With the exception of his school-books poor Creggan's library was wonderfully small, and his literature was nearly always borrowed or given to him. For instance, even in the most squalid huts he had often found books that gave him no end of pleasure. They were mostly in the grand old Gaelic; but Creggan could read the language well, and in the long dark forenights of winter he used to delight the old hermit by trotting out the mysterious and Homeric-like lines of Ossian's poems. Then tourists, to whom he acted in the capacity of guide in summer-time, sometimes gave him a book, and M'Ian's library was always at his service.
So to-day he had thrown himself on his face on the green cliff-top, and had commenced to read his Ossian.
What a glorious summer afternoon! There was the blue Minch asleep in the sunshine, and stretching away and away far over to the hazy hills of Harris and Lewis. White gulls were floating on its billows close inshore, or wheeling high in air around the stupendous cliffs, where their nests were,—their plaintive, melancholy notes mingling with the song of the lark, the mavis, and the merle, while the solemn boom of the breaking waves made a sweet but awful diapason.
The air all around was warm and balmy, and laden with the sweet breath of wild thyme.
And Creggan M'Vayne was just reading one of his favourite, because most romantic passages, when the dry and business-like tones of Elliott Nugent fell upon his ear. Beautiful, indeed, did the boy consider every line of that wild and weird poem Carric-Thura. The ghost scene therein made him shudder; but it was the death of the lovers on the field of battle—the death of Connal and Crimora that affected him most. She had given him his arms with sad and woesome foreboding, but at the same time had determined to follow him into the fight.
Here was the din of arms; here the groans of the dying. Bloody are the wars of Fingal, O Connal, and it was here thou didst fall! Thine arm was like a storm; thy sword a beam of the sky; thy height a rock upon the plain; thine eyes a furnace of fire. Warriors fell by thy sword as the thistles by the staff of a boy. Then Dargo the mighty came on, darkening in his wrath.
Bright rose their swords on each side; loud was the clang of their steel.
But Crimora was near, bright in the armour of man. Her yellow hair is loose behind, her bow is in her hand.
She drew the string on Dargo; but—erring—she pierced her Connal. He falls like an oak on the plain; like a rock from the shaggy hill. What now can she do, O hapless maiden? See how he bleeds, her Connal dies!
All night long she weeps and all the livelong day. O Connal, O Connal, my love and my friend!