loved Andrik's 
 wife."
 
 n8 Green Fire 
 
 Alan glanced at Judik. For all his rough 
 wildness, he spoke on occasion like a man of 
 breeding. Moreover, at no time was he sub- 
 servient in his manner. Possibly, Alan thought, 
 it was true what he had heard : that Judik Ker- 
 bastiou was by moral right Judik de Kerival. 
 
 While the onlookers were whispering, the 
 four men in the glade had all slightly shifted 
 their position. The Marquis, it was clear, 
 had insisted upon this. The light had been 
 in his eyes. Now the antagonists and their 
 seconds were arranged aright. Kermorvan, 
 the steward, was speaking slowly: directions 
 as to the moment when to fire. 
 
 Alan knew it would be worse than useless 
 to interfere. He could but hope that this 
 was no more than an affair of honor of a 
 kind not meant to have a fatal issue; a politi- 
 cal quarrel, perhaps; a matter of insignificant 
 social offence. 
 
 Before Raif Kermorvan a short, black- 
 haired, bull-necked man, with a pale face and 
 protruding light blue eyes had finished what 
 he had to say, Alan noticed what had hitherto 
 escaped him: that immediately beyond the
 
 "Deireadh Gach Cogaidh, Sith" 119 
 
 glade, and under a huge sycamore, already in 
 full leaf, stood the Kerival carriage. Alain, 
 the coachman, sat on the box, and held the 
 two black horses in rein. Standing by the 
 side of the carriage was Georges de Rohan, 
 the doctor of Kerloek, and a personal friend 
 of the Marquis Tristran. 
 
 Suddenly Kermorvan raised his voice. 
 
 "M. le General, are you ready?" 
 
 " I am ready," answered a low, clear voice. 
 
 " M. le Marquis, are you ready? " 
 
 Tristran de Kerival did not answer, but 
 assented by a slight nod. 
 
 "Then raise your weapons, and fire the 
 moment I say ' thrice.' " 
 
 Both men raised their pistols. 
 
 "You have the advantage of me, sir," said 
 the Marquis coldly, in a voice as audible to 
 Alan and Judik as to the others. "I present 
 a good aim to you here. Nevertheless, I warn 
 you once more that you will not escape me 
 . . . this time." 
 
 The General smiled; scornfully, Alan 
 thought. Again, when suddenly he lowered 
 his pistol and spoke, Alan fancied he detected
 
 120 Green Fire 
 
 if not a foreign accent, at least a foreign 
 intonation. 
 
 " Once more, Tristran de Kerival, I tell 
 you that this duel is a crime; a crime against 
 me, a crime against Mme. la Marquise, a 
 crime against your daughters, and a crime 
 against ..." 
 
 " That will do, General. I am ready. Are 
 you? " 
 
 Without further word the stranger slowly 
 drew himself together. He raised his arm, 
 while his opponent did the same. 
 
 "Once! Twice! Thrice!" There was a 
 crack like that of a cattle-whip. Simulta- 
 neously some splinters of wood were blown 
 from the left side of the wheeled chair. 
 
 The Marquis Tristran smiled. He had 
 reserved his fire. He could aim now with 
 fatal effect. 
 
 "It is murder!" muttered Alan, horrified; 
 but at that moment the Marquis spoke. Alan 
 leaned forward, intent to hear. 
 
 "At last!" That was all. But in the 
 words was a concentrated longing for re- 
 venge, the utterance of a vivid hate.
 
 "Deireadh Gach Cogaidh, Sith" 121 
 
 Tristran de Kerival slowly and with method- 
 ical malignity took aim. There was a flash, 
 the same whip-like crack. 
 
 For a moment it seemed as though the ball 
 had missed its mark. Then, suddenly, there 
 was a bubbling of red froth at the mouth of 
 the stranger. Still, he stood erect. 
 
 Alan looked at the Marquis de Kerival. He 
 was leaning back, deathly white, but with the 
 bitter, suppressed smile which every one at the 
 chateau knew and hated. 
 
 All at once the General swayed, lunged for- 
 ward, and fell prone. 
 
 Dr. de Rohan ran out from the sycamore, 
 and knelt beside him. After a few seconds he 
 looked up. 
 
 He did not speak, but every one knew what 
 his eyes said. To make it unmistakable, he 
 drew out his handkerchief and put it over the 
 face of the dead man. 
 
 Alan was about to advance when Judik 
 Kerbastiou plucked him by the sleeve. 
 
 "Hst! M'sieurAlan! There is Mamzelle 
 Ynys returning! She will be here in another 
 minute. She must not see what is there."
 
 122 Green Fire 
 
 "You are right, Judik. I thank you." 
 
 With that he turned and moved swiftly 
 down the leaf-hid path which would enable 
 him to intercept Ynys. 
 
 "What is it, Alan?" she asked, with won- 
 dering eyes, the moment he was at her side. 
 " What is it? Why are you so pale?" 
 
 " It is because of a duel that has been 
 fought here. You must go back at once, 
 dear. There are reasons why you . . ." 
 
 "Is my father one of the combatants? I 
 know he is out of the chateau. Tell me 
 quick.! Is he wounded? Is he dead? " 
 
 "No, no, darling heart! He is unhurt. 
 But I can tell you nothing more just now. 
 Later . . . later. But why did you return 
 here? " 
 
 "I came with a message from my mother. 
 She is in sore trouble, I fear. I found her, on 
 her couch in the Blue Salon, with tears stream- 
 ing down her face and sobs choking her." 
 
 " And she wants me . . . now?" 
 
 "Yes. She told me to look for you, and 
 bring you to her at once." 
 
 "Then go straightway back, dear, and tell
 
 "Deireadh Gach Cogaidh, Sith." 123 
 
 her that I shall be with her immediately. 
 Yes, go go at once." 
 
 But by the time Ynys had moved into the 
 alley which led her to the chateau, and Alan 
 had returned to the spot where he had left 
 Judik, rapid changes had occurred. 
 
 The wheeled chair had gone. Alan could 
 see it nearing the South Yews; with the Mar- 
 quis Tristran in it, leaning backward and with 
 head erect. At its side walked Raif Ker- 
 morvan. He seemed to be whispering to the 
 Seigneur. The carriage had disappeared ; with 
 it Georges de Rohan, the soldier orderly, and, 
 presumably, the dead man. 
 
 Alan stood hesitant, uncertain whether to 
 go first to the Marquise, or to follow the man 
 whom he regarded now with an aversion in- 
 finitely deeper than he had ever done hitherto; 
 with whom, he felt, he never wished to speak 
 again, for he was a murderer, if ever man was, 
 and, from Alan's standpoint, a coward as well. 
 Tristran de Kerival was the deadliest shot in 
 all the country-side, and he must have known 
 that, when he challenged his victim, he gave 
 him his death sentence.
 
 124 Green Fire 
 
 It did not occur to Alan that possibly the 
 survivor was the man challenged. Instinct- 
 ively he knew that this was not so. 
 
 Judik suddenly touched his arm. 
 
 " Here," he said; " this is the name of the 
 dead man. I got the servant to write it down 
 for me." 
 
 Alan took the slip of paper. On it was: 
 "M. le Gdntral Carmichael"
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 THE UNFOLDING OF THE SCROLL 
 
 WHEN Alan reached the chateau he was at 
 once accosted by old Matieu. 
 
 " Mme. la Marquise wishes to see you in 
 her private room, M'sieu Alan, and without a 
 moment's delay." 
 
 In a few seconds he was on the upper land- 
 ing. At the door of the room known as the 
 Blue Salon he met Yann the Dumb. 
 
 " What is it, Ian? Is there any thing 
 wrong? " 
 
 In his haste he spoke in French. The old 
 islander looked at him, but did not answer. 
 
 Alan repeated his question in Gaelic. 
 
 " Yes, Alan MacAlasdair, I fear there is 
 gloom and darkness upon us all." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "By this an' by that. But I have seen the 
 death-cloth about Lois nic Alasdair bron-
 
 126 Green Fire 
 
 nach for weeks past. I saw it about her feet, 
 and then about her knees, and then about her 
 breast. Last night, when I looked at her, I 
 saw it at her neck. And to-day, the shadow- 
 shroud is risen to her eyes." 
 
 "But your second-sight is not always true, 
 you know, Ian. Why, you told me when I 
 was here last that I would soon be see- 
 ing my long dead father again, and, more 
 than that, that I should see him, but he never 
 see me. But of this and your other dark 
 sayings, no more now. Can I go in at once 
 and see my aunt? " 
 
 " I will be asking that, Alan-mo-caraid. 
 But what you say is not true. I have 
 never yet 'seen' any thing that has not come 
 to pass; though I have had the sight but 
 seldom, to Himself be the praise." With that 
 Ian entered, exchanged a word or two, and 
 ushered Alan into the room. 
 
 On a couch beside a great fireplace, across 
 the iron brazier of which were flaming pine- 
 logs, an elderly woman lay almost supine. 
 That she had been a woman of great beauty 
 was unmistakable, for all her gray hair and
 
 The Unfolding of the Scroll 127 
 
 the ravages that time and suffering had 
 wrought upon her face. Even now her face 
 was beautiful; mainly from the expression of 
 the passionate dusky eyes which were so like 
 those of Annaik. Her long, inert body 
 was covered with a fantastic Italian silk-cloth 
 whose gay pattern emphasized her own help- 
 less condition. Alan had not seen her for 
 some months, and he was shocked at the 
 change. Below the eyes, as flamelike as ever, 
 were purplish shadows, and everywhere, 
 through the habitual ivory of the delicate 
 features, a gray ashiness had diffused. When 
 she held out her hand to him, he saw it as 
 transparent as a fan, and perceived within 
 it the red gleam of the fire. 
 
 "Ah, Alan, it is you at last! How glad I 
 am to see you!" The voice was one of sin- 
 gular sweetness, in tone and accent much like 
 that of Ynys. 
 
 " Dear Aunt Lois, not more glad than I am 
 to see you " and, as he spoke, Alan kneeled 
 at the couch and kissed the frail hand that 
 had been held out to him. 
 
 "I would have so eagerly seen you at once
 
 128 Green Fire 
 
 on my arrival," he resumed, " but I was given 
 your message that you had one of your sea- 
 sons of suffering, and could not see me. You 
 have been in pain, Aunt Lois? " 
 
 " Yes, dear, I am dying." 
 
 " Dying! Oh, no, no, no! You don't 
 mean that. And besides " 
 
 "Why should I not mean it? Why should 
 I fear it, Alan? Has life meant so much 
 to me of late years that I should wish to 
 prolong it? " 
 
 "But you have endured so long!" 
 
 "A bitter reason truly! . . . and one 
 too apt to a woman ! Well, enough of this. 
 Alan, I want to speak to you about yourself. 
 But first tell me one thing. Do you love any 
 woman? " 
 
 " Yes, with all my heart, with all my life, I 
 love a woman." 
 
 " Have you told her so? Has she be- 
 trothed herself to you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Is it Annaik?" 
 
 "Annaik . . . Annaik?" 
 
 "Why are you so surprised, Alan? Annaik
 
 The Unfolding of the Scroll 129 
 
 is beautiful; she has long loved you, I am 
 certain; and you, too, if I mistake not, care 
 for her? " 
 
 "Of course, I do; of course I care for her, 
 Aunt Lois. I love her. But I do not love 
 her as you mean." 
 
 The Marquise looked at him steadily. 
 
 "I do not quite understand," she said 
 gravely. " I must speak to you about 
 Annaik, later. But now, will you tell me who 
 the woman is?" 
 
 "Yes. It is Ynys." 
 
 "Ynys/ But, Alan, do you not know that 
 she is betrothed to Andrik de Morvan? " 
 
 "I know." 
 
 " And that such a betrothal is, in Brittany, 
 almost as binding as a marriage?" 
 
 " I have heard that said." 
 
 "And that the Marquis de Kerival wishes 
 that union to take place? " 
 
 " The Marquis Tristran's opinion, on any 
 matter, does not in any way concern me." 
 
 "That may be, Alan; but it concerns Ynys. 
 Do you know that I also wish her to marry 
 Andrik; that his parents wish it; and that 
 9
 
 130 Green Fire 
 
 every one regards the union as all but an 
 accomplished fact?" 
 
 "Yes, dear Aunt Lois, I have known or 
 presumed all you tell me. But nothing of it 
 can alter what is a vital part of my existence." 
 
 "Do you know that Ynys herself gave her 
 pledge to Andrik de Morvan?" 
 
 "It was a conditional pledge. But, in any 
 case, she will formally renounce it." 
 
 For a time there was silence. 
 
 Alan had risen, and now stood by the side 
 of the couch, with folded arms. The Mar- 
 quise Lois looked up at him, with her stead- 
 fast, shadowy eyes. When she spoke again 
 she averted them, and her voice was so low as 
 almost to be a whisper. 
 
 "Finally, Alan, let me ask you one ques- 
 tion. It is not about you and Ynys. I infer 
 that both of you are at one in your determina- 
 tion to take every thing into your own hands. 
 Presumably you can maintain her and your- 
 self. Tristran the Marquis de Kerival will 
 not contribute a franc toward her support. 
 If he knew, he would turn her out of doors 
 this very day."
 
 The Unfolding of the Scroll 131 
 
 "Well, Aunt Lois, I wait for your final 
 question?" 
 
 " It is this. What about Annaik ? " 
 
 Startled by her tone and sudden lifted 
 glance, Alan stared in silence; then recollect- 
 ing himself, he repeated dully: 
 
 "'What about Annaik?'. . . Annaik, Aunt 
 Lois, why do you ask me about Annaik?" 
 
 "She loves you." 
 
 "As a brother; as the betrothed of Ynys; 
 as a dear comrade and friend." 
 
 "Do not be a hypocrite, Alan. You know 
 that she loves you. What of your feeling 
 toward her? " 
 
 "I love her ... as a brother loves a sis- 
 ter ... as any old playmate and friend . . . 
 as ... as the sister of Ynys." 
 
 A faint, scornful smile came upon the white 
 lips of the Marquise. 
 
 "Will you be good enough, then, to 
 explain about last night? " 
 
 "About last night?" 
 
 "Come, be done with evasion. Yes, about 
 last night. Alan, I know that you and 
 Annaik were out together in the cypress
 
 i3 2 Green Fire 
 
 avenue, and again, on the dunes, after mid- 
 night; that you were seen walking hand in 
 hand; and that, stealthily, you entered the 
 house together." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well! The inference is obvious. But 
 I will let you see that I know more. Annaik 
 went out of the house late. Old Matieu let 
 her out. Shortly after that you went out of 
 the chateau. Later, you and she came upon 
 Judik Kerbastiou prowling about in the 
 woods. It was more than an hour after he 
 left you that you returned to the chateau. 
 Where were you during that hour or more?" 
 
 Alan flushed. He unfolded his arms; 
 hesitated; then refolded them. 
 
 "How do you know this?" he asked 
 simply. 
 
 " I know it, because . . ." 
 
 But before she finished what she was about 
 to say, the door opened and Yann entered. 
 
 "What is it, Ian?" 
 
 " I would be speaking to you alone for 
 a minute, Bantighearna." 
 
 "Alan, go to the alcove yonder, please.
 
 The Unfolding of the Scroll 133 
 
 I must hear in private what Yann has to say 
 to me." 
 
 As soon as the young man was out of hear- 
 ing, Yann stooped and spoke in low tones. 
 The Marquise Lois grew whiter and whiter, 
 till not a vestige of color remained in her 
 face, and the only sign of life was in the eyes. 
 Suddenly she made an exclamation. 
 
 Alan turned and looked at her. He caught 
 her agonized whisper: " Oh, my God!" 
 
 "What is it oh, what is it, dear Aunt 
 Lois? " he cried, as he advanced to her side. 
 
 He expected to be waved back, but to 
 his surprise the Marquise made no sign to 
 him to withdraw. Instead, she whispered 
 some instructions to Yann and then bade 
 him go. 
 
 When they were alone once more, she took 
 a small silver flagon from beneath her cover- 
 let and poured a few drops upon some 
 sugar. 
 
 Having taken this, she seemed to breathe 
 more easily. It was evident, at the same 
 time, that she had received some terrible 
 shock.
 
 134 Green Fire 
 
 "Alan, come closer. I cannot speak loud. 
 I have no time to say more to you about 
 Annaik. I must leave that to you and to 
 her. But lest I die, let me say at once that 
 I forbid you to marry Ynys, and that I en- 
 join you to marry Annaik, and that without 
 delay." 
 
 A spasm of pain crossed the speaker's face. 
 She stopped, and gasped for breath. When 
 at last she resumed, it was clear she con- 
 sidered as settled the matter on which she 
 had spoken. 
 
 "Alan, I am so unwell that I must be very 
 brief. And now listen. You are twenty-five 
 to-day. Such small fortune as is yours comes 
 now into your possession. It has been ad- 
 ministered for you by a firm of lawyers in 
 Edinburgh. See, here is the address. Can 
 you read it? Yes? . . . Well, keep the slip. 
 This fortune is not much. To many, possibly 
 to you, it may not seem enough to provide 
 more than the bare necessities of life, not 
 enough for its needs. Nevertheless, it is 
 your own, and you will be glad. It will, at 
 least, suffice to keep you free from need if
 
 The Unfolding of the Scroll 135 
 
 ever you fulfil your great wish to go back to 
 the land of your fathers, to your own place." 
 
 " That is still my wish and my hope." 
 
 " So be it! You will have also an old sea 
 castle, not much more than a keep, on a 
 remote island. It will at any rate be your 
 own. It is on an island where few people 
 are; a wild and precipitous isle far out in 
 the Atlantic at the extreme of the Southern 
 Hebrides." 
 
 "Is it called Rona?" Alan interrupted 
 eagerly. 
 
 Without noticing, or heeding, his eagerness, 
 she assented. 
 
 "Yes, it is called Rona. Near it are the 
 isles of Mingulay and Borosay. These three 
 islands were once populous, and it was there 
 that for hundreds of years your father's clan, 
 of which he was hereditary chief, lived and 
 prospered. After the evil days, the days 
 when the young King was hunted in the west 
 as though a royal head were the world's 
 desire, and when our brave kinswoman, 
 Flora Macdonald, proved that women as well 
 as men could dare all for a good cause after
 
 136 Green Fire 
 
 those evil days the people melted away. 
 Soon the last remaining handful were upon 
 Borosay; and there, too, till the great fire 
 that swept the island a score of years ago, 
 stood the castle of my ancestors, the Mac- 
 donalds of Borosay. 
 
 "My father was a man well known in his 
 day. The name of Sir Kenneth Macdonald 
 was as familiar in London as in Edinburgh; 
 and in Paris he was known to all the military 
 and diplomatic world, for in his youth he had 
 served in the French army with distinction, 
 and held the honorary rank of general. 
 
 " Not long before my mother's death he came 
 back to our lonely home in Borosay, bringing 
 with him a kinsman of another surname, who 
 owned the old castle of Rona on the Isle of 
 the Sea-caves, as Rona is often called by the 
 people of the Hebrides. Also there came with 
 him a young French officer of high rank. After 
 a time I was asked to marry this man. I did 
 not love him, did not even care for him, and 
 I refused. In truth . . . already, though un- 
 knowingly, I loved your father he that was 
 our kinsman and owned Rona and its old castle.
 
 The Unfolding of the Scroll 137 
 
 But Alasdair did not speak; and, because of 
 that, we each came to sorrow. 
 
 " My father told me he was ruined. If I did 
 not marry Tristran de Kerival, he would lose 
 all. Moreover, my dying mother begged me 
 to save the man she had loved so well and 
 truly, though he had left her so much alone. 
 
 "Well, to be brief, I agreed. My kinsman 
 Alasdair was away at the time. He returned 
 on the eve of the very day on which I was 
 suddenly married by Father Somerled Mac- 
 donald. We were to remain a few weeks in 
 Borosay because of my mother's health. 
 
 "When Alasdair learned what had happened 
 he was furious. I believe he even drew a rid- 
 ing whip across the face of Tristran de Keri- 
 val. Fierce words passed between them, and 
 a cruel taunt that rankled. Nor would Alas- 
 dair have any word with me at all. He sent 
 me a bitter message, but the bitterest word 
 he could send was that which came to me: 
 that he and my sister Silis had gone away 
 together. 
 
 "From that day I never saw Silis again, till 
 the time of her death. Soon afterward our
 
 138 Green Fire 
 
 mother died, and while the island-funeral was 
 being arranged our father had a stroke, and 
 himself died, in time to be buried along with 
 his wife. It was only then that I realized 
 how more than true had been his statements 
 as to his ruin. He died penniless. I was 
 reminded of this unpleasant fact at the time, 
 by the Marquis de Kerival; and I have had 
 ample opportunity since for bearing it in 
 vivid remembrance. 
 
 "As soon as possible we settled all that 
 could be settled, and left for Brittany. I 
 have sometimes thought my husband's love 
 was killed when he discovered that Alasdair 
 had loved me. He forbade me even to men- 
 tion his name, unless he introduced it; and 
 he was wont to swear that a day would 
 come when be would repay in full what he 
 believed to be the damning insult he had 
 received. 
 
 "We took with us only one person from 
 Borosay, an islander of Rona. He is, in fact, 
 a clansman both of you and me. It is of Ian 
 I speak, of course; him that soon came to be 
 called here Yann the Dumb. My husband and
 
 The Unfolding of the Scroll 139 
 
 I had at least this to unite us: that we were 
 both Celtic, and had all our racial sympathies 
 in common. 
 
 "I heard from Silis that she was married 
 and was happy. I am afraid this did not add 
 to my happiness. She wrote to me, too, when 
 she was about to bear her child. Strangely 
 enough, Alasdair, who, like his father before 
 him, was an officer in the French army, was 
 then stationed not far from Kerival, though 
 my husband knew nothing of this at first. 
 My own boy and Silis's were born about the 
 same time. My child died; that of Silis and 
 Alasdair lived. You are that child. No . . . 
 wait, Alan. . . I will tell you his name shortly. 
 . . . You, I say, are that child. Soon after- 
 ward, Silis had a dangerous relapse. In her 
 delirium she said some wild things; among 
 them, words to the effect that the child which 
 had died was hers, and that the survivor was 
 mine that, somehow or other, they had been 
 changed. Then, too, she cried out in her 
 waywardness and, poor girl, she must have 
 known then that Alasdair had loved me be- 
 fore he loved her that the child who lived,
 
 140 Green Fire 
 
 he who had been christened Alan, was the 
 child of Alasdair and myself. 
 
 " All this poor delirium at the gate of death 
 meant nothing. But in some way it came to 
 Tristran's ears, and he believed. After Silis's 
 death I had brought you home, Alan, and had 
 announced that I would adopt you. I prom- 
 ised Silis this, in her last hour, when she was 
 in her right mind again; also that the child, 
 you, should be brought up to speak and think 
 in our own ancient language, and that in all 
 ways you should grow up a true Gael. I have 
 done my best, Alan? " 
 
 "Indeed, indeed you have. I shall never, 
 never forget that you have been my mother 
 to me." 
 
 "Well, my husband never forgave that. 
 He acquiesced, but he never forgave. For 
 long, and I fear to this day, he persists in his 
 belief that you are really my illegitimate child, 
 and that Silis was right in thinking that I had 
 succeeded in having my own new-born babe 
 transferred to her arms, while her dead off- 
 spring was brought to me, and, as my own, 
 interred. It has created a bitter feud,
 
 The Unfolding of the Scroll 141 
 
 and that is why he hates the sight of you. 
 That, too, Alan, is why he would never 
 consent to your marriage with either Ynys 
 or Annaik." 
 
 "But you yourself urged me a little ago to 
 . . . to . . . marry Annaik." 
 
 " I had a special reason. Besides, I of 
 course know the truth. In his heart, God 
 knows, my husband cannot doubt it." 
 
 " Then tell me this: is my father dead also, 
 as I have long surmised? "< 
 
 "No . . . yes, yes, Alan, he is dead." 
 
 Alan noticed his aunt's confusion, and re- 
 garded her steadily. 
 
 "Why do you first say 'no' and then 
 'yes'?" 
 
 "Because . . ." 
 
 But here again an interruption occurred. 
 The portiere moved back, and then the wide 
 doors disparted. Into the salon was wheeled 
 a chair, in which sat the Marquis de Keri- 
 val. Behind him was his attendant; at 
 his side, Kermorvan the steward. The face 
 of the seigneur was still deathly pale, and the 
 features were curiously drawn. The silky
 
 142 Green Fire 
 
 hair, too, seemed whiter than ever, and white 
 as foam-drift on a dark wave were the long 
 thin hands which lay on the lap of the black 
 velvet shooting jacket he wore. 
 
 "Ah, Lois, is this a prepared scene?" he 
 exclaimed in a cold and sneering voice, "or, 
 has the young man known all along?" 
 
 "Tristan, I have not yet told him what I 
 now know. Be merciful." 
 
 "Alan MacAlasdair, as the Marquise here 
 calls you, and she ought to know, have 
 you learned yet the name and rank of your 
 father? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Tell him, Lois." 
 
 " Tristran, listen. All is over now. Soon 
 I, too, shall be gone. In the name of God I 
 pray you to relent from this long cruelty, this 
 remorseless infamy. You know as well as I 
 do that our first-born is dead twenty-five 
 years ago, and that this man here is truly the 
 son of Silis, my sister. And here is one over- 
 whelming proof for you: / have just been 
 urging him to marry Annaik." 
 
 At that Tristran the Silent was no longer
 
 The Unfolding of the Scroll 143 
 
 silent. With a fierce laugh he turned to the 
 steward. 
 
 "I call you to witness, Raif Kermorvan, 
 that I would kill Annaik, or Ynys either for 
 that matter, before I would allow such an 
 unnatural union. Once and for all I abso- 
 lutely ban it. Besides . . . Listen, you there 
 with your father's eyes! You are sufficiently 
 a Gael to feel that you would not marry the 
 daughter of a man who killed your father? " 
 
 " God forbid! " 
 
 "Well, then, God does forbid. Lois, tell 
 this man what you know." 
 
 "Alan," began the Marquise quaveringly, 
 her voice fluttering like a dying bird, "the 
 name of your father is ... is ... Alasdair 
 . . . Alasdair Carmichael! " 
 
 "Carmichad!" 
 
 For a moment he was dazed, bewildered. 
 When, recently, had he heard that name? 
 
 Then it flashed upon him. He turned with 
 flaming eyes to where the Marquis sat, quietly 
 watching him. 
 
 " Oh, my God! " That was all. He could 
 say no more. His heart was in his throat.
 
 144 Green Fire 
 
 Then, hoarse and trembling, he put out his 
 hands. 
 
 " Tell me it is not true! Tell me it is not 
 true! " 
 
 " What is not true, Alan Carmichael?" 
 
 "That that was he who died in the wood 
 yonder." 
 
 " That was General Alasdair Carmichael." 
 
 "My father?" 
 
 "Your father!" 
 
 "But, you devil, you murdered him! I 
 saw you do it! You knew it was he and 
 you killed him. You knew he would not try 
 to kill you, and you waited; then, when he 
 had fired, you took careful aim and killed 
 him!" 
 
 " You reiterate, my friend. These are 
 facts with which I am familiar." 
 
 The cool, sneering tone stung Alan to mad- 
 ness. He advanced menacingly. 
 
 " Murderer, you shall not escape! " 
 
 "A fitting sentiment, truly, from a man 
 who wants to marry my daughter! " 
 
 " Marry your daughter! Marry the daugh- 
 ter of my father's murderer! I would sooner
 
 The Unfolding of the Scroll 145 
 
 never see the face of woman again than do 
 this thing." 
 
 "Good! I am well content. And now, 
 young man, you are of age; you have come into 
 your patrimony, including your ruined keep 
 on the island of Rona; and I will trouble 
 you to go to leave Kerival for good and all. " 
 
 Suddenly, without a word, Alan moved 
 rapidly forward. With a light touch he laid 
 his hand for a moment on the brow of the 
 motionless man in the wheeled chair. 
 
 " There! I lay upon you, Tristran de Keri- 
 val, the curse of the newly dead and of the 
 living! May the evil that you have done 
 corrode your brain, and may your life silt 
 away as sand, and may your soul know the 
 second death!" 
 
 As he turned to leave the room he saw 
 Kerbastiou standing in the doorway. 
 
 " Who are you, to be standing there, Judik 
 Kerbastiou?" demanded the steward angrily. 
 
 11 1 am Rohan de Kerival. Ask this man 
 here if I am not his son. Three days ago the 
 woman who was my mother died. She died a 
 vagrant, in the forest. But, nigh upon thirty
 
 146 Green Fire 
 
 years ago, she was legally married to the 
 young Marquis Tristran de Kerival. I am 
 their child." 
 
 Alan glanced at the man he had cursed. A 
 strange look had come into his ashy face. 
 
 "Her name?" was all Tristran the Silent 
 said. 
 
 "Annora Brizeux. " 
 
 " You have proofs? " 
 
 " I have all the proofs." 
 
 "You are only a peasant, I disown you. I 
 know nothing of you or of the wanton that 
 was your mother." 
 
 Without a word Judik strode forward and 
 struck him full in the face. At that moment 
 the miraculous happened. The Marquise, 
 who had not stood erect for years, rose to her 
 full height. 
 
 She, too, crossed the room. 
 
 "Alan," she cried, "see! He has killed 
 me as well as your father," and with that she 
 swayed, and fell dead, at the feet of the man 
 who had trampled her soul in the dust and 
 made of her blossoming life a drear and sterile 
 wilderness.
 
 BOOK SECOND 
 THE HERDSMAN
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 RETROSPECTIVE: FROM THE HEBRID ISLES 
 
 AT the end of the third month after that 
 disastrous day when Alan Carmichael knew 
 that his father had been slain, and before his 
 unknowing eyes, by Tristran de Kerival, a 
 great terror came upon him. 
 
 On that day itself he had left the Manor of 
 Kerival. With all that blood between him 
 and his enemy he could not stay a moment 
 longer in the house. To have done so would 
 have been to show himself callous indeed to 
 the memory of his father. 
 
 Nor could he see Ynys. He could not look 
 at her, innocent as she was. She was her 
 father's child, and her father had murdered 
 his father. Surely a union would be against 
 nature; he must fly while he had the strength. 
 
 When, however, he had gained the yew close
 
 150 Green Fire 
 
 he turned, hesitated, and then slowly walked 
 northward to where the long brown dunes lay 
 in a golden glow over against the pale blue of 
 the sea. There, bewildered, wrought almost 
 to madness, he moved to and fro, unable to 
 realize all that had happened, and with bitter 
 words cursing the malign fate which had over- 
 taken him. 
 
 The afternoon waned, and he was still there, 
 uncertain as ever, still confused, baffled, 
 mentally blind. 
 
 Then suddenly he saw the figure of Yann the 
 Dumb, his friend and clansman, Ian Macdon- 
 ald. The old man seemed to understand at 
 once that, after what had happened, Alan 
 Carmichael would never go back to Kerival. 
 
 "Why do you come to see me here, Ian?" 
 Alan had asked wearily. 
 
 When Ian began, " Thiginn gu d'choimhead 
 ... I would come to see you, though your 
 home were a rock-cave," the familiar sound 
 of the Gaelic did more than any thing else to 
 clear his mind of the shadows which overlay it. 
 
 "Yes, Alan MacAlasdair," Ian answered, in 
 response to an eager question, "whatever I
 
 Retrospective: From the Hebrid Isles 151 
 
 know is yours now, since Lois nic Choinneach 
 is dead, poor lady; though, sure, it is the best 
 thing she could be having now, that death." 
 
 As swiftly as possible Alan elicited all he 
 could from the old man ; all that there had not 
 been time to hear from the Marquise. He 
 learned what a distinguished soldier, what a 
 fine man, what a true Gael, Alasdair Car- 
 michael had been. When his wife had died he 
 had been involved in some disastrous lawsuit, 
 and his deep sorrow and absolute financial ruin 
 came to him at one and the same moment. It 
 was at this juncture, though there were other 
 good reasons also, that Lois de Kerival had 
 undertaken to adopt and bring up Silis's child. 
 When her husband Tristran had given his con- 
 sent, it was with the stipulation that Lois and 
 Alasdair Carmichael should never meet, and 
 that the child was not to learn his surname 
 till he came into the small fortune due to him 
 through his mother. 
 
 This and much else Alan learned from Ian. 
 Out of all the pain grew a feeling of bitter 
 hatred for the cold, hard man who had wrought 
 so much unhappiness, and were it not for Ynys
 
 i5 2 Green Fire 
 
 and Annaik he would, for the moment, have 
 rejoiced that, in Judik Kerbastiou, Nemesis had 
 appeared. At his first mention of the daugh- 
 ters, Ian had looked at him closely. 
 
 "Will you be for going back to that house, 
 Alan MacAlasdair? " he asked, and in a tone 
 so marked that, even in his distress, Alan 
 noticed it. 
 
 " Do you wish me to go back, Ian?" 
 
 "God forbid! I hear the dust on the thresh- 
 old rising at the thought." 
 
 "We are both in an alien land, Ian." 
 
 " Och is diombuan gach cas air fir gun eblas 
 Fleeting is the foot in a strange land," said 
 the islander, using a phrase familiar to Gaels 
 away from the isles. 
 
 "But what can I do?" 
 
 " Sure you can go to your own place, Alan 
 MacAlasdair. There you can think of what 
 you will do. And before you go I must tell 
 you that your father's brother Uilleam is dead, 
 so that you have no near kin now except the 
 son of the brother of your father, Don- 
 nacha Ban as he is called or was called, for I 
 will be hearing a year or more ago that he,
 
 Retrospective: From the Hebrid Isles 153 
 
 too, went under the wave. He would be your 
 own age, and that close as a month or week, I 
 am thinking." 
 
 " Nevertheless, Ian, I cannot go without 
 seeing my cousin Ynys once more." 
 
 " You will never be for marrying the daugh- 
 ter of the man that murdered your father? " 
 Ian spoke in horrified amaze, adding, " Sure, 
 if that were so, it would indeed mean that they 
 may talk as they like of this southland as akin 
 to Gaeldom, though that is not a thought that 
 will bring honey to the hive of my brain; for 
 no man of the isles would ever forget there 
 that the blood of a father cries up to the stars 
 themselves." 
 
 "Have you no message for me, from . . . 
 from . . . her?" 
 
 "Ay," answered the old islesman reluct- 
 antly. "Here it is. I did not give it to you 
 before, for fear you should be weak." 
 
 Without a word, Alan snatched the pencilled 
 note. It had no beginning or signature, and 
 ran simply: " My mother is dead, too. After 
 all that has happened to-day I know we cannot 
 meet. I know, too, that I love you with all
 
 154 Green Fire 
 
 my heart and soul; that I have given you 
 my deathless devotion. But, unless you say 
 'Come,' it is best that you go away at once, 
 and that we never see each other again." 
 
 At that, Alan had torn off the half sheet, 
 and written a single word upon it. 
 
 It was "Come" 
 
 This he gave to Ian, telling him to go 
 straightway with it, and hand the note to 
 Ynys in person. "Also," he added, "fulfil 
 unquestioningly every thing she may tell you 
 to do or not to do." 
 
 An hour or more after Ian had gone, and 
 when a dark, still gloaming had begun, he 
 came again, but this time with Ynys. He and 
 she walked together; behind them came four 
 horses, led by Ian. When the lovers met, 
 they had stood silent for some moments. 
 Then Ynys, knowing what was in Alan's mind, 
 asked if she were come for life or death. 
 
 "I love you, dear," was his answer; "I 
 cannot live without you. If you be in truth 
 the daughter of the man who slew my father, 
 why should his evil blood be our undoing also? 
 God knows but that even thus may his punish-
 
 Retrospective: From the Hebrid Isles 155 
 
 ment be begun. All his thoughts were upon 
 you and Annaik." 
 
 "Annaik is gone." 
 
 "Gone! Annaik gone! Where has she 
 gone?" 
 
 " I know nothing. She sent me a line to 
 say that she would never sleep in Kerival 
 again; that something had changed her whole 
 life; that she would return three days hence 
 for our mother's funeral; and that thereafter 
 she and I would never meet." 
 
 In a flash Alan saw many things; but 
 deepest of all he saw the working of doom. 
 On the very day of his triumph Tristran de 
 Kerival had lost all, and found only that 
 which made life more bitter than death. 
 Stammeringly now, Alan sought to say some- 
 thing about Annaik ; that there was a secret, an 
 unhappiness, a sorrow, which he must explain. 
 
 But at that Ynys had pointed to the dim 
 gray-brown sea. 
 
 " There, Alan, let us bury it all there ; every 
 thing, every thing! Either you and I must 
 find our forgetfulness there, or we must 
 drown therein all this terrible past which has
 
 156 Green Fire 
 
 an inexplicable, a menacing present. Dear, I 
 am ready. Shall it be life or death? " 
 
 "Life." 
 
 That was all that was said. Alan leaned 
 forward, and tenderly kissing her, took her in 
 his arms. Then he turned to Ian. 
 
 "Ian mac Iain, I call you to witness that I 
 take Ynys de Kerival as my wife; that in this 
 taking all the blood-feud that lies betwixt us 
 is become as nought; and that the past is 
 past. Henceforth I am Alan Carmichael, and 
 she here is Ynys CarmichaeL " 
 
 At that, Ian had bowed his head. It was 
 against the tradition of his people; but he 
 loved Ynys as well as Alan, and secretly he 
 was glad. 
 
 Thereafter, Alan and Ynys had mounted, 
 and ridden slowly southward through the 
 dusk; while Ian followed on the third horse, 
 with, in rein, its companion, on which were 
 the apparel and other belongings which Ynys 
 had hurriedly put together. 
 
 They were unmolested in their flight. 
 Indeed, they met no one, till, at the end of
 
 Retrospective: From the Hebrid Isles 157 
 
 the Forest of Kerival, they emerged near 
 the junction with the high-road at a place 
 called Trois Chenes. Then a woman, a 
 gypsy vagrant, insisted disaster would ensue 
 if they went over her tracks that night with- 
 out first doing something to avert evil. They 
 must cross her hand with silver, she said. 
 
 Impatient as he was, Alan stopped, and 
 allowed the gypsy to have her will. 
 
 She looked at the hand Ynys held out 
 through the obscurity, and almost immedi- 
 ately dropped it. 
 
 ' ' Beware of crossing the sea, " she said. ' ' I 
 see your death floating on a green wave." 
 
 Ynys shuddered, but said nothing. When 
 Alan put out his hand the woman held it in 
 hers for a few seconds, and then pondered it 
 intently. 
 
 "Be quick, my good woman," he urged, 
 "we are in a hurry." 
 
 "It will be behind the shadow when we 
 meet again," was all her reply: enigmatical 
 words, which yet in his ears had a sombre 
 significance. But he was even more 
 perturbed by the fact that, before she relin-
 
 158 Green Fire 
 
 quished his hand, she stooped abruptly and 
 kissed it. 
 
 As the fugitives rode onward along the dusky 
 high-road, Alan whispered to Ynys that he could 
 not forget the gypsy; that in some strange 
 way she haunted him; and even seemed to 
 him to be linked to that disastrous day. 
 
 "That may well be," Ynys had answered, 
 "for the woman was Annaik." 
 
 Onward they rode till they came to Haut- 
 Kerloek, the ancient village on the slope of 
 the hill above the little town. There, at the 
 Gloire de Kerival they stopped for the night. 
 Next morning they resumed their journey, 
 and the same afternoon reached St. Blaise- 
 sur-Loise, where they knew they would find 
 the body of General Alasdair Carmichael. 
 
 And it was thus that, by the strange irony of 
 fate, Alasdair Carmichael, who had never seen 
 his son, who in turn had unknowingly wit- 
 nessed his father's tragic death, was followed 
 to the grave-side by that dear child for whom 
 he had so often longed, and that by Alan's 
 side was the daughter of the man who had
 
 Retrospective: From the Hebrid Isles 159 
 
 done so much to ruin his life and had at the 
 last slain him. At the same hour, on the 
 same day, Lois de Kerival was laid to her 
 rest, with none of her kith and kin to lament 
 her; for Tristran the Silent was alone in his 
 austere grief. Two others were there, at 
 whom the Cure looked askance: the rude 
 woodlander, Judik Kerbastiou, and another 
 forest estray, a gypsy woman with a shawl 
 over her head. The latter must have known 
 the Marquise's charity, for the good woman 
 wept quietly throughout the service of com- 
 mittal, and, when she turned to go, the Cure 
 heard a sob in her throat. 
 
 It took but a brief while for Alan to settle 
 his father's few affairs. Among the papers 
 he found one addressed to himself: a long 
 letter wherein was set forth not only all 
 necessary details concerning Alan's mother 
 and father, but also particulars about the 
 small fortune that was in keeping for him in 
 Edinburgh, and the lonely house on the lonely 
 Isle of Rona among the lonely Hebrides. 
 
 In St. Blaise Alan and Ynys went before 
 the civil authorities, and were registered as
 
 160 Green Fire 
 
 man and wife. The next day they resumed 
 their journey toward that exile which they 
 had in view. 
 
 Thereafter, slowly, and by devious ways, 
 they fared far north. At Edinburgh Alan had 
 learned all that was still unexplained. He 
 found that there would be enough money to 
 enable Ynys and himself to live quietly, par- 
 ticularly at so remote a place as Rona. The 
 castle or "keep" there was unoccupied, and 
 had, indeed, long been untenanted save by the 
 widow-woman Kirsten Macdonald, lan's sister. 
 In return for this home, she had kept the 
 solitary place in order. All the furniture that 
 had been there, when Alasdair Carmichael 
 was last in Rona, remained. In going 
 thither, Alan and Ynys would be going home. 
 
 The westward journey was a revelation 
 to them. Never had there been so beauti- 
 ful a May, they were told. They had 
 lingered long at the first place where 
 they heard the sweet familiar sound of 
 the Gaelic. Hand in hand, they wandered 
 over the hill-sides of which the very 
 names had a poignant home-sweetness;
 
 Retrospective: From the Hebrid Isles 161 
 
 and long, hot hours they spent together on 
 lochs of which Lois de Kerival had often 
 spoken with deep longing in her voice. 
 
 As they neared the extreme of the main- 
 land, Alan's excitement deepened. He spoke 
 hardly a word on the day the steamer left the 
 Argyle coast behind, and headed for the dim 
 isles of the sea, Coll and Tiree; and again on 
 the following day Ynys saw how distraught 
 he was, for, about noon, the coast-line of 
 Uist loomed, faintly blue, upon the dark 
 Atlantic horizon. 
 
 At Loch Boisdale, where they disembarked, 
 and whence they had to sail the remainder of 
 their journey in a fishing schooner, which by 
 good fortune was then there and disengaged, 
 Ian was for the first time recognized. All 
 that evening Alan and Ynys talked with the 
 islesmen; Alan finding, to his delight, his 
 Gaelic was so good that none for a moment 
 suspected he had not lived in the isles all his 
 life. That of Ynys, however, though fluent, 
 had a foreign sound in it which puzzled the 
 admiring fishermen. 
 
 It was an hour after sunrise when the Blue 
 ii
 
 1 62 Green Fire 
 
 Herring sailed out of Loch Boisdale, and it 
 was an hour before sunset when the anchor 
 dropped in Borosay Haven. 
 
 On this night Alan perceived the first sign 
 of aloofness among his fellow Gaels. Hitherto 
 every one had been cordial, and he and Ynys 
 had rejoiced in the courtesy and genial friend- 
 liness which they had everywhere encountered. 
 
 But in Balnaree ("Baille'-na-Righ"), the little 
 village wherein was focussed all that Borosay 
 had to boast of in the way of civic life, he 
 could not disguise from himself that again and 
 again he was looked at askance. 
 
 Rightly or wrongly he took this to be re- 
 sentment because of his having wed Ynys, the 
 daughter of the man who had murdered Alas- 
 dair Carmichael. So possessed was he by this 
 idea that he did not remember how little likely 
 the islanders were to know aught concern- 
 ing Ynys, or indeed any thing beyond the fact 
 that Alasdair MacAlasdair Rhona had died 
 abroad. 
 
 The trouble became more than an imaginary 
 one when, on the morrow, he tried to find a 
 boat for the passage to Rona. But for the
 
 Retrospective: From the Hebrid Isles 163 
 
 Frozen Hand, as the triple-peaked hill to the 
 south of Balnaree was called, Rona would 
 have been visible; nor was it, with a fair wind, 
 more than an hour's sail distant. 
 
 Nevertheless, every one to whom he spoke 
 showed a strange reluctance. At last, in de- 
 spair, he asked an old man of his own surname 
 why there was so much difficulty. 
 
 In the island way, Sheumas Carmichael re- 
 plied that the people on Elleray, the island 
 adjacent to Rona, were incensed. 
 
 "But incensed at what?" 
 
 "Well, at this and at that. But for one 
 thing they are not having any dealings with 
 the Carmichaels. They are all Macdonalds, 
 there, Macdonalds of Barra. There is a feud, 
 I am thinking; though I know nothing of it; 
 no, not I." 
 
 " But Seumas mac Eachainn, you know well 
 yourself that there are almost no Carmichaels 
 to have a feud with ! There are you and your 
 brother, and there is your cousin over at 
 Sgbrr-Bhan on the other side of Borosay. 
 Who else is there? " 
 
 To this the man could say nothing. Dis-
 
 164 Green Fire 
 
 tressed, Alan sought Ian and bade him find 
 out what he could. He, also, however, was 
 puzzled and even seriously perturbed. That 
 some evil was at work could not be doubted ; 
 and that it was secret boded ill. 
 
 Ian was practically a stranger in Borosay 
 because of his long absence. But though this, 
 for a time, shut him off from his fellow island- 
 ers, and retarded his discovery of what 
 strange reason accounted for the apparently 
 inexplicable apathy shown by the fishermen of 
 Balnaree, an apathy, too, so much to their 
 own disadvantage, it enabled him, on the 
 other hand, to make a strong appeal to the 
 clan-side of the islanders' natures. After all, 
 Ian mac Iain mhic Dhonuill was one of them, 
 and though he came there with a man in a 
 shadow (though this phrase was not used in 
 lan's hearing), that was not his fault. 
 
 Suddenly Ian remembered a fact that he 
 should have thought of at once. There was 
 the old woman, his sister Kirsten. He would 
 speak of her, and of their long separation, 
 and of his desire to see her again before he 
 died.
 
 Retrospective: From the Hebrid Isles 165 
 
 This made a difficult thing easy. Within an 
 hour a boat was ready to take the travellers 
 to the Isle of the Caves as Rona was called 
 locally. Before the hour was gone, they, with 
 the stores of food and other things they had 
 been advised to take with them, were slipping 
 seaward out of Borosay Haven. 
 
 The moment the headland was rounded the 
 heights of Rona came into view. Great gaunt 
 cliffs they are, precipices of black basalt; 
 though on the south side they fall away in 
 grassy declivities which hang a greenness over 
 the wandering wave forever sobbing round 
 that desolate shore. But it was not till the 
 Sg6rr-Dhu, a conical black rock at the south- 
 east end of the island, was reached that the 
 stone keep, known as Caisteal-Rhona, came in 
 sight. 
 
 It stands at the landward extreme of a 
 rocky ledge, on the margin of a green airidh. 
 Westward is a small dark-blue sea loch, no 
 more than a narrow haven. To the north- 
 west rise sheer the ocean-fronting precipitous 
 cliffs; northward, above the green pasture 
 and a stretch of heather, is a woodland-belt of
 
 166 Green Fire 
 
 some three or four hundred pine-trees. It 
 might well be called I-monair, as Aodh the 
 Islander sang of it; for it is ever echoing with 
 murmurous noises. If the waves dash against 
 it from the south or east, a loud crying is 
 upon the faces of the rocks; if from the north 
 or north-east, there is a dull iteration, and 
 amid the pines a continual soughing sea voice. 
 But when the wind blows from the south-west, 
 or the huge Atlantic billows surge out of the 
 west, Rona is a place filled with an indescrib- 
 able tumult. Through the whole island goes 
 the myriad echo of a hollow booming, with an 
 incessant sound as though waters were pouring 
 through vast hidden conduits in the heart of 
 every precipice, every rock, every bowlder. 
 This is because of the arcades of which it 
 consists, for from the westward the island has 
 been honeycombed by the sea. No living man 
 has ever traversed all those mysterious, wind- 
 ing sea galleries. Many have perished in the 
 attempt. In the olden days the Uisteans and 
 Barrovians sought refuge there from the ma- 
 rauding Danes and other pirates out of Lochlin ; 
 and in the time when the last Scottish king
 
 Retrospective: From the Hebrid Isles 167 
 
 took shelter in the west many of his island 
 followers found safety among these perilous 
 arcades. 
 
 Some of them reach to an immense height. 
 These are filled with a pale green gloom which 
 in fine weather, and at noon or toward sun- 
 down, becomes almost radiant. But most 
 have only a dusky green obscurity, and some 
 are at all times dark with a darkness that has 
 seen neither sun nor moon nor star for un- 
 known ages. Sometimes, there, a phosphores- 
 cent wave will spill a livid or a cold blue flame, 
 and for a moment a vast gulf of dripping 
 basalt be revealed; but day and night, night 
 and day, from year to year, from age to age, 
 that awful wave-clamant darkness prevails 
 unbroken. 
 
 To the few who know some of the secrets of 
 the Passages, it is possible, except when a gale 
 blows from any quarter but the north, to thrid 
 these dim arcades in a narrow boat, and so to 
 pass from the Hebrid Seas to the outer At- 
 lantic. But to one unaware of the clews there 
 might well be no return to the light of the 
 open day; for in that maze of winding galleries
 
 1 68 Green Fire 
 
 and dim, sea-washed, and forever unlitten 
 arcades, there is only a hopeless bewilder- 
 ment. Once bewildered, there is no hope; 
 and the lost adventurer will remain there idly 
 drifting from barren corridor to corridor, till 
 he perish of hunger and thirst, or, maddened 
 by the strange and appalling gloom and the 
 unbroken silence, for there the muffled voice 
 of the sea is no more than a whisper, he leap 
 into the green waters which forever slide 
 stealthily from ledge to ledge. 
 
 From Ian mac Iain Alan had heard of such 
 an isle, though he had not known it to be 
 Rona. Now, as he approached his wild, re- 
 mote home he thought of these death-haunted 
 corridors, avenues of the grave as they are 
 called in the " Cumha Fhir-Mearanach Aon- 
 ghas mhic Dhonuill the Lament of mad 
 Angus Macdonald." 
 
 When, at last, the unwieldy brown coble 
 sailed into the little haven it was to create 
 unwonted excitement among the few fisher- 
 men who put in there frequently for bait. A 
 group of eight or ten was upon the rocky 
 ledge beyond Caisteal-Rhona, among them the
 
 Retrospective: From the Hebrid Isles 169 
 
 elderly woman who was sister to Ian mac 
 Iain. 
 
 At Alan's request, Ian went ashore in ad- 
 vance, in a small punt. He was to wave his 
 hand if all were well, for Alan could not but 
 feel apprehensive on account of the strange 
 ill-will that had shown itself at Borosay. 
 
 It was with relief that he saw the signal 
 when, after Ian had embraced his sister, and 
 shaken hands with all the fishermen, he had 
 explained that the son of Alasdair Carmichael 
 was come out of the south, and with a beau- 
 tiful young wife, too, and was henceforth to 
 live at Caisteal-Rhona. 
 
 All there uncovered and waved their hats. 
 Then a shout of welcome went up, and Alan's 
 heart was glad, and that of Ynys. But the 
 moment he had set foot on land he saw a 
 startled look come into the eyes of the fisher- 
 men a look that deepened swiftly into one of 
 aversion, almost of fear. 
 
 One by one the men moved away, awk- 
 ward in their embarrassment. Not one came 
 forward with outstretched hand, nor said a 
 word of welcome.
 
 170 Green Fire 
 
 At first amazed, then indignant, Ian re- 
 proached them. They received his words in 
 ashamed silence. Even when with a bitter 
 tongue he taunted them, they answered nothing. 
 
 "Giorsal," said Ian, turning in despair to 
 his sister, "what is the meaning of this folly? " 
 
 But even she was no longer the same. Her 
 eyes were fixed upon Alan with a look of 
 dread and indeed of horror. It was unmis- 
 takable, and Alan himself was conscious of it, 
 with a strange sinking of the heart. "Speak, 
 woman!" he demanded. "What is the mean- 
 ing of this thing? Why do you and these 
 men look at me askance?" 
 
 " God forbid ! " answered Giorsal Mac- 
 donald with white lips; "God forbid that 
 we look at the son of Alasdair Carmichael 
 askance. But . . ." 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 With that the woman put her apron over 
 her head and moved away, muttering strange 
 words. 
 
 " Ian, what is this mystery? " 
 
 It was Ynys who spoke now, for on Alan's 
 face was a shadow, and in his eyes a deep
 
 Retrospective: From the Hebrid Isles 171 
 
 gloom. She, too, was white, and had fear in 
 her eyes. 
 
 "How am I for knowing, Ynys-nighean- 
 Lhois? It is all a darkness to me also. But 
 I will find out." 
 
 That, however, was easier for Ian to say than 
 to do. Meanwhile, the brown cobble tacked 
 back to Borosay, and the fishermen sailed away 
 to the Barra coasts, and Alan and Ynys were 
 left solitary in their wild and remote home. 
 
 But in that very solitude they found healing. 
 From what Giorsal hinted, they came to be- 
 lieve that the fishermen had experienced one 
 of those strange dream-waves which, in 
 remote isles, occur at times, when whole 
 communities will be wrought by the self- 
 same fantasy. When day by day went past, 
 and no one came nigh them, at first they 
 were puzzled and even resentful, but this 
 passed and soon they were glad to be alone. 
 Only, Ian knew that there was another cause 
 for the inexplicable aversion that had been 
 shown. But he was silent, and he kept a 
 patient watch for the hour that the future 
 held in its dim shroud. As for Giorsal, she
 
 172 Green Fire 
 
 was dumb; but no more looked at Alan 
 askance. 
 
 And so the weeks went. Occasionally, a 
 fishing smack came with the provisions for 
 the weekly despatch of which Alan had 
 arranged at Loch Boisdale, and sometimes 
 the Barra men put in at the haven, though 
 they would never stay long, and always 
 avoided Alan as much as was possible. 
 
 In that time Alan and Ynys came to know 
 and love their strangely beautiful island home. 
 Hours and hours at a time they spent explor- 
 ing the dim, green winding sea galleries, till at 
 last they knew the main corridors thoroughly. 
 They had even ventured into some of the 
 narrow snake-like passages, but never for 
 long, because of the awe and dread these held, 
 silent estuaries of the grave. 
 
 There, too, they forgot all the sorrow that 
 had been theirs, forgot the shadow of death 
 which lay between them. They buried all in 
 the deep sea of love that was about the rock 
 of their passion. For, as of another Alan and 
 another woman, the mirdhei was upon them: 
 the dream-spell of love.
 
 Retrospective: From the Hebrid Isles 173 
 
 Day by day, with them as with that Alan 
 and Sorcha of whom they had often heard, 
 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 of another kind now and again in the 
 world, in the green, remote places at least. 
 Aodh the islander, and Ian-Ban of the hills, 
 and other dreamer-poets know of it the 
 mirdhei, the passion that is deeper than pas- 
 sion, the dream that is beyond the dream. 
 This that was once the fair doom of another 
 Alan and Sorcha, of whom Ian had often told 
 him with hushed voice and dreaming eyes, 
 was now upon himself and Ynys.
 
 174 Green Fire 
 
 They were Love to each other. In each 
 the other saw the beauty of the world. Hand 
 in hand they wandered among the wind- 
 haunted pines, or along the thyme and grass 
 of the summits of the precipices; or they 
 sailed for hours upon the summer seas, blue 
 lawns of moving azure, glorious with the sun- 
 dazzle and lovely with purple cloud-shadows 
 and amethystine straits of floating weed; or, 
 by noontide, or at the full of the moon, they 
 penetrated far into the dim, green arcades, 
 and were as shadows in a strange and fantas- 
 tic but ineffably sweet and beautiful dream. 
 
 Day was lovely and desirable to each, for 
 day dreamed to night; and night was sweet as 
 life because it held the new day against its 
 dark, beating heart. Week after week passed, 
 and to Ynys as to Alan it was as the going of 
 the gray owl's wing, swift and silent. 
 
 Then it was that, on a day of the days, 
 Alan was suddenly stricken with a new and 
 startling dread.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 AT THE EDGE OF THE SHADOW 
 
 IN the hour that this terror came upon him 
 Alan was alone upon the high slopes of Rona, 
 where the grass fails and the moor purples at 
 an elevation of close on a thousand feet above 
 the sea. 
 
 The day had been cloudless since sunrise. 
 The immeasurable range of ocean expanded 
 like the single petal of an azure flower; all 
 of one unbroken blue save for the shadows 
 of the scattered isles and for the fugitive 
 amethyst where floating weed suspended. 
 An immense number of birds congregated 
 from every quarter. Guillemots and skuas 
 and puffins, cormorants and northern divers, 
 everywhere darted, swam, or slept upon the 
 listless sea, whose deep suspiration no more 
 than lifted a league-long calm here and 
 there, to lapse insensibly, even as it rose
 
 176 Green Fire 
 
 Through the not less silent quietudes of air 
 the sea-gulls swept with curving flight, and 
 the narrow-winged terns made a constant 
 shimmer. At remote altitudes the gannet 
 motionlessly drifted. Oceanward the great 
 widths of calm were rent now and again by 
 the shoulders of the porpoises which followed 
 the herring trail, their huge, black revolving 
 bodies looming large above the silent wave. 
 Not a boat was visible anywhere; not even 
 upon the most distant horizons did a brown 
 sail fleck itself duskily against the skyward 
 wall of steely blue. 
 
 In the great stillness which prevailed, the 
 noise of the surf beating around the promon- 
 tory of Aonaig was audible ars a whisper; 
 though even in that windless hour the inde- 
 scribable rumor of the sea, moving through 
 the arcades of the island, filled the hollow of 
 the air overhead. Ever since the early morn- 
 ing Alan had moved under a strange gloom. 
 Out of that golden glory of midsummer a 
 breath of joyous life should have reached his 
 heart, but it was not so. For sure, there is 
 sometimes in the quiet beauty of summer an
 
 At the Edge of the Shadow 177 
 
 air of menace, a breath, a suspicion, a dream- 
 premonition, of suspended force a force 
 antagonistic and terrible. All who have 
 lived in these lonely isles know the peculiar 
 intensity of this summer melancholy. No 
 clamor of tempestuous wind, no prolonged 
 sojourn of untimely rains, and no long baffling 
 of mists in all the drear inclemencies of that 
 remote region, can produce the same ominous 
 and even paralyzing gloom which sometimes 
 can be born of ineffable peace and beauty. 
 Is it that in the human soul there is mysteri- 
 ous kinship with the outer soul which we call 
 Nature; and that in these few supreme hours 
 which come at the full of the year we are, some- 
 times, suddenly aware of the tremendous forces 
 beneath and behind us, momently quiescent? 
 
 Standing with Ynys upon a grassy head- 
 land, Alan had looked long at the dream-blue 
 perspectives to the southward, seeing there at 
 first no more than innumerable hidden path- 
 ways of the sun, with blue-green and silver 
 radiance immeasurable, and the very breath 
 and wonder and mystery of ocean life sus- 
 pended as in a dream. In the hearts of each 
 
 12
 
 178 Green Fire 
 
 deep happiness brooded. Perhaps it was out 
 of these depths that rose the dark flower 
 of this sudden apprehension that came upon 
 him. It was no fear for Ynys, nor for him- 
 self, not for the general weal: but a pro- 
 found disquietude, a sense of inevitable ill. 
 Ynys felt the tightening of his hand; and 
 saw the sudden change in his face. It was 
 often so with him. The sun-dazzle, at which 
 he would look with endless delight, finding in 
 it a tangible embodiment of the fugitive 
 rhythms of cosmic music which floated every- 
 where, would sometimes be a dazzle also in 
 his brain. In a moment a strange bewilder- 
 ment would render unstable those perilous 
 sands of the human brain which are forever 
 laved by the strange waters of the unseen 
 life. When this mood or fantasy, or uncalcul- 
 able accident occurred, he was often wrought 
 either by vivid dreams, or creative work, or 
 else would lapse into a melancholy from which 
 not even the calling love of Ynys would 
 arouse him. When she saw in his face and 
 in his eyes this sudden bewildered look, and 
 knew that in some mysterious way the madness
 
 At the Edge of the Shadow 179 
 
 of the beauty of the sea had enthralled him, she 
 took his hand and moved with him inland. In 
 a brief while the poignant fragrance from the 
 trodden thyme and short hill-grass, warmed 
 by the sun, rose as an intoxication. For that 
 hour the gloom went. But when, later, he 
 wandered away from Caisteal-Rhona, once 
 more the sense of foreboding was heavy upon 
 him. Determined to shake it off, he wandered 
 high among the upland solitudes. There a 
 cool air forever moved even in the noons of 
 August; and there, indeed, at last, there 
 came upon him a deep peace. With joy his 
 mind dwelled over and over again upon all 
 that Ynys had been and was to him; upon the 
 depth and passion of their love ; upon the 
 mystery and wonder of that coming life which 
 was theirs and yet was not of them, itself 
 already no more than an unrisen wave or an 
 unbloomed flower, but yet as inevitable as 
 they, but dowered with the light which is 
 beyond where the mortal shadows end. 
 Strange, this passion of love for what is not; 
 strange, this deep longing of the woman the 
 longing of the womb, the longing of the
 
 i8o Green Fire 
 
 heart, the longing of the brain, the longing 
 of the soul for the perpetuation of the life 
 she shares in common with one whom she 
 loves; strange, this longing of the man, a 
 longing deep-based in his nature as the love 
 of life or the fear of death, for the gaining 
 from the woman he loves this personal host- 
 age against oblivion. For indeed something 
 of this so commonplace, and yet so divine 
 and mysterious tide of birth, which is for- 
 ever at the flow upon this green world, is 
 due to an instinctive fear of cessation. The 
 perpetuation of life is the unconscious protest 
 of humanity against the destiny of mortality. 
 Thoughts such as these were often with Alan 
 now; often, too, with Ynys, in whom, indeed, 
 all the latent mysticism which had ever been 
 a bond between them had latterly been con- 
 tinually evoked. Possibly it was the mere 
 shadow of his great love; possibly it was 
 some fear of the dark way wherein the sun- 
 rise of each new birth is involved; possibly it 
 was no more than the melancholy of the isles, 
 that so wrought him on this perfect day. 
 Whatsoever the reason, a deeper despondency
 
 At the Edge of the Shadow 181 
 
 prevailed as noon waned into afternoon. An 
 incident, deeply significant to him, in that 
 mood, at that time, happened then. A few 
 hundred yards away from where he stood, 
 half hidden in a little glen where a fall of 
 water made a continual spray among the 
 shadows of the rowan and birch, was the 
 bothie of a woman, the wife of Neil MacNeill, 
 a fisherman of Aonaig. She was there, he 
 knew, for the summer pasturing, and even as 
 he recollected this, he heard the sound of her 
 voice as she sang down somewhere by the 
 burnside. Moving slowly toward the corrie, 
 he stopped at a mountain ash which overhung 
 a deep pool. Looking down, he saw the 
 woman, Morag MacNeill, washing and peeling 
 potatoes in the clear brown water. And as 
 she washed and peeled, she sang an old-time 
 shealing hymn of the Virgin-Shepherdess, of 
 Michael the White, and of Coluaman the 
 Dove. It was a song that, far away in Brit- 
 tany, he had heard Lois, the mother of Ynys, 
 sing in one of those rare hours when her 
 youth came back to her with something of 
 youth's passionate intensity. He listened
 
 1 82 Green Fire 
 
 now to every word of the doubly familiar 
 Gaelic, and when Morag finished the tears 
 were in his eyes, and he stood for a while as 
 one entranced.* 
 
 "A Mhicheil mhin! nan steud geala, 
 A choisin cios air Dragon fala, 
 Air ghaol Dia' us Mhic Muire, 
 Sgaoil do sgiath oirnn dian sinn uile, 
 Sgaoil do sgiath oirnn dian sinn uile. 
 
 " A Mhoire ghradhach! Mathair Uain-ghil, 
 Cohhair oirnne, Oigh na h-uaisle; 
 A rioghainn uai'reach! a bhuachaille nan treud! 
 Cum ar cuallach cuartaich sinn le cheil, 
 Cum ar cuallach cuartaich sinn le cheil. 
 
 " A Chalum-Chille! chairdeil, chaoimh, 
 An ainm Athar, Mic, 'us Spioraid Naoimh, 
 Trid na Trithinn! trid na Triath! 
 Comraig sinne, gleidh ar trial, 
 Comraig sinne, gleidh ar trial. 
 
 " Athair! A Mhic! A Spioraid Naoimh! 
 Bi'eadh an Tri-Aon leinn, a la 's a dh-oidhche! 
 'S air chul nan tonn, no air thaobh nam beann, 
 Bi'dh ar Mathair leinn, 's bith A lamh fo'r ceann, 
 Bi'dh ar Mathair leinn, 's bith A lamh fo'r ceann." 
 
 * This hymn is taken down in the Gaelic and translated 
 by Mr. Alexander Carmichael of South Uist.
 
 At the Edge of the Shadow 183 
 
 [Thou gentle Michael of the white steed, 
 Who subdued the Dragon of blood, 
 For love of God and the Son of Mary, 
 Spread over us thy wing, shield us all! 
 Spread over us thy wing, shield us all! 
 
 Mary Beloved! Mother of the White Lamb, 
 Protect us, thou Virgin of nobleness, 
 Queen of beauty! Shepherdess of the flocks! 
 Keep our cattle, surround us together, 
 Keep our cattle, surround us together. 
 
 Thou Columba, the friendly, the kind, 
 
 In name of the Father, the Son, and the Spirit Holy, 
 
 Through the Three-in-One, through the Three, 
 
 Encompass us, guard our procession, 
 
 Encompass us, guard our procession. 
 
 Thou Father! thou Son ! thou Spirit Holy! 
 
 Be the Three-One with us day and night. 
 
 And on the crested wave, or on the mountain side, 
 
 Our Mother is there, and her arm is under our head, 
 
 Our Mother is there, and her arm is under our head.] 
 
 After she had ceased Alan found himself 
 repeating whisperingly, and again and again : 
 
 " Bi'eadh an Tri-Aon leinn, a la 's a dh-oidhche! 
 'S air chul nan tonn, no air thaobh nam beann."
 
 1 84 Green Fire 
 
 Suddenly the woman glanced upward, per- 
 haps because of the shadow that moved 
 against the green bracken below. With a 
 startled gesture she sprang to her feet. 
 Alan looked at her kindly, saying with a 
 smile, "Sure, Morag nic Tormaid, it is not 
 fear you need be having of one who is your 
 friend." Then, seeing that the woman stared 
 at him with an intent gaze, wherein was 
 terror as well as surprise, he spoke to her 
 again. 
 
 "Sure, Morag, I am no stranger that you 
 should be looking at me with those foreign 
 eyes." He laughed as he spoke, and made 
 as though he were about to descend to 
 the burnside. Unmistakably, however, the 
 woman did not desire his company. He 
 saw that with the pain and bewilderment 
 which had come upon him whenever the 
 like happened, as so often it had happened 
 since he had come to Rona. 
 
 " Tell me, Bean Neil MacNeill, what is the 
 meaning of this strangeness that is upon you? 
 Why do you not speak? Why do you turn 
 away your head? "
 
 At the Edge of the Shadow 185 
 
 Suddenly the woman flashed her black eyes 
 upon him. 
 
 " Have you ever heard of am Buchaille 
 Ban am Buchaille Buidhe? " 
 
 He looked at her in amaze. Am Buchaille 
 Ban! . . . The fair-haired Herdsman, the 
 yellow-haired Herdsman! What could she 
 mean? In days gone by, he knew, the 
 islanders had, in the evil time after Cul- 
 loden, so named the fugitive Prince who 
 had sought shelter in the Hebrides; and 
 in some of the runes of an older day still the 
 Saviour of the World was sometimes so 
 called, just as Mary was called Bhuachaille 
 nan treud Shepherdess of the Flocks. But 
 as Alan knew well, no allusion to either of 
 these was intended. 
 
 " Who is the Herdsman of whom you speak, 
 Morag? " 
 
 "Is it no knowledge you have of him at 
 all, Alan MacAlasdair? " 
 
 " None. I know nothing of the man, 
 nothing of what is in your mind. Who is 
 the Herdsman? " 
 
 "You will not be putting evil upon me be-
 
 1 86 Green Fire 
 
 cause that you saw me here by the pool before 
 I saw you? " 
 
 "Why should I, woman? Why do you 
 think that I have the power of the evil eye? 
 Sure, I have done no harm to you or yours, 
 and wish none. But if it is for peace to you 
 to know it, it is no evil I wish you, but only 
 good. The Blessing of Himself be upon you 
 and yours and upon your house." 
 
 The woman looked relieved, but still cast 
 her furtive gaze upon Alan, who no longer 
 attempted to join her. 
 
 " I cannot be speaking the thing that is in 
 my mind, Alan MacAlasdair. It is not for 
 me to be saying that thing. But if you have 
 no knowledge of the Herdsman, sure it is 
 only another wonder of the wonders, and God 
 has the sun on that shadow, to the Stones be 
 it said." 
 
 "But tell me, Morag, who is the Herds- 
 man of whom you speak? " 
 
 For a minute or more the woman stood 
 regarding him intently. Then slowly, and 
 as with difficulty, she spoke: 
 
 "Why have you appeared to the people
 
 At the Edge of the Shadow 187 
 
 upon the isle, sometimes by moonlight, some- 
 times by day or in the dusk? and have fore- 
 told upon one and all who dwell here black 
 gloom and the red flame of sorrow? Why 
 have you, who are an outcast because of 
 what lies between you and another, pretended 
 to be an emissary of the Son ay, for sure, 
 even, God forgive you, to be the Son him- 
 self?" 
 
 Alan stared at the woman in blank amaze. 
 For a time he could utter no word. Had 
 some extraordinary delusion spread among 
 the islanders, and was there in the insane accu- 
 sation of this woman the secret of that inex- 
 plicable aversion which had so troubled him? 
 
 "This is all an empty darkness to me, 
 Morag. Speak more plainly, woman. What 
 is all this madness that you say? When have 
 I uttered aught of having any mission, or of 
 being other than I am? When have I foretold 
 evil upon you or yours, or upon the isles 
 beyond? What man has ever dared to say 
 that Alan MacAlasdair of Rona is an outcast? 
 and what sin is it that lies between me and 
 another of which you know? "
 
 1 88 Green Fire 
 
 It was impossible for Morag MacNeill to 
 doubt the sincerity of the man who spoke to her. 
 She crossed herself, and muttered the words of 
 a sian for the protection of the soul against the 
 demon powers. Still, even while she believed 
 in Alan's sincerity, she could not reconcile it 
 with that terrible and strange mystery with 
 which rumor had filled her ears. So, having 
 nothing to say in reply to his eager questions, 
 she cast down her eyes and kept silence. 
 
 "Speak, Morag, for Heaven's sake! Speak 
 if you are a true woman; you that see a man 
 in sore pain, in pain, too, for that of which he 
 knows nothing, and of the ill of which he is 
 guiltless! " 
 
 But, keeping her face averted, the woman 
 muttered simply: "I have no more to say." 
 With that she turned and moved slowly along 
 the pathway which led from the pool to her 
 hillside bothie. 
 
 With a sigh, Alan turned and moved across 
 the moor. What wonder, he thought, that 
 deep gloom had been upon him that day? 
 Here, in the woman's mysterious words, was 
 the shadow of that shadow.
 
 At the Edge of the Shadow 189 
 
 Slowly, brooding deep over what he had 
 heard, he traversed the Mona-nan-Con, as 
 the hill-tract there was called, till he came 
 to the rocky wilderness known as the Slope 
 of the Caverns. 
 
 There for a time he leaned against a high 
 bowlder, idly watching a few sheep nibbling 
 the short grass which grew about the aper- 
 tures of some of the many caves which dis- 
 closed themselves in all directions. Below 
 and beyond, he saw the illimitable calm 
 beauty of the scene; southward with no break 
 anywhere; eastward, a sun-blaze void; south- 
 westward, the faint, blue film of the coast of 
 Ulster; westward, the same immeasurable 
 windless expanse. From where he stood he 
 could just hear the murmur of the surge 
 whispering all round the isle; the surge that, 
 even on days of profoundest calm, makes a 
 murmurous rumor among the rocks and 
 shingle of the island shores. Not upon the 
 moor side, but in the blank hollows of the 
 caves around him he heard, as in gigantic 
 shells, the moving of a strange and solemn 
 rhythm: wave haunted-shells indeed, for the
 
 190 Green Fire 
 
 echo that was bruited from one to the other 
 came from beneath, from out of those 
 labyrinthine corridors and dim, shadowy 
 arcades, where through the intense green 
 glooms the Atlantic waters lose themselves 
 in a vain wandering. 
 
 For long he leaned there, revolving in his 
 mind the mystery of Morag MacNeill's words. 
 Then, abruptly, the stillness was broken by 
 the sound of a dislodged stone. So little did 
 he expect the foot of a fellow that he did not 
 turn at what he thought to be the slip of a 
 sheep. But when upon the slope of the grass, 
 just beyond where he stood, a dusky blue 
 shadow wavered fantastically, he swung round 
 with a sudden instinct of dread. 
 
 And this was the dread which, at the end of 
 the third month after he and Ynys had come 
 to Rona, was upon Alan Carmichael. 
 
 For there, standing quietly by another 
 bowlder, at the mouth of another cave, stood 
 a man who was in all appearance identical 
 with himself. Looking at this apparition, he 
 beheld one of the same height as himself, with 
 hair of the same hue, with eyes the same, and
 
 At the Edge of the Shadow 191 
 
 features the same, with the same carriage, the 
 same smile, even the same expression. No, it 
 was there, and there alone, that a difference 
 was. 
 
 Sick at heart, Alan wondered if he looked 
 upon his own wraith. Familiar as he was with 
 the legends of his people, it would be no 
 strange thing to him that there, upon the hill- 
 side, should appear the phantasm of himself. 
 Had not old Ian Maclain and that, too, 
 though far away in a strange land seen 
 the death of Lois Macdonald moving upward 
 from her feet to her knees, from her knees to 
 her waist, from her waist to her neck and, 
 just before the end, how the shroud darkened 
 along the face until it hid the eyes? Had he 
 not often heard from her, from Ian, of the 
 second self which so often appears beside the 
 living when already the shadow of doom is 
 upon him whose hours are numbered? Was 
 this, then, the reason of what had been his 
 inexplicable gloom? Was he indeed at the 
 extreme of life; was his soul amid shallows, 
 already a rock upon a blank, inhospitable 
 shore? If not, who or what was this second
 
 192 Green Fire 
 
 self which leaned there negligently; looking 
 at him with scornfully smiling lips, but with 
 intent, unsmiling eyes. 
 
 Then, slowly, there came into his mind 
 this thought: How could a phantom, that was 
 itself intangible, throw a shadow upon the 
 grass, as though it were a living corporeal 
 being? Sure, a shadow there was indeed. It 
 lay between the apparition and himself. A 
 story heard in boyhood came back to him; 
 instinctively he stooped and lifted a stone 
 and flung it midway into the shadow. 
 
 "Go back into the darkness," he cried, 
 "if out of the darkness you came; but, 
 if you be a living thing, put out your 
 hands! " 
 
 The shadow remained motionless; though 
 when Alan looked again at his second self, he 
 saw that the scorn which had been upon the 
 lips was now in the eyes also. Ay, for sure, 
 that was scornful laughter that lay in those 
 cold wells of light. No phantom that; a man 
 he, even as Alan himself. His heart pulsed 
 like that of a trapped bird, but, even in the 
 speaking, his courage came back to him.
 
 At the Edge of the Shadow 193 
 
 ' ' Who are you? " he asked in a low voice that 
 was strange even in his own ears. 
 
 "Am Buchaille," replied the man in a voice 
 as low and strange. " I am the Herdsman." 
 
 A new tide of fear surged in upon Alan. 
 That voice, was it not his own; that tone, 
 was it not familiar in his ears? When the 
 man spoke, he heard himself speak; sure, if 
 he were am Buchaille Ban, Alan, too, was 
 the Herdsman though what fantastic destiny 
 might be his was all unknown to him. 
 
 "Come near," said the man, and now 
 the mocking light in his eyes was lambent as 
 cloud-fire "come near, oh, Buchaille Ban!" 
 
 With a swift movement Alan leapt forward, 
 but as he leaped his foot caught in a spray 
 of heather and he stumbled and nigh fell. 
 When he recovered himself, he looked in 
 vain for the man who had called him. There 
 was not a sign, not a trace of any living 
 being. For the first few moments he believed 
 it had all been a delusion. Mortal being did 
 not appear and vanish in that ghostly way. 
 Still, surely he could not have mistaken the 
 blank of that place for a speaking voice, nor 
 13
 
 i94 Green Fire 
 
 out of nothingness have fashioned the living 
 phantom of himself? Or could he? With 
 that, he strode forward and peered into the 
 wide arch of the cavern by which the man 
 had stood. He could not see far into it, but 
 so far as it was possible to see, he discerned 
 neither man nor shadow of man, nor any thing 
 that stirred; no, not even the dust of a 
 bearnan-Bride, that grew on a patch of grass 
 a yard or two within the darkness, had lost one 
 of its aerial pinions. He drew back, dismayed, 
 Then, suddenly, his heart leapt again, for, 
 beyond all question, all possible doubt, there, 
 in the bent thyme, just where the man had 
 stood, was the imprint of his feet. Even 
 now the green sprays were moving forward.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 MYSTERY 
 
 AN hour passed, and Alan Carmichael 
 still stood by the entrance to the cave. So 
 immovable was he that a ewe, listlessly wan- 
 dering there in search of cooler grass, lay 
 down after a while, drowsily regarding him 
 with her amber-colored eyes. All his thought 
 was intent upon the mystery of what he had 
 seen. No delusion this, he was sure. That 
 was a man whom he had seen. It might well 
 have been some one whom he did not know, 
 though that were unlikely, of course, for on 
 so small an island, inhabited by less than a 
 score of crofters, it was scarcely possible for 
 one to live there for many weeks and not 
 know the name and face of every soul upon 
 the isle. Still, a stranger might have come. 
 Only, if this were so, why should he call 
 himself the Herdsman? There was but one
 
 196 Green Fire 
 
 herdsman on Rona, and he Angus MacCormic, 
 who lived at Einaval on the north side. In 
 these outer isles, the shepherd and the herds- 
 man are appointed by the community, and no 
 man is allowed to be one or the other at will, 
 any more than to be maor or constabal. Then, 
 too, if this man were indeed herdsman, where 
 was his imir ionailt, his browsing tract? 
 Looking round him, Alan could perceive 
 nowhere any fitting pasture. Surely no 
 herdsman would be content with such an 
 imir a bhuchaille rig of the herdsman as 
 that rocky wilderness where the soft green 
 grass grew in patches under this or that 
 bowlder, on the sun side of this or that 
 mountain ash. Again, he had given no 
 name, but called himself simply Am Buchaille. 
 This was how the woman Morag had spoken; 
 did she indeed mean this very man, and if so 
 what import lay in her words? But far 
 beyond all other bewilderment for him was 
 that strange, that indeed terrifying likeness 
 to himself; a likeness so absolute, so con- 
 vincing, that he knew he might himself easily 
 have been deceived, had he beheld the
 
 Mystery 197 
 
 apparition in any place where it was possible 
 that a reflection could have misled him. 
 
 Brooding thus, eye and ear were both intent 
 for the faintest sight or sound. But, from 
 the interior of the cavern, not a breath came. 
 Once, from among the jagged rocks high on 
 the west slope of Ben Einaval he fancied he 
 heard an unwonted sound: that of human 
 laughter, but laughter so wild, so remote, so 
 unmirthful, that fear was in his heart. It 
 could not be other than imagination, he said 
 to himself; for in that lonely place there was 
 none to wander idly at that season, and none 
 who, wandering, would laugh there, solitary. 
 
 It was with an effort that Alan at last 
 determined to probe the mystery. Stooping, 
 he moved cautiously into the cavern, and 
 groped his way along a narrow ledge which 
 led, as he thought, into another larger cave. 
 But this proved to be one of the innumerable 
 hollow corridors which intersect the honey- 
 combed slopes of this Isle of Caves. To 
 wander far in these lightless passages would 
 be to court inevitable death. Long ago, the 
 piper whom the Prionnsa-Ban, the Fair
 
 198 Green Fire 
 
 Prince, loved to hear in his exile, he that was 
 called Rory McVurich, penetrated one of the 
 larger hollows to seek there for a child that 
 had idly wandered into the dark. Some of 
 the clansmen, with the father and mother of 
 the little one, waited at the entrance to the 
 cave. For a time there was silence; then, as 
 agreed upon, the sound of the pipes was 
 heard, to which a man named Lachlan Mc- 
 Lachlan replied from the outer air. The 
 skirl of the pipes within grew fainter and 
 fainter. Louder and louder Lachlan played 
 upon his chantar ; shriller and shriller grew 
 the wild cry of the feadan ; but for all that, 
 fainter and fainter waned the sound of the 
 pipes of Rory McVurich. Generations have 
 come and gone upon the isle, and still no man 
 has heard the returning air which Rory was 
 to play. He may have found the little child, 
 but he never found his backward path, and in 
 the gloom of that honeycombed hill he and 
 the child and the music of the pipes lapsed 
 into the same stillness. Remembering this 
 legend, familiar to him since his boyhood, 
 Alan did not dare to venture farther. At any
 
 Mystery 199 
 
 moment, too, he knew he might fall into one 
 of the innumerable crevices which opened into 
 the sea-corridors hundreds of feet below. 
 Ancient rumor had it that there were mysteri- 
 ous passages from the upper heights of Ben 
 Einaval, which led into the intricate heart 
 mazes of these perilous arcades. But for 
 a time he lay still, straining every sense. Con- 
 vinced at last that the man whom he sought 
 had evaded all possible quest, he turned 
 to regain the light. Brief way as he had 
 gone, this was no easy thing to do. For a 
 few moments, indeed, Alan lost his self-pos- 
 session, when he found a uniform dusk about 
 him, and could scarce discern which of the 
 several branching narrow corridors was that 
 by which he had come. But following the 
 greener light, he reached the cave, and soon, 
 with a sigh of relief, was upon the sun-sweet 
 warm earth again. 
 
 How more than ever beautiful the world 
 seemed to him; how sweet upon the eyes 
 were cliff and precipice, the wide stretch of 
 ocean, the flying birds, the sheep grazing on 
 the scanty pastures, and, above all, the
 
 200 Green Fire 
 
 homely blue smoke curling faintly upward 
 from the fisher crofts on the headland east of 
 Aonaig! 
 
 Purposely he retraced his steps by the way 
 of the glen. He would see the woman, 
 Morag MacNeill again, and insist on some 
 more explicit word; but when he reached the 
 burnside once more, the woman was not 
 there. Possibly she had seen him coming, 
 and guessed his purpose; half he surmised 
 this, for the peats in the hearth were brightly 
 aglow, and on the hob beside them the boiling 
 water hissed in a great iron pot wherein were 
 potatoes. In vain he sought, in vain called. 
 Impatient at last he walked around the bothie 
 and into the little byre beyond. The 
 place seemed deserted. The matter, small 
 as it was, added to his profound disquietude. 
 Resolved to sift the mystery, he began to 
 walk swiftly down the slope. By the old 
 shealing of Cnoc-na-Monie, now forsaken, his 
 heart leaped at sight of Ynys coming to 
 meet him. At first he thought he would say 
 nothing of what had happened. But with 
 Ynys his was ever an impossible silence, for
 
 Mystery 201 
 
 she knew every change in his mind as a seaman 
 knows the look of the sky and sea. More- 
 over, she had herself been all day oppressed 
 by something of the same inexplicable appre- 
 hension. 
 
 When they met, she put her hands on his 
 shoulders and looked at him lovingly with 
 questioning eyes. Ah! he found rest and hope 
 in those deep pools of quiet light whence the 
 dreaming love rose comfortingly to meet his 
 own yearning gaze. 
 
 "What is it, Alan, mo-ghray; what is the 
 trouble that is upon you? " 
 
 " It is a trouble, Ynys, but one of which I 
 can speak little, for it is little I know." 
 
 " Have you heard or seen aught that gives 
 you fear? " 
 
 " I have seen a man here upon Rona whom 
 I have not seen or met before, and it is one 
 whose face is known to me, and whose voice 
 too, and one whom I would not meet again." 
 
 " Did he give you no name, Alan? " 
 
 "None." 
 
 <' Whence did he come? Whither did 
 he go? "
 
 202 Green Fire 
 
 " He came out of the shadow, and into the 
 shadow he went." 
 
 Ynys looked steadfastly at her husband; her 
 wistful gaze searching deep into his unquiet 
 eyes, and thence from feature to feature of 
 the face which had become strangely worn, 
 for all the joy that lay between them. 
 
 But she said no more upon what he had 
 told her. 
 
 "I, too, Alan mo run, have heard a strange 
 thing to-day. You know old Marsail Macrae? 
 She is ill now with a slow fever, and she thinks 
 that the shadow which she saw lying upon her 
 hearth last Sabbath, when nothing was there 
 to cause any shadow, was her own death, 
 come for her, and now waiting there. I spoke 
 to the old woman comfortingly, but she would 
 not have peace, and her eyes looked at me 
 strangely. 
 
 " ' What is it, Marsail? ' I asked at last. To 
 which she replied mysteriously: 
 
 '"Ay, ay, for sure, it was I who saw you 
 first.' 
 
 " ' Saw me first, Marsail? ' 
 
 " ' Ay, you and Alan MacAlasdair. '
 
 Mystery 203 
 
 " ' When and where was this sight upon you 
 that you speak of? ' 
 
 " ' It was one month before you and he 
 came to Rona.' 
 
 "This startled me, and I asked her to tell 
 me her meaning. At first, I could make little 
 of what was said, for she muttered low, and 
 moved her head idly this way and that; moan- 
 ing in her pain. But on my taking her hand, 
 she looked at me again; and then, apparently 
 without an effort, told me this thing: 
 
 " ' On the seventh day of the month before 
 you came and by the same token it was on 
 the seventh day of the month following that 
 you and Alan MacAlasdair came to Caisteal- 
 Rhona I was upon the shore at Aonaig, listen- 
 ing to the crying of the wind against the great 
 precipice of Biolacreag. With me were Rod- 
 erick Macrea and Neil MacNeill, Morag Mac- 
 Neill, and her sister Elsa; and we were singing 
 the hymn for those who were out on the wild 
 sea that was roaring white against the cliffs of 
 Berneray; for some of our people were there, 
 and we feared for them. Sometimes one sang,
 
 204 Green Fire 
 
 and sometimes another. And sure, it is re- 
 membering I am, how, when I had called out 
 with my old wailing voice: 
 
 " ' Boidh an Tri-aon leinn, a la 's a dh-oidche ; 
 'S air chul nan tonn, no air thaobh nain beann. 
 
 [Be the Three-in-One with us day and night ; 
 On the crested wave, when waves run high.] 
 
 " ' I had just sung this, and we were all 
 listening to the sound of it caught by the wind 
 and whirled up against the black face of Biola- 
 creag, when suddenly I saw a boat come sail- 
 ing quite into the haven. I called out to 
 those about me, but they looked at me with 
 white faces, for no boat was there, and it was 
 a rough, wild sea it was in that haven. 
 
 " ' And in that boat I saw three people sit- 
 ting, and one was you, Ynys nighean Lhois, 
 and one was Alan MacAlasdair, and one was a 
 man who had his face in shadow, and his eyes 
 looked into the shadow at his feet. I knew 
 not who you were, nor whence you came, nor 
 whether it was for Rona you were, nor any 
 thing at all; but I saw you clear, and I told 
 those about me what I saw. And Seumas Mac- 
 Neill, him that is dead now, and brother to
 
 Mystery 205 
 
 Neil here at Aonaig, he said to me, "Who 
 was that whom you saw walking in the dusk 
 the night before last?" "Alasdair MacAlas- 
 dair Carmichael," answered one at that. 
 Seumas muttered, looking at those about him, 
 "Mark what I say, for it is a true thing; that 
 Alasdair Carmichael of Rona is dead now, be- 
 cause Marsail here saw him walking in the 
 dusk when he was not upon the island; and 
 now, you Neil, and you Roderick, and all of 
 you will be for thinking with me that the man 
 and the woman in the boat whom Marsail sees 
 now will be the son and the daughter of him 
 who has changed." 
 
 " 'Well, well, it is a true thing that we each 
 of us thought that thought, but when the 
 days went and nothing more came of it, the 
 memory of the seeing went too. Then there 
 came the day when the cobble of Aulay Mac- 
 Aulay came out of Borosay into Caisteal- 
 Rhona haven. Glad we were to see the face 
 of Ian mac Iain again, and to hear the sob of 
 joy coming out of the heart of Kirsten, his 
 sister: but when you and Alan MacAlasdair 
 came on shore, it was my voice that then went
 
 206 Green Fire 
 
 from mouth to mouth, for I whispered to 
 Morag MacNeill who was next me, that you 
 were the twain that I had seen in the boat.' 
 
 "Well, Alan," Ynys added, with a grave 
 smile, "I spoke gently to old Marsail, and 
 told her that after all there was no evil in 
 that seeing, and that for sure it was nothing 
 at all, at all, to see two people in a boat, and 
 nothing coming of that, save happiness for 
 those two, and glad content to be here, with 
 hope like a white swallow nesting for aye 
 under the eaves of our house. 
 
 " Marsail looked at me with big eyes. 
 
 " ' It is no white swallow that builds there, 
 Ynys Bean Alan,' she said. 
 
 "But when I asked her what she meant by 
 that, she would say no more. No asking of 
 mine would bring the word to her lips; only 
 she shook her head and averted her gaze from 
 my face. Then, seeing that it was useless, I 
 said to her: 
 
 "'Marsail, tell me this: was that sight of 
 yours the sole thing that made the people here 
 on Rona look askance at Alan MacAlasdair?'
 
 Mystery 207 
 
 "For a time she stared at me with the dim, 
 unrecognizing eyes of those who are ill and 
 in the shadow of death; then, suddenly they 
 brightened, and she spoke: 
 
 " 'It is not all.' 
 
 "'Then what more is there, Marsail 
 Macrae? ' 
 
 "'That is not for the saying. I have no 
 more to say. Let you, or your man, go else- 
 where; that which is to be, will be. To each 
 his own end.' 
 
 " ' Then tell me this at least,' I asked; 'is 
 there peril for Alan or for me in this island?' 
 
 "But from that moment Marsail would say 
 no more, and indeed I saw that a swoon was 
 upon the old woman, and that she heard not 
 or saw not." 
 
 After this, Ynys and Alan walked slowly 
 home together, hand in hand, both silent and 
 revolving in their mind as in a dim dusk, that 
 mystery which, vague and unreal at first, had 
 now become a living presence, and haunted 
 them by day and night.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 IN THE GREEN ARCADES 
 
 "!N the shadow of pain, one may hear the 
 footsteps of joy." So runs a proverb of 
 old. 
 
 It was a true saying for Alan and Ynys. 
 That night they lay down in pain, their hearts 
 heavy with the weight of some burden which 
 they felt and did not know. On the morrow 
 they woke to the rapture of a new day a day 
 of absolute beauty, when the stars grew pale 
 in the cloudless blue sky before the uprising 
 of the sun, while the last vapor lifted a white 
 wing from the sea, and a dim spiral mist carried 
 skyward the memory of inland dews. The 
 whole wide wilderness of ocean was of living 
 azure, aflame with gold and silver. Around 
 the promontories of the isles the brown-sailed 
 fish-boats of Barra and Berneray, of Borosay 
 and Seila, moved blithely hither and thither.
 
 In the Green Arcades 209 
 
 Everywhere the rhythm of life pulsed swift 
 and strong. The first sound which had awa- 
 kened the sleepers was of a loud singing of 
 fishermen who were putting out from Aonaig. 
 The coming of a great shoal of mackerel had 
 been signalled, and every man and woman of 
 the near isles was alert for the take. The 
 first sign had been the swift congregation of 
 birds, particularly the gannets and skuas. 
 And as the men pulled at the oars, or hoisted 
 the brown sails, they sang a snatch of an old- 
 world tune, wont to be chanted at the first 
 coming of the birds when spring-tide is on the 
 flow again. 
 
 " Bui' cheas dha 'n Ti thaine na Gugachan 
 Thaine 's na h-Eoin-Mhora cuideriu, 
 Cailin dugh ciaru bo 's a chro! 
 Bo dhonn! bo dhonn! bo dhonn bheadarrach! 
 Bo dhonn a ruin a bhlitheadh am baine dhuit 
 Ho ro! mo gheallag! ni gu rodagach! 
 Cailin dugh ciaru bo 's a chro 
 Na h-eoin air tighinn! cluinneam an ceol! " 
 
 [Thanks to the Being, the Gannets have come, 
 Yes! and the Great Auks along with them. 
 Dark-haired girl! a cow in the fold! 
 14
 
 2io Green Fire 
 
 Brown cow! brown cow! brown cow, beloved ho! 
 Brown cow! my love! the milker of milk to thee! 
 Ho ro! my fair-skinned girl a cow in the fold, 
 And the birds have come! glad sight, I see!] 
 
 Eager to be of help, Alan put off in his boat 
 and was soon among the fishermen, who in 
 their new excitement were forgetful of all else 
 than that the mackerel were come, and that 
 every moment was precious. For the first 
 time Alan found himself no unwelcome com- 
 rade. Was it, he wondered, because that, 
 there upon the sea, whatever of shadow 
 dwelled about him on the land was no longer 
 visible? 
 
 All through that golden noon, he and the 
 others worked hard. From isle to isle went 
 the chorus of the splashing oars and splashing 
 nets; of the splashing of the fish and the 
 splashing of gannetsand gulls; of the splashing 
 of the tide leaping blithely against the sun- 
 dazzle, and the innumerous rippling wash 
 moving out of the west all this blent with 
 the loud, joyous cries, the laughter, and the 
 hoarse shouts of the men of Barra and the ad- 
 jacent islands. It was close upon dusk before
 
 In the Green Arcades 211 
 
 the Rona boats put into the haven of Aonaig 
 again; and by that time none was blither than 
 Alan Carmichael, who in that day of happy 
 toil had lost all the gloom and apprehension 
 of the day before, and now made haste to 
 Caisteal-Rhona to add to his joy by a sight of 
 Ynys in their home. 
 
 When, however, he got there, there was no 
 Ynys to see. "She had gone," said Kirsten 
 Macdonald, "she had gone out in the smaller 
 boat midway in the afternoon, and had sailed 
 around to Aoidhu, the great scaur which ran 
 out beyond the precipices at the south-west of 
 Rona." 
 
 This Ynys often did; and, of late, more and 
 more often. Ever since she had come to the 
 Hebrid Isles, her love of the sea had deepened, 
 and had grown into a passion for its mystery 
 and beauty. Of late, too, something impelled 
 to a more frequent isolation; a deep longing 
 to be where no eye could see, and no ear 
 hearken. Those strange dreams which, in a 
 confused way, had haunted her mind in her 
 far Breton home, came oftener now and more 
 clear. Sometimes, when she had sat in the
 
 212 Green Fire 
 
 twilight at Kerival, holding her mother's hand 
 and listening to tales of that remote North to 
 which her heart had ever yearned, she had 
 suddenly lost all consciousness of the speaker, 
 or of the things said, and had let her mind be 
 taken captive by her uncontrolled imagination, 
 till in spirit she was far away, and sojourned 
 in strange places, hearing a language that she 
 did not know, and yet which she understood, 
 and dwelt in a past or a present which she 
 had never seen and which yet was familiar. 
 
 Since Ynys had known she was with child, 
 this visionariness had been intensified, this 
 longing had become more and more a deep 
 need. Even with Alan she felt at times the 
 intrusion of an alien influence. If in her 
 body was a mystery, a mystery also was in 
 her brain and in her heart. 
 
 Alan knew this, and knowing, understood. 
 It was for gladness to him that Ynys should 
 do as she would; that in these long hours of 
 solitude she drank deep of the elixir of peace; 
 and that this way of happiness was open to her 
 as to him. Never did these isolations come 
 between them; indeed they were sometimes
 
 In the Green Arcades 213 
 
 more atone then than when they were together, 
 for all the deep happiness which sustained both 
 upon the strong waters of their love. 
 
 So, when Alan heard from Kirsten that 
 Ynys had sailed westward, he was in no way 
 alarmed. But when the sun had set, and over 
 the faint blue film of the Isle of Tiree the 
 moon had risen, and still no sign of Ynys, he 
 became restless and uneasy. Kirsten begged 
 him in vain to eat of the supper she had pre- 
 pared. Idly he moved to and fro along the 
 rocky ledge, or down by the pebbly shore, or 
 across the green airidh; eager for a glimpse 
 of her whom he loved so passing well. 
 
 At last, unable longer to endure a growing 
 anxiety, he put out in his boat, and sailed 
 swiftly before the slight easterly breeze which 
 had prevailed since moonrise. So far as 
 Aoidhu, all the way from Aonaig, there was 
 not a haven anywhere, nor even one of the 
 sea caverns which honeycombed the isle 
 beyond the headland. A glance, therefore, 
 showed him that Ynys had not yet come 
 back that way. It was possible, though un- 
 likely, that she had sailed right round Rona;
 
 214 Green Fire 
 
 unlikely because in the narrow straits to the 
 north, between Rona and the scattered islets 
 known as the Innse-mhara, strong currents 
 prevailed, and particularly at the full of the 
 tide, when they swept north-eastward, dark 
 and swift as a mill-race. 
 
 Once the headland was passed and the sheer 
 precipitous westward cliffs loomed black out 
 of the sea, he became more and more uneasy. 
 As yet, there was no danger; but he saw that 
 a swell was moving out of the west, and when- 
 ever the wind blew that way the sea arcades 
 were filled with a lifting, perilous wave, and 
 escape from them was difficult and often 
 impossible. Out of the score or more great 
 corridors which opened between Aoidhu 
 and Ardgorm, it was difficult to know into 
 which to hazard entry in quest of Ynys. 
 Together they had examined all of them. 
 Some twisted but slightly; others wound 
 sinuously till the green, serpentine alleys, 
 flanked by basalt walls hundreds of feet high, 
 lost themselves in an indistinguishable maze. 
 
 But that which was safest, and wherein a 
 boat could most easily make its way against
 
 In the Green Arcades 215 
 
 wind or tide, was the huge, cavernous corridor 
 known locally as the Uamh-nan-roin, the Cave 
 of the Seals. 
 
 For this opening Alan steered his boat. 
 Soon he was within the wide corridor. Like 
 the great cave at Staffa, it was wrought as 
 an aisle in some natural cathedral; the rocks, 
 too, were fluted columnarly and rose in flaw- 
 less symmetry as though graven by the hand 
 of man. At the far end of this gigantic aisle, 
 there diverges a long, narrow arcade, filled by 
 day with the green shine of the water, and 
 by night, when the moon is up, with a pale 
 froth of light. It is one of the few where 
 there, are open gateways for the sea and 
 the wandering light, and, by its spherical 
 shape, almost the only safe passage in a sea- 
 son of heavy wind. Half-way along this 
 arched arcade a corridor leads to a round 
 cup-like cavern, midway in which stands a 
 huge mass of black basalt, in shape suggest- 
 ive of a titanic altar. Thus it must have 
 impressed the imagination of the islanders 
 of old, for by them, even in a remote 
 day, it was called Teampull-nan-Mhara, the
 
 2i6 Green Fire 
 
 Temple of the Sea. Owing to the narrow- 
 ness of the corridor, and to the smooth, 
 unbroken walls which rise sheer from the 
 green depths into an invisible darkness, the 
 Strait of the Temple is not one wherein to 
 linger long, save in a time of calm. 
 
 Instinctively, however, Alan quietly headed 
 his boat along this narrow way. When, 
 silently, he emerged from the arcade, he 
 could just discern the mass of basalt at the 
 far end of the cavern. But there, seated in 
 her boat, was Ynys; apparently idly adrift, 
 for one oar floated in the water alongside, and 
 the other suspended listlessly from the tholes. 
 
 His heart had a suffocating grip as he saw 
 her whom he had come to seek. Why that 
 absolute stillness, that strange, listless indif- 
 ference? For a dreadful moment he feared 
 that death had indeed come to her in that 
 lonely place where, as an ancient legend had 
 it, a woman of old time had perished, and 
 ever since had wrought death upon any who 
 came thither solitary and unhappy. 
 
 But at the striking of the shaft of his oar 
 against a ledge, Ynys gave a low cry and
 
 In the Green Arcades 217 
 
 looked at him with startled eyes. Half rising 
 from where she crouched in the stern, she 
 called to him in a voice that had in it some- 
 thing strangely unfamiliar. 
 
 "I will not hear! " she cried. "I will not 
 hear! Leave me! Leave me!" 
 
 Fearing that the desolation of the place 
 had wrought upon her mind, Alan swiftly 
 moved toward her. The very next moment 
 his boat glided along hers. Stepping from 
 the one to the other, he kneeled be- 
 side her. 
 
 " Ynys-ghaolaiche, Ynys, my darling, what 
 is it? what gives you dread? There is no 
 harm here. All is well. Look! See, it is I, 
 Alan; Alan, whom you love! Listen, dear; 
 do you not know me; do you not know 
 who I am? It is I, Alan; Alan who loves 
 you! " 
 
 Even in that obscure light he could clearly 
 discern her pale face, and his heart smote 
 him as he saw her eyes turn upon him with a 
 glance wild and mournful. Had she indeed 
 succumbed to the sea madness which ever and 
 again strikes into a terrible melancholy one
 
 2i 8 Green Fire 
 
 here and there among those who dwell in the 
 remote isles? But even as he looked, he 
 noted another expression come into the 
 beautiful eyes, and almost before he realized 
 what had happened, Ynys's head was on his 
 breast, and she sobbing with a sudden glad- 
 ness and passion of relief. 
 
 The dusk deepened swiftly. In those 
 serpentine arcades darkness grows from hour 
 to hour, even on nights when the moon makes 
 the outer sea a blaze of silver fire. But 
 sweet it was to lie there in that solitary place, 
 where no sound penetrated save the low, 
 soughing sigh of ocean, audible there only 
 as the breath of a sleeper: to lie there 
 in each other's arms, and to feel the beat- 
 ing of heart against heart, knowing that 
 whether in the hazard of life or death, all 
 was well, since they two were there and 
 together. 
 
 For long Ynys could say no word. And as 
 for Alan too glad was he to have her again, 
 to know that she lived indeed, and that his 
 fear of the sea madness was an idle fantasy; 
 too glad was he to urge her to speak, when
 
 In the Green Arcades 219 
 
 her recovered joy was still sweet in her heart. 
 But at last she whispered to him how that 
 she had sailed westward from Caisteal-Rhona, 
 having been overcome by the beauty of the 
 day, and longing to be among those mysteri- 
 ous green arcades where thought rose out of 
 the mind like a white bird and flew among 
 shadows in strange places, bringing back with 
 it upon its silent wings the rumor of strange 
 voices, and oftentimes singing a song of what 
 ears hear not. Deeply upon the two had lain 
 the thought of what was to be; the thought 
 of the life she bore within her, that was the 
 tangible love of her and of Alan, and yet was 
 so strangely and remotely dissociate from 
 either. Happy in happy thoughts, and 
 strangely wrought by vague imaginings, she 
 had sailed past precipice after precipice, and 
 so at last into the Strait of the Temple. Just 
 before the last light of day had begun to glide 
 out of the pale green water, she had let her 
 boat drift idly alongside the Teampull-Mhara. 
 There, for a while, she had lain, drowsily con- 
 tent, dreaming her dream. Then, suddenly 
 her heart had given a leap like a doe in the
 
 220 Green Fire 
 
 bracken, and the pulses in her veins swung 
 like stars on a night of storm. 
 
 For there, in that nigh unreachable and 
 forever unvisited solitude was the figure of a 
 man. He stood on the summit of the huge 
 basalt altar, and appeared to have sprung from 
 out the rock, or, himself a shadowy pres- 
 ence, to have grown out of the obscure un- 
 realities of the darkness. She had stared at 
 him, fascinated, speechless. 
 
 When she had said this Ynys stopped 
 abruptly, for she felt the trembling of Alan's 
 hand. 
 
 "Go on," he said hoarsely, "go on. Tell 
 me all!" 
 
 To his amaze, she did not seem perturbed 
 in the way he had dreaded when she began to 
 tell what she had seen. 
 
 "But did you notice nothing about him, 
 Ynys . . . about his face, his features?" 
 
 " Yes. His eyes filled me with strange joy." 
 
 " With joy? Oh, Ynys! Ynys! do you know 
 whom what it was you saw? It was a vision, 
 a nothingness, a mere phantom; and that 
 phantom was . . . was . . . myself! "
 
 In the Green Arcades 221 
 
 "You, Alan! Oh, no, Alan-aghray! dear, 
 you do not know whom I saw nor do I, 
 though I know it was not you! " 
 
 "We will talk of this later, my fawn," Alan 
 muttered. " Meanwhile, hold on to this 
 ledge, for I wish to examine this mass of rock 
 that they call the Altar." 
 
 With a spring he was on the ledge. Then, 
 swift and sure as a wild-cat, he scaled the 
 huge bowlder. 
 
 Nothing; no one! There was not a trace 
 of any human being. Not a bird, not a bat; 
 nothing. Moreover, even in that slowly 
 blackening darkness he could see that there 
 was no direct connection between the summit 
 or side with the blank, precipitous wall of 
 basalt beyond. Overhead there was, so far as 
 he could discern, a vault. No human being 
 could have descended through that perilous 
 gulf. 
 
 Was the island haunted? he wondered, as 
 slowly he made his way back to the boat. Or 
 had he been startled into some wild fantasy, 
 and imagined a likeness where none had been? 
 Perhaps, even, he had not really seen any one.
 
 222 Green Fire 
 
 He had read of similar strange delusions. 
 The nerves can soon chase the mind into the 
 dark zone wherein it loses itself. 
 
 Or was Ynys the vain dreamer? That, in- 
 deed, might well be, and she with child, and 
 ever a visionary. Mayhap she had heard 
 some fantastic tale from Morag MacNeill or 
 from old Marsail Macrae; the islanders had 
 sgeul after sgeul of a wild strangeness. 
 
 In silence he guided the boats back into the 
 outer arcade, where a faint sheen of moon- 
 light glistered on the water. Thence, in a few 
 minutes, he oared that wherein he and Ynys 
 sat, with the other fastened astern, into the 
 open. 
 
 When the moonshine lay full on her face, 
 he saw that she was thinking neither of him 
 nor of where she was. Her eyes were heavy 
 with dream. 
 
 What wind there was blew against their 
 course, so Alan rowed unceasingly. In silence 
 they passed once again the headland of Aoi- 
 dhu; in silence they drifted pasta single light 
 gleaming in a croft near Aonaig a red eye 
 staring out into the shadow of the sea, from
 
 In the Green Arcades 223 
 
 the room where the woman Marsail lay dying; 
 and in silence their keels grided on the patch 
 of shingle in Caisteal-Rhona haven. 
 
 But when, once more, Alan found himself 
 with Ynys in the safe quietudes of the haven, 
 he pressed her eagerly to give him some clear 
 description of the figure she had seen. 
 
 Ynys, however, had become strangely ret- 
 icent. All he could elicit from her was that 
 the man whom she had seen bore no resem- 
 blance to him, except in so far as he was fair. 
 He was taller, slimmer, and seemed older. 
 
 He thought it wiser not to speak to her on 
 what he himself had seen, or concerning his 
 conviction that it was the same mysterious 
 stranger who had appeared to both.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE MESSAGE 
 
 FOR days thereafter Alan haunted that 
 rocky, cavernous wilderness where he had 
 seen the Herdsman. 
 
 It was in vain he had everywhere sought 
 to find word of this mysterious dweller in 
 those upland solitudes. At times he believed 
 that there was indeed some one upon the 
 island of whom, for inexplicable reasons, 
 none there would speak; but at last he came 
 to the conviction that what he had seen was 
 an apparition, projected by the fantasy of 
 overwrought nerves. Even from the woman, 
 Morag MacNeill, to whom he had gone with a 
 frank appeal that won its way to her heart, he 
 learned no more than that an old legend, of 
 which she did not care to speak, was in some 
 way associated with his own coming to Rona. 
 
 Ynys, too, never once alluded to the myste-
 
 The Message 225 
 
 rious incident of the green arcades which had 
 so deeply impressed them both; never, that 
 is, after the ensuing day which followed, when, 
 simply and spontaneously, she told Alan that 
 she believed that she had seen a vision. When 
 he reminded her that she had been convinced 
 of its reality, Ynys answered that for days past 
 she had been dreaming a strange dream, and 
 that doubtless this had possessed her so that 
 her nerves played her false, in that remote 
 and shadowy place. What this dream was she 
 would not confide, nor did he press her. 
 
 But as the days went by and as no word 
 came to either of any unknown person who 
 was on the island, and as Alan, for all his 
 patient wandering and furtive quest, both 
 among the upland caves and in the green 
 arcades, found absolutely no traces of him 
 whom he sought, the belief that he had been 
 duped by his imagination deepened almost to 
 conviction. 
 
 As for Ynys, day after day, soft veils of 
 dream obscured the bare realities of life. But 
 she, unlike Alan, became more and more con- 
 vinced that what she had seen was indeed no 
 15
 
 226 Green Fire 
 
 apparition. Whatever lingering doubt she 
 had was dissipated on the eve of the night 
 when old Marsail Macrae died. It was dusk 
 when word came to Caisteal-Rhona that 
 Marsail felt the cold wind on the soles of her 
 feet. Ynys went to her at once, and it was 
 in the dark hour which followed that she 
 heard once more and more fully the strange 
 story which, like a poisonous weed, had taken 
 root in the minds of the islanders. Already 
 from Marsail she had heard of the Prophet, 
 though, strangely enough, she had never 
 breathed word of this to Alan, not even when, 
 after the startling episode of the apparition 
 in the Teampull-Mhara, she had, as she be- 
 lieved, seen the Prophet himself. But there 
 in the darkness of the low, turfed cottage, with 
 no light in the room save the dull red gloom 
 from the heart of the smoored peats, Marsail, 
 in the attenuated, remote voice of those who 
 have already entered into the vale of the 
 shadow, told her this thing. 
 
 "Yes, Ynys, wife of Alan MacAlasdair, I 
 will be telling you this thing before I change.
 
 The Message 227 
 
 You are for knowing, sure, that long ago 
 Uilleam, brother of him who was father to 
 your man, had a son? Yes, you know that, 
 you say, and also that he was called Donnacha 
 Ban? No, mo-run-geal, that is not a true 
 thing that you have heard, that Donnacha Ban 
 went under the wave years ago. He was the 
 seventh son, and was born under the full 
 moon; 'tis Himself will be knowing whether 
 that was for or against him. Of these seven 
 none lived beyond childhood except the two 
 youngest, Kenneth and Donnacha. Kenneth 
 was always frail as a February flower, but he 
 lived to be a man. He and his brother never 
 spoke, for a feud was between them, not only 
 because that each was unlike the other and 
 that the younger hated the older because thus 
 he was the penniless one but most because 
 both loved the same woman. I will not be 
 telling you the whole story now, for the 
 breath in my body will soon blow out in the 
 draught that is coming upon me; but this I 
 will say to you: darker and darker grew 
 the gloom between these brothers. When 
 Kirsteen Macdonald gave her love to Ken-
 
 228 Green Fire 
 
 neth, Donnacha disappeared for a time. Then, 
 one day, he came back to Borosay, and 
 smiled quietly with his cold eyes when they 
 wondered at his coming again. Now, too, it 
 was noticed that he no longer had an ill-will 
 upon his brother, but spoke smoothly with 
 him and loved to be in his company. But, to 
 this day, no one knows for sure what hap- 
 pened. For there was a gloaming when Don- 
 nacha Ban came back alone, in his sailing 
 boat. He and Kenneth had sailed forth, he 
 said, to shoot seals in the sea arcades to the 
 west of Rona; but in these dark and lonely 
 passages, they had missed each other. At 
 last he had heard Kenneth's voice calling for 
 help, but when he had got to the place, it was 
 too late, for his brother had been seized with 
 the cramps, and had sunk deep into the 
 fathomless water. There is no getting a 
 body again that sinks in these sea galleries. 
 The crabs know that. 
 
 "Well, this and much more was what Don- 
 nacha Ban told to his people. None believed 
 him; but what could any do? There was no 
 proof; none had ever seen them enter the sea
 
 The Message 229 
 
 caves together. Not that Donnacha Ban 
 sought in any way to keep back those who 
 would fain know more. Not so; he strove to 
 help to find the body. Nevertheless, none 
 believed; and Kirsteen nic Dugall M5r least 
 of all. The blight of that sorrow went to her 
 heart. She had death soon, poor thing! but 
 before the cold grayness was upon her, she 
 told her father, and the minister that was 
 there, that she knew Donnacha Ban had 
 murdered his brother. One might be saying 
 these were the wild words of a woman; but, 
 for sure, no one said that thing upon Borosay 
 or Rona, or any of these isles. When all was 
 done, the minister told what he knew, and 
 what he thought, to the Lord of the South 
 Isles, and asked what was to be put upon 
 Donnacha Ban. 'Exile forever,' said the 
 Chief, 'or if he stays here, the doom of 
 silence. Let no man or woman speak to him 
 or give him food or drink; or give him 
 shelter, or let his shadow cross his or hers.' 
 
 "When this thing was told to Donnacha 
 Ban Carmichael, he laughed at first; but as 
 day slid over the rocks where al' days fall, he
 
 230 Green Fire 
 
 laughed no more. Soon he saw that the 
 Chief's word was no empty word; and yet he 
 would not go away from his own place. He 
 could not stay upon Borosay, for his father 
 cursed him; and no man can stay upon the 
 island where a father's curse moves this way 
 and that, forever seeking him. Then, some 
 say a madness came upon him, and others that 
 he took wildness to be his way, and others 
 that God put upon him the shadow of loneli- 
 ness, so that he might meet sorrow there and 
 repent. Howsoever that may be, Donnacha 
 Ban came to Rona, and, by the same token, it 
 was the year of the great blight, when the 
 potatoes and the corn came to naught, and 
 when the fish in the sea swam away from the 
 
 isles. In the autumn of that year there was 
 i 
 not a soul left on Rona except Kirsten Mac- 
 
 donald and the old man Ian, her father, who 
 had guard of Caisteal-Rhona for him who was 
 absent. When, once more, smoke rose from 
 the crofts, the rumor spread that Donnacha 
 Ban, the murderer, had made his home among 
 the caves of the upper part of the isle. None 
 knew how this rumor rose, for he was seen of
 
 The Message 231 
 
 none. The last man who saw him and that 
 was a year later was old Padruic McVurich, 
 the shepherd. Padruic said that, as he was 
 driving his ewes across the north slope of Ben 
 Einaval in the gloaming, he came upon a silent 
 figure seated upon a rock, with his chin in his 
 hands, and his elbows on his knees with the 
 great, sad eyes of him staring at the moon that 
 was lifting itself out of the sea. Padruic did 
 not know who the man was. The shepherd 
 had few wits, poor man! and he had known, or 
 remembered, little about the story of Don- 
 nacha Ban Carmichael, so, when he spoke to 
 the man, it was as to a stranger. The man 
 looked at him and said: 
 
 "'You are Padruic McVurich, the shep- 
 herd.' 
 
 " At that a trembling was upon old Padruic, 
 who had the wonder that this stranger should 
 know who and what he was. 
 
 " ' And who will you be, and forgive the say- 
 ing?' he asked. 
 
 " ' Am Faidh the Prophet,' the man said. 
 
 " ' And what prophet will you be, and what 
 is your prophecy? ' asked Padruic.
 
 232 Green Fire 
 
 " ' I am here because I wait for what is to 
 be, and that will be for the birth of a child 
 that is to be a king.' 
 
 "And with that the man said no more, and 
 the old shepherd went silently down through 
 the hillside gloaming, and, heavy with the 
 thoughts that troubled him, followed his ewes 
 down into Aonaig. But after that neither he 
 nor any other saw or heard aught of the 
 shadowy stranger; so that all upon Rona felt 
 sure that Padruic had beheld no more than a 
 vision. There were some who thought that 
 he had seen the ghost of the outlaw Donnacha 
 Ban; and mayhap one or two who wondered if 
 the stranger that had said he was a prophet 
 was not Donnacha Ban himself, with a mad- 
 ness come upon him; but at last these rumors 
 went out to sea upon the wind, and men for- 
 got. But, and it was months and months 
 afterward, and three days before his own 
 death, old Padruic McVurich was sitting in 
 the sunset on the rocky ledge in front of his 
 brother's croft, where then he was staying, 
 when he heard a strange crying of seals. 
 He thought little of that; only, when he
 
 The Message 233 
 
 looked closer, he saw, in the hollow of the 
 wave hard by that ledge, a drifting body. 
 
 "Am FaidhAm Faidh!" he cried; "the 
 Prophet, the Prophet! " 
 
 At that his brother and his brother's wife 
 ran to see; but it was nothing that they saw. 
 " It would be a seal," said Pol McVurich; but 
 at that Padruic had shook his head, and said 
 no, for sure, he had seen the face of the dead 
 man, and it was of him whom he had met on 
 the hillside, and that had said he was the 
 Prophet who was waiting there for the birth 
 of a king. 
 
 " And that is how there came about the echo 
 of the thought, that Donnacha Ban had at 
 last, after his madness, gone under the green 
 wave and was dead. For all that, in the 
 months which followed, more than one man 
 said he had caught a glimpse of a figure high 
 up on the hill. The old wisdom says that 
 when Christ comes again, or the Prophet who 
 will herald Christ, it will be as a herdsman on 
 a lonely isle. More than one of the old 
 people on Rona and Borosay remembered that 
 sgeul out of the seanachas that the tale-tellers
 
 234 Green Fire 
 
 knew. There were some who said that Don- 
 nacha Ban had never been drowned at all, and 
 that he was this Prophet, this Herdsman. 
 Others would not have that saying at all, but 
 believed that the mysterious herdsman was 
 indeed Am Buchaille Ban, the Fair-haired 
 Shepherd, who had come again to redeem the 
 people out of their sorrow. There were even 
 those who said that the Herdsman who 
 haunted Rona was no other than Kenneth 
 Carmichael himself, who had not died, but had 
 had the mind-dark there in the sea caves 
 where he had been lost, and there had come 
 to the knowledge of secret things, and so was 
 at last Am Faidh Chriosd. " 
 
 A great weakness came upon the old woman 
 when she had spoken thus far. Ynys feared 
 that she would have breath for no further 
 word, but after a thin gasping, and a listless 
 fluttering of weak hands upon the coverlet, 
 whereon her trembling fingers plucked aim- 
 lessly at the invisible blossoms of death, she 
 opened her eyes once more and stared in a 
 dim questioning at her who sat by her bedside.
 
 The Message 235 
 
 "Tell me," whispered Ynys, "tell me, 
 Marsail, what thought it is that is in your own 
 mind?" 
 
 But already the old woman had begun to 
 wander, though Ynys did not know this. 
 
 "For sure, for sure," she muttered, "Am 
 Faidh . . . Am Faidh ... an' a child will 
 be born . . . an' a king he will be, an' . . . 
 that will be the voice of Domhuill, my hus- 
 band, I am hearing . . . an' dark it is, an' 
 the tide comin' in ... an' " 
 
 Then, sure, the tide came in, and if in that 
 darkness old Marsail Macrae heard any voice 
 at all, it was that of Domhuill who years 
 agone had sunk into the wild seas off the 
 head of Barra. 
 
 An hour later, with tears still in her eyes, 
 Ynys walked slowly home through the cloudy 
 night. All she had heard came back to her 
 with a strange familiarity. Something of this, 
 at least, she had known before. Some hints 
 of this mysterious Herdsman had reached her 
 ears. In some inexplicable way his real or 
 imaginary presence there upon Rona seemed 
 a preordained thing for her. All that dream-
 
 236 Green Fire 
 
 ing mysticism, which had wrought so much of 
 beauty and wonder into her girlhood in Brit- 
 tany, had expanded into a strange flower of 
 the imagination a flower whose subtle frag- 
 rance affected her inward life. Sometimes 
 she had wondered if all the tragic vicissitudes 
 which happened at Kerival, with the strange 
 and dreamlike life which she and Alan had 
 led since, had so wrought upon her that the 
 unreal became real, and the actual merely 
 phantasmal; for now she felt more than ever 
 assured that some hidden destiny had con- 
 trolled all this disastrous mischance, had led 
 her and Alan there to that lonely island. 
 
 She knew that the wild imaginings of the 
 islanders had woven the legend of the 
 Prophet, or at any rate of his message, out of 
 the loom of the longing and the deep nos- 
 talgia whereon is woven that larger tapestry, 
 the shadow-thridden life of the island Gael. 
 Laughter and tears, ordinary hopes and 
 pleasures, and even joy itself, and bright 
 gayety, and the swift, spontaneous imagination 
 of susceptible natures all this, of course, is 
 to be found with the island Gael as with his
 
 The Message 237 
 
 fellows elsewhere. But every here and there 
 are some who have in their minds the in- 
 heritance from the dim past of their race, 
 and are oppressed as no other people are 
 oppressed by the gloom of a strife between 
 spiritual emotion and material facts. It is 
 the brains of dreamers such as these which 
 clear the mental life of the community; and 
 it is in these brains are the mysterious looms 
 which weave the tragic and sorrowful tapes- 
 tries of Celtic thought. It were a madness to 
 suppose that life in the isles consists of noth- 
 ing but sadness or melancholy. It is not so, 
 or need not be so, for the Gael is a creature 
 of shadow and shine. But whatever the 
 people is, the brain of the Gael hears a music 
 that is sadder than any music there is, and 
 has for its cloudy sky a gloom that shall not 
 go, for the end is near, and upon the western- 
 most shores of these remote isles, the Voice 
 as has been truly said by one who has beauti- 
 fully interpreted his own people the Voice 
 of Celtic Sorrow may be heard crying, " Cha 
 till, cha till, cha till mi tuille " I will return, I 
 will return, I will return no more.
 
 238 Green Fire 
 
 Ynys knew all this well; and yet she too 
 dreamed her Celtic dream that, even yet, 
 there might be redemption for the people. 
 She did not share the wild hope which 
 some of the older islanders held, that Christ 
 himself shall come again to redeem an op- 
 pressed race; but might not another saviour 
 arise, another redeeming spirit come into the 
 world? And if so, might not that child of 
 joy be born out of suffering and sorrow and 
 crime; and if so, might not that child be born 
 of her? 
 
 With startled eyes she crossed the thyme- 
 set ledge whereon stood Caisteal-Rhona. 
 Was it, after all, a message she had received 
 from him who appeared to her in that lonely 
 cavern of the sea; was he indeed Am Faidh, 
 the mysterious Prophet of the isles?
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 THE LAUGHTER OF THE KING 
 
 WHAT are dreams but the dust of wayfaring 
 thoughts? Or whence are they, and what air 
 is upon their shadowy wings? Do they come 
 out of the twilight of man's mind; are they 
 ghosts of exiles from vanished palaces of 
 the brain; or are they heralds with proc- 
 lamations of hidden tidings for the soul that 
 dreams? 
 
 It was a life of dream that Ynys and Alan 
 lived; but Ynys the more, for, as week after 
 week went by, the burden of her motherhood 
 wrought her increasingly. Ever since the 
 night of Marsail's death, Alan had noticed 
 that Ynys no longer doubted but that in some 
 way a special message had come to her, a 
 special revelation. On the other hand, he 
 had himself swung back to his former convic- 
 tion, that the vision he had seen upon the
 
 240 Green Fire 
 
 hillside was, in truth, that of a living man. 
 From fragments here and there, a phrase, a 
 revealing word, a hint gleaming through 
 obscure allusions, he came at last to believe 
 that some one bearing a close, and even 
 extraordinary, resemblance to himself lived 
 upon Rona. Although upon the island itself 
 he could seldom persuade any one to speak 
 of the Herdsman, the islanders of Seila and 
 Borosay became gradually less reticent. He 
 ascertained this, at least: that their fear and 
 aversion, when he first came, had been occa- 
 sioned by the startling likeness between him 
 and the mysterious being whom they called 
 Am Buchaille Ban. On Borosay, he was told, 
 the fishermen believed that the aonaran nan 
 chreag, the recluse of the rocks, as commonly 
 they spoke of him, was no other than Don- 
 nacha Ban Carmichael, survived there through 
 these many years, and long since mad with 
 his loneliness and because of the burden 
 of his crime. It was with keen surprise that 
 Alan learned how many of the fishermen of 
 Borosay and Berneray, and even of Barra, 
 had caught a glimpse of the outcast. It was
 
 The Laughter of the King 241 
 
 this relative familiarity, indeed, that was at 
 the root of the fear and aversion which had 
 met him upon his arrival. Almost from the 
 moment he had landed in Borosay, the rumor 
 had spread that he was indeed no other than 
 Donnacha Ban, and that he had chosen this 
 way, now both his father and Alasdair 
 Carmichael were dead, to return to his own 
 place. So like was Alan to the outlaw who 
 had long since disappeared from touch with 
 his fellow men, that many were convinced 
 that the two could be no other than one and 
 the same. What puzzled him hardly less was 
 the fact that, on the rare occasions when Ynys 
 had consented to speak of what she had seen, 
 the man she described bore no resemblance to 
 himself. From one thing and another, he 
 came at last to the belief that he had really 
 seen Donnacha Ban, his cousin; but that 
 the vision of Ynys's mind was born of her 
 imagination, stimulated by all the tragedy 
 and strange vicissitudes she had known, and 
 wrought by the fantastic tales of Marsail and 
 Morag MacNeill. 
 
 By this time, too, the islanders had come to 
 16
 
 242 Green Fire 
 
 see that Alan MacAlasdair was certainly not 
 Donnacha Ban. Even the startling likeness 
 no longer betrayed them in this way. The 
 ministers and the priests laughed at the whole 
 story and everywhere discouraged the idea 
 that Donnacha Ban could still be among the 
 living. But for the unfortunate superstition 
 that to meet the Herdsman, whether the lost 
 soul of Donnacha Ban or indeed the strange 
 phantom of the hills of which the old legends 
 spoke, was to meet inevitable disaster; but 
 for this, the islanders might have been per- 
 suaded to make such a search among the 
 caves of Rona as would almost certainly have 
 revealed the presence of any who dwelt 
 therein. 
 
 But as summer lapsed into autumn, and 
 autumn itself through its golden silences 
 waned into the shadow of the equinox, a quiet 
 happiness came upon both Alan and Ynys. 
 True, she was still wrought by her strange 
 visionary life, though of this she said little or 
 nothing; and, as for himself, he hoped that 
 with the birth of the child this fantastic 
 dream life would go. Whoever the mysteri-
 
 The Laughter of the King 243 
 
 ous Herdsman was if he indeed existed at 
 all except in the imaginations of those who 
 spoke of him either as the Buchaille Ban, or 
 as the aonaran nan chreag Alan believed 
 that at last he had passed away. None saw 
 him now: and even Morag MacNeill, who 
 had often on moonlight nights caught the 
 sound of a voice chanting among the upper 
 solitudes, admitted that she now heard noth- 
 ing unusual. 
 
 St. Martin's summer came at last, and with 
 it all that wonderful, dreamlike beauty which 
 bathes the isles in a flood of golden light, and 
 puts upon sea and land a veil as of ineffable 
 mystery. 
 
 One late afternoon Yyns, returning to 
 Caisteal-Rhona after an unexplained absence 
 of several hours, found Alan sitting at a table. 
 Spread before him were the sheets of one of 
 the strange old Gaelic tales which he had 
 ardently begun to translate. She took up the 
 page which he had just laid down. It was 
 from the Eachdaireachd Challum mhic cruimein, 
 and the last words that Alan had translated 
 were these:
 
 244 Green Fire 
 
 "And when that king had come to the 
 island, he lived there in the shadow of men's 
 eyes; for none saw him by day or by night, 
 and none knew whence he came or whither he 
 fared; for his feet were shod with silence, and 
 his way with dusk. But men knew that he 
 was there, and all feared him. Months, even 
 years, tramped one on the heels of the other, 
 and perhaps the king gave no sign, but one 
 day he would give a sign; and that sign was a 
 laughing that was heard somewhere, be it 
 upon the lonely hills, or on the lonely wave, or 
 in the heart of him who heard. And when- 
 ever the king laughed, he who heard would 
 fare ere long from his fellows to join that king 
 in the shadow. But sometimes the king 
 laughed only because of vain hopes and wild 
 imaginings, for upon these he lives as well as 
 upon the strange savors of mortality." 
 
 Ynys read the page over and over; and 
 when Alan saw how she brooded upon it, he 
 regretted that he had left it for her to see. 
 
 He the more regretted this when he learned 
 that that very afternoon she had'again been
 
 The Laughter of the King 245 
 
 among the sea caves. She would not say 
 what she had seen or heard, if indeed she 
 had heard or seen any thing unusual. But 
 that night she woke suddenly, and taking 
 Alan by the hand, made him promise to go 
 with her on the morrow to the Teampull- 
 Mhara. 
 
 In vain he questioned her as to why she asked 
 this thing. All she would say was that she 
 must go there once again, and with him, for 
 she believed that a spirit out of heaven had 
 come to reveal to her a wonder. Distressed . 
 by what he knew to be a madness, and fearful 
 that it might prove to be no passing fantasy, 
 Alan would fain have persuaded her against 
 this intention. Even as he spoke, however, 
 he realized that it might be better to accede 
 to her wishes, and, above all, to be there 
 with her, so that it might not be one only who 
 heard or saw the expected revelation. 
 
 And it was a strange faring indeed, that 
 which occurred on the morrow. At noon, 
 when the tide was an hour turned in the ebb, 
 they sailed westward from Caisteal-Rhona. 
 It was in silence they made that strange jour-
 
 246 Green Fire 
 
 ney together; for, while Alan steered, Ynys 
 lay down in the hollow of the boat, with her 
 head against his knees, and he saw that she 
 slept, or at least lay still with her eyes closed. 
 
 When, at last, they passed the headland 
 and entered the first of the sea arcades, she 
 rose and sat beside him. Hauling down the 
 now useless sail, he took an oar and, standing 
 at the prow, urged the boat inward along the 
 narrow corridor which led to the huge sea 
 cave of the Altar. 
 
 In the deep gloom for even on that day 
 of golden light and beauty the green air of the 
 sea cave was heavy with shadow there was a 
 deathly chill. What dull light there was came 
 from the sheen of the green water which lay 
 motionless along the black basaltic ledges. 
 When at last the base of the Altar was reached, 
 Alan secured the boat by a rope passed 
 around a projecting spur; and then lay down 
 in the stern beside Ynys. 
 
 "Tell me, dear, what is this thing that you 
 expect to hear or see? " 
 
 She looked at him strangely for a while, 
 but, though her lips moved, she said nothing.
 
 The Laughter of the King 247 
 
 "Tell me, dear," he urged again, "who is it 
 you expect to see or hear? " 
 
 "Am Buchaille B&n," she answered, "the 
 Herdsman." 
 
 For a moment he hesitated. Then, taking 
 her hand in his, and raising it to his lips, he 
 whispered in her ear: 
 
 "Dearest, all this is a vain dream. There 
 is no Herdsman upon Rona. If ever there 
 was a man there who lived solitary if ever, 
 indeed, there was an aonaran nan chreag he is 
 dead long since. What you have seen and 
 heard has been a preying upon you of wild 
 thoughts. Think no more of this vision. 
 We have both suffered too much, and the 
 knowledge of what is behind us has wrought 
 upon us too hardly. It is a mistake to be 
 here, on Rona, now. Ynys, darling, you and 
 I are young, and we love; let us leave this 
 melancholy isle these melancholy isles and 
 go back into the green, sunny world wherein 
 we had such joy before; yes, let us even go 
 back to Kerival; anywhere where we may live 
 our life with joy and glad content but 
 not here, not in these melancholy, haunted
 
 248 Green Fire 
 
 isles, where our dreams become more real 
 than our life, and life itself, for us at least, 
 the mere shadow of being. Ynys, will you 
 come? Will you go?" 
 
 "All shall be as you will, Alan afterward. 
 But first, I must wait here till our child is 
 born, for I have heard that which is a 
 message. And one part of that message 
 concerns you and me; and one concerns 
 others. And that which concerns you and 
 me is that in this way, in this child, to be 
 born here in this place, lies the redemption 
 of that evil by which your father was slain by 
 my father. It is not enough that you and 
 I have forgotten the past; the past remains. 
 What we cannot do, or no man or woman can 
 do, the powers that are beyond the grave can 
 accomplish. Not our love, not even ours, 
 can redeem that crime. But if, born of us, 
 one will come, who will be dowered with our 
 love and free from the blood shadow which 
 lies upon us, then all will be well and the evil 
 shall be done with forever more. But also, 
 has not the Prophet said that one shall be 
 born upon this island who will redeem his
 
 The Laughter of the King 249 
 
 oppressed people? And this Prophet, Alan, 
 I have seen and heard. Never have I seen 
 his face aright, for it has ever been in the 
 shadow; but I have heard his voice, for he 
 has spoken to me, and what he has said is 
 this: that in the fulness of time the child 
 I shall bear will be he of whom men have 
 dreamed in the isles for ages past. Sure, 
 dear, you and I must be believing that thing, 
 since he who tells it is no mere erring Faidh, 
 but himself an immortal spirit." 
 
 Alan looked at the speaker in amaze. 
 There could be no question of her absolute 
 sincerity; for the beautiful face was lit with 
 a strange light, and in her eyes was a proud 
 gleam of conscious sacrifice. That it was all 
 a madness, a fantasy, he knew well. Long 
 ago had Lois de Kerival spoken of the 
 danger that lay for Ynys; she being the in- 
 heritor of a strange brooding spirit which 
 belonged to her people. Now, in this remote 
 place, the life of dream and the life of 
 reality had become one; and Ynys was as 
 a drifted ship among unknown seas and 
 mists.
 
 250 Green Fire 
 
 But on one point he believed he might 
 convince her. 
 
 "Why do you speak of the Herdsman as 
 a spirit, Ynys? What proof have you of this? 
 If you or I have seen any one at all, be sure 
 it is a mortal man and no spirit; nay, I know 
 who it must be, if any one it is, for through- 
 out the isles men say that Donnacha Ban, 
 the son of the brother of my father, was 
 an outlaw here, and has lived long among 
 the caves." 
 
 "This man," she said quietly, "is not 
 Donnacha Ban, but the Prophet of whom the 
 people speak. He himself has told me this 
 thing. Yesterday I was here, and he bade 
 me come again. He spoke out of the shadow 
 that is about the Altar, though I saw him 
 not. I asked him if he were Donnacha Ban, 
 and he said 'No.' I asked him if he were 
 Am Faidh, and he said 'Yes.' I asked him 
 if he were indeed an immortal spirit, and 
 herald of that which was to be, and he said 
 ' Even so.' " 
 
 For a long while after this, no word was 
 spoken betwixt the twain. The chill of that
 
 The Laughter of the King 251 
 
 remote place began to affect Ynys, and she 
 shivered slightly at times. But more she 
 shivered because of the silence which pre- 
 vailed, and because that he who had promised 
 to be there gave no sign. Sure, she thought, 
 it could not be all a dream; sure, the Herds- 
 man would come again. 
 
 Then, at last, turning to Alan, she said, 
 "We must come on the morrow; for to-day 
 he is not here." 
 
 " No, dear; never, never shall we come 
 here again. This is for the last time. 
 Henceforth, we shall dwell here in Rona no 
 more." 
 
 "You will do this thing for me, Alan, that 
 I ask? " 
 
 " I will do what you ask, Ynys." 
 
 11 Then take this written word, and leave 
 it upon the top of the great rock there that 
 is called the Altar." 
 
 With that she placed in his hand a slip of 
 paper whereon she had already written cer- 
 tain words. What they were, Alan could not 
 discern in that shadowy light; but, taking the 
 slip in his hand, he stepped on the black
 
 252 Green Fire 
 
 ledges at the base of the Altar, and slowly 
 mounted the precipitous rock. 
 
 Ynys watched him till he became himself 
 a shadow in that darkness. Her heart leaped 
 when suddenly she heard a cry fall to her out 
 of the gloom. 
 
 "Alan, Alan!" she cried, and a great fear 
 was upon her when no answer came; but at 
 last, with passionate relief, she heard him 
 clambering slowly down the perilous slope of 
 that obscure place. When he reached the 
 ledge, he stood still, regarding her. 
 
 "Why do you not come into the boat, 
 Alan? " she asked. 
 
 "Dear, I have that to tell you which will 
 let you see that I spoke truth." 
 
 She looked at him with parted lips, her 
 breath coming and going like that of a caged 
 bird. 
 
 "What is it, Alan? " she whispered. 
 
 "Ynys, when I -reached the top of the 
 Altar, and in the dim light that was there, I 
 saw the dead body of a man lying upon the 
 rock. His head was lain back so that the 
 gleam from a crevice in the cliff overhead fell
 
 The Laughter of the King 253 
 
 upon it. The man has been dead many 
 hours. He is a man whose hair has been 
 grayed by years and sorrow, but the man is 
 he who is of my blood; he whom I resemble 
 so closely; he that the fishermen call aonaran 
 nan chreag; he that is the Herdsman." 
 
 Ynys made no reply; still she looked at 
 him with large, wondering eyes. 
 
 " Ynys, darling, do you not understand 
 what it is that I say? This man, that they 
 call the Buchaille Ban this man whom you 
 believe to be the Herdsman of the old legend 
 is no other than Donnacha Ban, he who 
 years and years ago slew his brother and has 
 been an exile ever since on this lonely island. 
 How could he, then, a man as I am, though 
 with upon him a worse blood-shadow than 
 lies upon us how could he tell you aught of 
 what is to be? What message could he give 
 you that is himself a lost soul? 
 
 "Would you be for following a herdsman 
 who could lead you to no fold? This man is 
 dead, Ynys; and it is well that you brought 
 me here to-day. That is a good thing, and 
 for sure God willed it. Out of this all our
 
 254 Green Fire 
 
 new happiness may come. For now we know 
 what is this mysterious shadow that has dark- 
 ened our lives ever since we came to Rona. 
 Now we have knowledge that it was no mere 
 phantom I saw upon the hillside; and now also 
 we know that he who told you these strange, 
 wild things of which you speak was no 
 prophet with a message from the world of the 
 spirit, but a man wrought to madness, a man 
 who for all these years had lived his lonely, 
 secretive life upon the hills, or among these 
 caves of the sea. Come, then, dear, and let 
 us go hence. Sure, at the last, it is well that 
 we have found this way. Come, Ynys, we 
 will go now and never come here again." 
 
 He looked eagerly for her assenting eyes. 
 With pain in his heart, however, he saw that 
 the dream the strange, inexplicable fantasy 
 had not yet gone out of them. With a sigh, 
 he entered the boat and took her hand. 
 
 " Let us go," she said, and that was all. 
 
 Slowly Alan oared the boat across the 
 shadowy gulf of the cave, along the narrow 
 passage which led therefrom, and out into 
 the pale green gloom of the arched arcade
 
 The Laughter of the King 255 
 
 wherein the sight and sound of the sea made 
 a music in his ears. 
 
 But the short November day was already 
 passing to its end. All the sea westward was 
 aflame with gold and crimson light, and in the 
 great dome of the sky a wonderful radiance 
 lifted above the paleness of the clouds whose 
 pinnacled and bastioned heights towered in 
 the south-west. 
 
 A faint wind blew eastwardly; so, raising 
 the sail, Alan made it fast and then sat down 
 beside Ynys. But she, rising, moved along 
 the boat to the mast, and leaned there with 
 her face against the setting sun. 
 
 Idly they drifted onward. Deep silence 
 prevailed betwixt them; deep silence was all 
 about them, save for the endless, inarticulate 
 murmur of the sea, the splash of low waves 
 against the rocks of Rona, and the sigh of the 
 surf at the base of the basalt precipices. 
 
 And this was their homeward sailing on 
 that day of revelation; Ynys, with her back 
 against the mast, and her face irradiated by 
 the light of the setting sun; he, steering, 
 with his face in shadow.
 
 256 Green Fire 
 
 On a night of rain and amid the rumor of 
 tempest, three weeks later, Ynys heard the 
 Laughter of the King, when the child who 
 was to be the bearer of so fair a destiny lay 
 by her side, white and chill as the foam 
 thrown up for a brief while upon the rocks 
 by the unheeding sea.
 
 BOOK THIRD 
 THE BEAUTY OF THE WORLD
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 THE BEAUTY OF THE WORLD 
 
 WHEN, once more, the exquisite mystery 
 of spring came upon the world, there was 
 a not less wonderful rebirth in the heart of 
 Ynys. 
 
 With the coming of that child upon whom 
 such high hopes had been set its birth, still 
 and quiet as a snowdrop fallen before an icy 
 wind upon the snow which nurtured it all the 
 fear of a mysterious Nemesis, because of her 
 union with Alan despite the shadow of tragic 
 crime which made that union ominous of evil 
 destiny; all the vague forebodings which had 
 possessed her ever since she leftKerival; and, 
 at the last, all the mystic elation with which 
 her mind had become a winged and wandering 
 spirit, passed from her. 
 
 The gloom of that northern winter was 
 tonic to them both. As soon as her weakness
 
 260 Green Fire 
 
 was past, and once more she was able to go 
 about with Alan, her old joyousness returned. 
 In her eyes it was almost as though the 
 islanders shared her recovered happiness. 
 For one thing, they no more avoided her and 
 Alan. With the death of the man who had 
 so long sustained a mysterious existence 
 upon Rona, their superstitious aversion went; 
 they ceased to speak of Am Buchaille B&n 
 and, whether Donnacha Ban had found on 
 Rona one of the hidden ways to heaven or 
 had only dallied upon one of the byways to 
 hell, it was commonly held that he had paid 
 his death-eric by his lonely and even appalling 
 life of unredeemed solitude. Now that there 
 was no longer any possibility of confusion be- 
 tween the outcast who had come to his tragic 
 end, among the sea caves of Rona, and his 
 kinsman who bore to him so extraordinary a 
 resemblance, a deep sense of the injustice that 
 had been done to Alan Carmichael prevailed 
 among the islanders. In many ways they 
 showed their regret; but most satisfactorily, 
 so far as Alan was concerned, by taking him 
 as one of themselves; as a man no longer
 
 The Beauty of the World 261 
 
 under the shadow of doom or in any way 
 linked to a disastrous fate. 
 
 True, there were still some of the isle folk 
 on Borosay and Barra who maintained that the 
 man who had been found in the sea cave, 
 whether Donnacha Ban or some other, had 
 nothing to do with the mysterious Herdsman, 
 whose advent, indeed, had long been antici- 
 pated by a section of the older inhabitants. 
 It was only seven years since Murdo Mac- 
 phail better known as Murdo-Bronnach-na- 
 mhara, Brown Murdoch of the Sea, from his 
 habit of preaching to the islanders from where 
 he stood waist-deep in the water had prophe- 
 sied that the Herdsman who was Shepherd 
 of Israel would indeed come again, and that 
 within seven years. And had he not added 
 that if the Fair Lonely One were not accepted 
 of the people, there would be deep sorrow for 
 one and all, and a bitter wrong upon all the 
 isles of the west? 
 
 These murmurers now shook their heads 
 and whispered often. Of a truth, they said, 
 the Herdsman was come as foretold, and Alan 
 Carmichael was blind indeed not to see that
 
 262 Green Fire 
 
 Ynys, his wife, had received a vision, and, 
 because of her silence, been punished in the 
 death of her first-born. 
 
 But with the white growth of winter, the 
 pleasant, familiar intercourse that everywhere 
 prevailed wrought finally against the last 
 threadbare fabric of superstition. Before the 
 glow of the peats the sadness and gloom slowly 
 dissipated. It was a new delight to both Alan 
 and Ynys to find that the islanders could be so 
 genial and almost gay, with a love of laughter 
 and music and grotesque humor which, even in 
 the blithe little fishing haven of Ploumaliou, 
 they had never seen surpassed. 
 
 The cold months passed for them in a quiet 
 content. That could not be happiness upon 
 which was the shadow of so much pain; but 
 there was something akin to it in the sweet 
 serenity which came like calm after storm. 
 
 Possibly they might have been content 
 to remain in Rona; to find in the island 
 their interest and happiness. Ynys, in- 
 deed, often longed to leave the place 
 where she had been so sadly disillusioned; 
 and yet she did not urge that the
 
 The Beauty of the World 263 
 
 home at Caisteal-Rhona should be broken up. 
 While they were still in this state of quiet sus- 
 pense, news came that affected them strangely. 
 They had had no word from Kerival since 
 they left, but one windy March day a boat from 
 Borosay put into the haven with letters from 
 Alan's agents in Edinburgh. Among them was 
 one from the Abb Caesar de La Bruyere, from 
 Kerloek. From this Alan learned strange news. 
 
 On the very day that he and Ynys had left 
 Kerival, Annaik had disappeared. None 
 knew where she had gone. At first it was 
 thought that Judik Kerbastiou had some- 
 thing to do with her absence, but two days 
 after she had gone he was again at Kerival. 
 The house was a place of anarchy. No 
 one knew whom to obey; what to do. With 
 the Marquise Lois in her grave, with both 
 Ynys and Annaik mysteriously absent and 
 apparently with no intention to return, and 
 with Tristran the Silent more morosely taci- 
 turn than his wont, and more than ever 
 an invalid, with all this it was difficult 
 for those in authority to exact the habitual
 
 264 Green Fire 
 
 duties. But in addition to this there were the 
 imperious claims of Judik Kerbastiou, empha- 
 sized by his refusal to be addressed by any 
 other name than the Sieur Jud de Kerival. 
 
 When, suddenly, and while quietly dictat- 
 ing a letter, the Marquis Tristran died, it 
 seemed at last as though Judik's triumph had 
 come. For a brief while he was even ad- 
 dressed as M. le Marquis. But on the noon 
 following that day he had a rude awaken- 
 ing. A notary from Ploumaliou arrived with 
 the family lawyers, and produced a written 
 and signed confession on the part of the 
 woman whom he had called mother, that he 
 was not her child at all, that her own child 
 was dead, and that Kerbastiou was really a 
 forest foundling. As if this were not enough, 
 the notary also proved, even to the conviction 
 of Judik, that the written marriage testimony 
 from the parish books was an impudent forgery. 
 
 So the man who had made so abrupt and 
 dramatic an appearance on the threshold of 
 Kerival had, in the very moment of his tri- 
 umph, to retreat once more to his obscurity as 
 a homeless woodlander.
 
 The Beauty of the World 265 
 
 The sole heirs now were Annaik and Ynys, 
 but of neither was any thing known. The 
 difficulty was partially solved by the abrupt 
 appearance of Annaik on the day of the 
 second conclave. 
 
 For a time thereafter all went well at Keri- 
 val. Then rumor began to spread mysterious 
 whispers about the Lady Annaik. She would 
 see none of her neighbors, whether from far 
 or near, and even the Sieur de Morvan and 
 his kith or kin were denied. Then, too, 
 she disappeared for days at a time. Some 
 thought she went to Ploumaliou or Kerloek, 
 some that she had gone as far away as Rennes 
 or St. Brieuc, and a few even imagined the 
 remote Paris to be her goal. None dreamed 
 that she had gone no further than the forest 
 of Kerival. 
 
 But as the autumn waned, rumors became 
 more explicit. Strange things were said of 
 Annaik de Kerival. At last the anxious Curd 
 of Ploumaliou took it upon himself to assure all 
 who spoke to him about the Lady of Kerival 
 that he had good reason to believe she was 
 privately married. This, at least, drew some
 
 266 Green Fire 
 
 of the poison out of the gossip that had 
 arisen. 
 
 Then a day came when the Lady Annaik 
 dismissed the servants at Kerival, and left 
 none in the house save an old gardener and 
 his wife. She was going away for a time, she 
 said. She went, and from that day was not 
 seen again. 
 
 Then came, in the Abbe Caesar de La 
 Bruyere's letter, the strangest part of the 
 mystery. 
 
 Annaik, ever since the departure of Alan 
 and Ynys, had been living the forest life. All 
 her passionate sylvan and barbaric instincts 
 had been suddenly aroused. For the green 
 woods and the forest ways she suffered an 
 intolerable nostalgia. But over and above 
 this was another reason. It seemed, said the 
 Abbe* Caesar, that she must have returned the 
 rude love of Judik Kerbastiou. However this 
 might be, she lived with him for days at a time, 
 and he himself had a copy of their marriage cer- 
 tificate made out at a registrar's in a remote 
 little hill-town in the Montagnes Noires. 
 
 This union with the morose and strange
 
 The Beauty of the World 267 
 
 Judik Kerbastiou had not been known to any 
 of the peasants until her trouble came to her. 
 When the day was near she did not return to 
 Kerival, but kept to the gypsy tent which she 
 shared with Judik. After the birth of the 
 child, every one knew, and every one mar- 
 velled. It was a madness: that was what all 
 said, from Kerloek to Ploumaliou. 
 
 But neither the union nor the child brought 
 happiness to these twain, so much at one in 
 their woodland life, so hopelessly alien in all 
 else. One day a man named louenn Ker- 
 bac'h, passing by the tent where Judik and 
 Annaik had taken shelter from a violent 
 thunder-storm, overheard a savage upbraiding 
 on the part of Kerbastiou. Annaik was his 
 wife, it was true so he cried but a wife who 
 had in nothing short of madness renounced 
 every thing, and now would claim nothing of 
 her own nor allow him to claim aught; a wife 
 whom he loved with another madness, and 
 yet hated because she was so hopelessly 
 remote from himself; a wife who had borne 
 a child, but a child that had nothing of the 
 gypsy eyes and swarthy darkness of Judik
 
 268 Green Fire 
 
 Kerbastiou, but was fair, and with skin as white 
 and eyes as blue as those of Alan de Kerival. 
 
 It was this, and the terrible words that were 
 said, which made louenn Kerbac'h hurry 
 onward, dreading to listen further. Yet noth- 
 ing that he overheard gave him so strange a 
 fear as the laugh with which Annaik de Keri- 
 val greeted a savage, screaming threat of 
 death, hurled at her because of her silence 
 after the taunting accusation he had made . . . 
 had made, and defied her to refute. 
 
 None heard or saw Annaik Kerbastiou after 
 that day, till the night of the evening when 
 Judik came into Haut-Kerloek and went 
 straight to Jehan Rusgol, the Maire. 
 
 When asked what he had come for he had 
 replied simply: "The woman Annaik is 
 dead." It was commonly thought that he 
 had killed her, but there was no evidence of 
 this, and the end of the inevitable legal pro- 
 cedure was the acquittal of the woodlander. 
 From that day the man was rarely seen of 
 his fellows, and even then, for the most part, 
 only by charcoal-burners and others who had 
 forest business. A few peasants knew where
 
 The Beauty of the World 269 
 
 his hut was, and now and again called to 
 speak with him, or to drink a cup of cider; 
 but oftener than not he was absent, and 
 always with the child. The boy had survived 
 his mother's death, and in some strange way 
 had suddenly become so dear to Judik Ker- 
 bastiou that the two were inseparable. 
 
 This, then, was the tidings which startled 
 Alan and Ynys out of their remote quiescence. 
 
 The unexpected news, coupled with the 
 urgent request that both should return to 
 Kerival, if only for a brief while, so as to 
 prevent the property falling into absolute 
 ruin, came as a whip upon Alan's mind. To 
 all he said Ynys agreed, and was even 
 glad to leave Rona and return to Brittany. 
 
 So it was that, with the first days of April, 
 they bade farewell to Ian and his sister, whom 
 they left at Caisteal-Rhona, which was hence- 
 forth to be their home, and to all upon the 
 island, and set forth in a fishing smack for 
 Borosay. 
 
 It was not till the last of the precipices of 
 Rona was lost to view behind the south head-
 
 270 Green Fire 
 
 land of Borosay that Ynys clearly realized the 
 deep gladness with which she left the lonely 
 Isle of the Caves. That it would have been 
 impossible for her to live there long she was 
 now well assured ; and for Alan, too, the life 
 was not suitable. For the north, and for the 
 islands, they would ever have a deep feeling, 
 almost sacred in its intensity; but all that 
 had happened made living there a thing diffi- 
 cult and painful for them, and moreover each, 
 though Ynys most, missed that green wood- 
 land beauty, the ceaseless forest charm, 
 which made the very memory of Kerival so 
 fragrant. 
 
 They went away, then, not as travellers who 
 fare far with no thought of return, but rather 
 as pilgrims returning homeward from a shrine 
 sacred to them by profound and intimate 
 associations. 
 
 That was, indeed, for them a strange home- 
 going. From the first there was something 
 dreamlike, unreal, about that southward flight; 
 in the long sail across Hebrid seas, calm as 
 glass until the south headlands of Mull were 
 passed, and then storm-swept; in the rapid
 
 The Beauty of the World 271 
 
 journey across Scotland and through England; 
 and in the recrossing of that narrow sea 
 which had once seemed to them a gulf of 
 ultimate division. 
 
 But when once more they saw the grotesque 
 bulbous spire of Ploumaliou rising above the 
 sand-dunes by which, from St. Malo, they 
 approached the dear, familiar country, all this 
 uncertainty went from them. With light 
 hearts they realized it was indeed true; that 
 they were free at last of a life for which they 
 were now unfitted, and that the lost threads 
 in the maze had been found. 
 
 By their own wish the home-coming was so 
 private that none knew of it save the doctor, 
 the Curd, the lawyer who accompanied them 
 from Ploumaliou, and the old gardener and 
 his wife. As they neared the chateau from 
 the north, Alan and Ynys alighted from the 
 dishevelled carriage which was the sole 
 vehicle of which Ploumaliou could boast. 
 M. Auriol could drive on alone ; for themselves, 
 they chose to reach their home by the dunes 
 and scattered pines, and thence by the yew 
 close behind the manor-house.
 
 272 Green Fire 
 
 The day was windless and of a serene 
 beauty. Ever since noon the few clouds, sus- 
 pensive in the azure flood like islets of snow, 
 had waned till they were faint and light as 
 blown swan's-down, then filmy as vapor lifted 
 against the sun, and at last were no more 
 visible; there had been the same unfathomable 
 depths of azure, through which the tides of 
 light imperceptibly ebbed from the zenith. 
 The sea, too, was of a vivid though motion- 
 less blue, save where luminous with a white 
 sheen or wrought with violet shadows and 
 straits of amethyst. Upon the land lay 
 a golden peace. A richer glow involved 
 the dunes, where the pine-shadows cast 
 long, motionless blue shapes. As, hand in 
 hand, Ynys and Alan moved athwart the 
 pine glade whence they could pass at once 
 either westward into the cypress alley or east- 
 ward through the yew close, they stopped 
 instinctively. Beyond them rose the chim- 
 neys and gables of the House of Kerival, 
 strangely still and remote, for all their famil- 
 iar look. What a brief while ago it seemed 
 since he and she had walked under these pines,
 
 The Beauty of the World 273 
 
 wrought by the first ecstasy of their virginal 
 love. Then, those who now lay quiet in the 
 darkness of the earth were alive; Lois de 
 Kerival, with her repressed, passionate heart 
 still at last; the Marquis Tristran, with the 
 young grass growing soft and green over his 
 bitterness; Alasdair Carmichael, with the 
 echo of the island waves stilled under the 
 quiet bells of the little church which guarded 
 the grave-yard of St. Blaise; and Annaik 
 poor lost waif of beautiful womanhood, sub- 
 merged forever in the green woods she loved 
 so well, and sleeping so sound a sleep at last 
 in an unmarked hollow beneath an ancient 
 tree in some obscure glade or alley. 
 
 A shadow was in Alan's eyes a deeper 
 shadow than that caused by thought of the 
 dead who lay heedless and listless, at once so 
 near and such depths away a deeper shadow 
 than that cast by memory of the crime which 
 overlay the past. 
 
 As his eyes wandered to the cypress alley, 
 his heart knew again a pain almost beyond 
 endurance; a pain that only the peace of 
 Rona had translated into a strong acquies- 
 
 18
 
 274 Green Fire 
 
 cence in the irrevocable past a pain be- 
 come less haunting under the stress of all 
 which had happened in connection with the 
 Herdsman, till it knew a bitter resurrection 
 when Alan came to read of the tragic fate of 
 the woman who had loved him. 
 
 Through some wayward impulse Ynys 
 abruptly asked him to go with her through 
 the cypress alley, so that they should ap- 
 proach the chateau from the forest. 
 
 Silently, and with downcast eyes, he walked 
 by her side, his hand still in hers. But his 
 thoughts were with the dead woman, on the 
 bitter hazard of love, and on what lay, forever 
 secret, between Annaik and himself. And as 
 he communed with himself, in an austere pain 
 of remembrance, he came to see more and 
 more clearly that in some strange way the 
 Herdsman episode, with all involved therein, 
 was no arbitrary chance in the maze of life, 
 but a definite working out of destiny. None 
 could ever know what Annaik had foretold, 
 had known, on that terrible night when the 
 silence of the moonlit peace was continuously 
 rent by the savage screams of the peacocks;
 
 The Beauty of the World 275 
 
 nor could any other than himself discern, 
 against the dark tapestries of what veiled 
 his inner life, the weaving of an inextricable 
 web. 
 
 It was difficult for him to believe that she 
 was dead Annaik, who had always been so 
 radiantly, superbly alive. Now there was dust 
 upon that wonderful bronze hair; darkness 
 upon those lambent eyes; no swift pulse beat- 
 ing in the red tide in the veins; a frost against 
 the heart. What a burden it had carried, 
 poor heart! "Oh, Annaik, Annaik!" he mut- 
 tered below his breath, "what a hard wayfaring 
 because of a passion crucified upon the bitter 
 tree of despair; what a fierce, silent, unwav- 
 ering tyranny over the rebellious voices cry- 
 ing unceasingly from every nerve, or swept 
 this way and that on every stormy tide of 
 blood." 
 
 That Annaik who loved the forest so pass- 
 ing well, and in whom the green fire of life 
 flamed consumingly, should no longer be alive 
 to rejoice in the glory of spring, now once 
 again everywhere involving the brown earth 
 and the purple branches, was an almost un-
 
 276 Green Fire 
 
 realizable thing. To walk in that cypress 
 alley once more; to cross that open glade 
 with its single hawthorn; to move in the dark 
 green shadow of that yew close; to do this and 
 remember all that Annaik had suffered, and 
 that now she lay quiet and beyond all pain or 
 joy to touch her, was to Alan a thought 
 almost too poignant to be borne. 
 
 It was with an effort he answered Ynys 
 when she spoke, and it was in silence that 
 they entered the house which was now their 
 home, and where years ago, as it seemed 
 they had been young and happy. 
 
 But that night he sat alone for a time in the 
 little room in the tower which rose from the 
 east wing of Kerival the room he had fitted 
 up as an observatory, similar, on a smaller 
 scale, to that in the Tour de 1'Ile where he had 
 so deeply studied the mystery of the starry 
 world. Here he had dreamed many dreams, 
 and here he dreamed yet another. 
 
 For out of his thoughts about Annaik and 
 Ynys arose a fuller, a deeper conception of 
 Womanhood. How well he remembered a 
 legend that Ynys had told him on Rona: a
 
 The Beauty of the World 277 
 
 legend of a fair spirit which goes to and fro 
 upon the world, the Weaver of Tears. He 
 loves the pathways of sorrow. His voice is 
 low and sweet, with a sound like the bubbling 
 of waters in that fount whence the rainbows 
 rise. His eyes are in quiet places, and in the 
 dumb pain of animals as in the agony of the 
 human brain: but most he is found, oftenest 
 are the dewy traces of his feet, in the heart of 
 woman. 
 
 Tears, tears! They are not the saltest tears 
 which are on the lids of those who weep. 
 Fierce tears there are, hot founts of pain in 
 the mind of many a man, that are never shed, 
 but slowly crystallize in furrows on brow and 
 face, and in deep weariness in the eyes; fierce 
 tears, unquenchable, in the heart of many a 
 woman, whose brave eyes look fearlessly at 
 life; whose dauntless courage goes forth daily 
 to die, but never to be vanquished. 
 
 In truth the Weaver of Tears abides in 
 the heart of Woman. O Mother of Pity, of 
 Love, of deep Compassion! with thee it is to 
 yearn forever for the ideal human; to bring 
 the spiritual love into fusion with human
 
 278 Green Fire 
 
 desire; endlessly to strive, endlessly to fail; 
 always to hope in spite of disillusion; to love 
 unswervingly against all baffling and mis- 
 understanding, and even forgetfulness! O 
 Woman, whose eyes are always stretched out 
 to her erring children, whose heart is big 
 enough to cover all the little children in the 
 world, and suffer with their sufferings, and 
 joy with their joys! Woman, whose other 
 divine names are Strength and Patience, who 
 is no girl, no Virgin, because she has drunk 
 too deeply of the fount of Life to be very 
 young or very joyful. Upon her lips is the 
 shadowy kiss of death; in her eyes is the 
 shadow of birth. She is the veiled interpreter 
 of the two mysteries. Yet what joyousness like 
 hers, when she wills; because of her unwaver- 
 ing hope, her inexhaustible fount of love? 
 
 So it was that, just as Alan had long recog- 
 nized as a deep truth how the spiritual nature 
 of man has been revealed to humanity in many 
 divine incarnations, so he had come to believe 
 that the spiritual nature of woman has been 
 revealed in the many Marys, sisters of the 
 Beloved, who have had the keys of the soul and
 
 The Beauty of the World 279 
 
 the heart in their unconscious keeping. In this 
 exquisite truth he knew a fresh and vivid 
 hope. Was it all a dream that Ynys had 
 dreamed, far away among the sea arcades of 
 Rona? Had the Herdsman, the Shepherd of 
 Souls, indeed revealed to her that a child was 
 to be born who would be one of the redeemers 
 of the world? A Woman Saviour, who would 
 come near to all of us, because in her heart 
 would be the blind tears of the child, and the 
 bitter tears of the man, and the patient tears 
 of the woman; who would be the Compassion- 
 ate One, with no end or aim but compassion 
 with no doctrine to teach, no way to show, 
 but only deep, wonderful, beautiful, inalien- 
 able, unquenchable compassion? 
 
 For, in truth, there is the divine, eternal 
 feminine counterpart to the divine, eternal 
 male, and both are needed to explain the 
 mystery of the dual Spirit within us the 
 mystery of the Two in One, so infinitely 
 stranger and more wonderful than that triune 
 life which the blind teachers of the blind have 
 made a rock of stumbling and offence out of a 
 truth clear and obvious as noon.
 
 280 Green Fire 
 
 We speak of Mother Nature, but we do not 
 discern the living truth behind our words. 
 How few of us have the vision of this great 
 brooding Mother, whose garment is the earth 
 and sea, whose head is pillowed among the 
 stars; she who, with Death and Sleep as her 
 familiar shapes, soothes and rests all the 
 weariness of the world, from the waning leaf 
 to the beating pulse; from the brief span of 
 a human heart to the furrowing of granite 
 brows by the uninterrupted sun, the hounds 
 of rain and wind, and the untrammelled airs 
 of heaven. 
 
 Not cruel, relentless, impotently anarchic, 
 chaotically potent, this Mater Genetrix. We 
 see her thus, who are flying threads in the 
 loom she weaves. But she is patient, abiding, 
 certain, inviolate, and silent ever. It is only 
 when we come to this vision of her whom we 
 call Isis or Hera or Orchil, or one of a hundred 
 other names, our unknown Earth-Mother, 
 that men and women will know each other 
 aright, and go hand in hand along the road of 
 Life without striving to crush, to subdue, to 
 usurp, to retaliate, to separate.
 
 The Beauty of the World 281 
 
 Ah, fair vision of humanity to come! man 
 and woman side by side, sweet, serene, true, 
 simple, natural, fulfilling Earth's and Heaven's 
 behests; unashamed, unsophisticated, un- 
 affected, each to each and for each; children 
 of one mother, inheritors of a like destiny, 
 and, at the last, artificers of an equal fate. 
 
 Pondering thus, Alan rose and looked out 
 into the night. In that great stillness, wherein 
 the moonlight lay like the visible fragrance of 
 the earth, he gazed long and intently. How 
 shadowy, now, were these lives that had so 
 lately palpitated in this very place; "now 
 strange their silence, their incommunicable 
 knowledge, their fathomless peace! 
 
 Was it all lost . . . the long endurance of 
 pain, the pangs of sorrow? If so, what was 
 the lesson of life? Surely, to live with sweet 
 serenity and gladness, content against the in- 
 evitable hour. There is solace of a kind in 
 the idea of a common end, of that terrible 
 processional march of life wherein the myriad 
 is momentary, and the immeasurable is but a 
 passing shadow. But, alas! it is only solace 
 of a kind; for what heart that has beat to the
 
 282 Green Fire 
 
 pulse of love can relinquish the sweet dream 
 of life, and what coronal can philosophy put 
 upon the brows of youth in place of eternity? 
 
 No, no! of this he felt sure. In the Beauty 
 of the World lies the ultimate redemption of 
 our mortality. When we shall become at one 
 with nature, in a sense profounder even than 
 the poetic imaginings 'of most of us, we shall 
 understand what now we fail to discern. The 
 arrogance of those who would have the stars 
 as candles for our night, and the universe as 
 a pleasaunce for our thought, will be as impos- 
 sible as the blind fatuity of those who say we 
 are of dust, briefly vitalized, that shall be dust 
 again, with no fragrance saved from the rude 
 bankruptcy of life, no beauty raised up against 
 the sun to bloom anew. 
 
 It is no idle dream, this; no idle dream that 
 we are a perishing clan among the sons of God, 
 because of this slow waning of our joy, of our 
 passionate delight in the Beauty of the World. 
 We have been unable to look out upon the 
 shining of our star, for the vision overcomes 
 us; and we have used veils which we call 
 "scenery," "picturesqueness," and the like
 
 The Beauty of the World 283 
 
 poor, barren words that are so voiceless and 
 remote before the rustle of leaves and the lap 
 of water; before the ancient music of the 
 wind, and all the sovran eloquence of the 
 tides of light. But a day may come nay, 
 shall surely come when indeed the poor and 
 the humble shall inherit the earth; they who 
 have not made a league with temporal evils, 
 and out of whose heart shall arise the deep 
 longing, that shall become universal, of the 
 Renewal of Youth. 
 
 Often, in the days that followed their re- 
 turn to Kerival, Alan and Ynys talked of these 
 hopes and fears. And, gradually, out of the 
 beauty of the spring, out of the intensity of 
 the green fire of life which everywhere flamed 
 in the brown earth, on the hills, in the waters, 
 in the heart and brain of man, in the whole 
 living, breathing world, was born of them a new 
 joy. They were as the prince and princess 
 of the fairy tales, for whom every thing was 
 wonderful. Hand in hand they entered into 
 the kingdom of youth. It was theirs, thence- 
 forth; and all the joy of the world.
 
 284 Green Fire 
 
 To live, and love, and be full of a deep joy, 
 a glad content, a supporting hope! What des- 
 tiny among the stars fairer than this? 
 
 They would be harbingers of joy. That 
 was what they said, one to another. They 
 would be so glad with sweet life that others 
 would rejoice; out of their strength they 
 would strengthen, out of their joy they would 
 gladden, out of their peace they would com- 
 fort, out of their knowledge they would be 
 compassionate. 
 
 Nor was their dream an unfulfilled vision. 
 As the weeks slipped into months, and the 
 months lapsed into years, Alan and Ynys 
 realized all that it is possible for man and 
 woman to know of happiness. Happiness, 
 duties, claims held them to Kerival; but 
 there they lived in fair comradeship with their 
 fellows, with the green forest, with all that 
 nature had to give them for their delight 
 through wind and wave, through shadow and 
 shine, through changing seasons and the ex- 
 quisite hazard of every passing hour. 
 
 To them both, too, came the added joy 
 which they feared had been forfeited at Rona.
 
 The Beauty of the World 285 
 
 When Ynys felt the child's hands on her 
 breast, she was as one transformed by a 
 light out of heaven. Alan, looking at mother 
 and child, understood, with all his passion for 
 the intimate wonder and mystery of nature, 
 the deeper truth in the words of one of the 
 greatest of men . . . "the Souls of the 
 Living are the Beauty of the World." 
 
 That sometimes a shadow fell was inevi- 
 table. None ever so dusked the sun-way of 
 Alan's mind as when, remote in the forest of 
 Kerival, he came upon the unkempt figure 
 of Judik Kerbastiou, often carrying upon his 
 shoulder a little child whose happy laughter 
 was sweet to hear, in whose tawny hair was a 
 light such as had gleamed in Annaik's, and 
 whose eyes were blue as the north seas and 
 as Alan's were. 
 
 Often, too, Alan, alone in his observatory, 
 where he was wont to spend much of his 
 time, knew that strange nostalgia of the mind 
 for impossible things. Then, wrought for a 
 while from his vision of green life, and flamed 
 by another green fire than that born of the 
 earth, he dreamed his dream. With him, the
 
 286 Green Fire 
 
 peopled solitude of night was a concourse of 
 confirming voices. He did not dread the 
 silence of the stars the cold remoteness of 
 the stellar fire. 
 
 In that other watch-tower in Paris, where 
 he had spent the best hours of his youth, he 
 had loved that nightly watch of the con- 
 stellations. Now, as then, in the pulse of the 
 planets he found assurances which Faith had 
 not given him. In the vast, majestic order of 
 that nocturnal march, that diurnal retreat, he 
 had learned the law of the whirling leaf and 
 the falling star; of the slow, aeon-delayed 
 comet and of the slower wane of solar fires. 
 Looking with visionary eyes into that congre- 
 gation of stars, he realized, not the littleness 
 of the human dream but its divine impulsion. 
 It was only when, after long vigils into the 
 quietudes of night, he turned his gaze from 
 the palaces of the unknown, and thought of 
 the baffled, fretful swarming in the cities of 
 men, that his soul rose in revolt against the 
 sublime ineptitude of man's spiritual leaguer 
 against destiny. 
 
 Destiny An Dan it was a word familiar
 
 The Beauty of the World 287 
 
 to him since childhood, when first he had 
 heard it on the lips of old Ian Macdonald. 
 And once, on the eve of the Feast of Paschal, 
 when Alan had asked Daniel Dare what was 
 the word which the stars spelled from zenith 
 to nadir, the astronomer had turned and 
 answered simply, " C'est le Destin" But 
 Alan was of the few to whom this talismanic 
 word opens lofty perspectives, even while it 
 obscures those paltry vistas which we deem 
 unending and dignify with vain hopes and 
 void immortalities. 
 
 THE END
 
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