But with grief the maiden dies, and in the same grave they sleep. Undisturbed they now sleep together; in the tomb on the mountain they rest alone, and the wind sighs through the long green grass that grows twixt the stones of the grave.
Autumn is dark on the mountains; gray mists rest on the hills. Dark rolls the river through the narrow plain. A tree stands alone on the hill and marks the slumbering Connal. The leaves whirl round in the wind and strew the grave of the dead. Soft be their rest, hapless children of streamy Loda.
Here Creggan had closed the book with a sigh.
"Boy, are you willing to earn an honest shilling? Keep back that dog, please!"
The boy had sprung to his feet and seized the all-too-impetuous Oscar by the collar.
Nugent's appearance was somewhat out of keeping with the grandeur of the scenery around him. Thin and wan he was, with close-trimmed whiskers turning to gray, a London coat, and a soft felt hat.
"Earn a shilling, sir?"
"I said earn a shilling, an honest shilling. But perhaps you are above that sort of thing. You Skye Highlanders are, as a rule, so lazy."
"Thank you, sir, but I am not a Skyeman, though I should not be ashamed to be. I was born on the high seas, and I have neither mother nor father."
Nugent's voice softened at once. His whole bearing was altered.