Even when storms lashed over the rocks and rose in snowy fountains to the green turf above, when the hills were half-hidden in mixing masses of inky clouds, and the sea's horizon lowered close in shore, there was a beauty about both seascape and landscape that probably only such a mind as that of Eean's could fully appreciate. His had a melancholy tinge imparted to it from the bitter memories of a life that had been nearly all disappointment. His too was the soul of the bard of Ossian or Homeric type, only deeply imbued with religion. No dark mythology was called upon to account for the fierce war of storms that often raged o'er sky and sea and land on this wild coast. No; there was method even in the madness of the tempest, there was golden light and beauty behind the blackness; no thunder could roll, no lightning's flash could rend the mountain rocks, no waves could swell and break without the will of his Father—and his Father was mercy and goodness personified—despite the fact that He
"——moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform,
And plants His footsteps on the sea,
And rides upon the storm."
Far away then, on that wild cliff top, the tall figure of the bard, with his broad bonnet and his wind-tossed plaid, might have been seen at gloaming-tide of the stormiest days. His face at such times had a sterner, more thoughtful aspect; his usually mild blue eyes seemed to retreat beneath his lowering eye-brows; yet ever and anon that face would soften, and a smile irradiate its every feature, as some happy thought crossed his mind. Such flashes were like the blinks of sunshine that sometimes fall from rifts of blue in winter storms.
Or, tired of his walk, he would seek the entrance of his cave, disappearing suddenly as if it were off the face of the earth—as he really did, but a stranger noticing that tall figure one moment by the cliff's side, and missing it the very next, would have made sure the old man had been blown over the rocks.
It was one evening, about a fortnight after Frank Fielding had gone home to Benshee, that Eean had retired from the green cliff above to his cave below. Though quite light above, the cave was every now and then plunged in total darkness by the dashing waves.
The bard stirred up his fire till the red light gleamed fitfully on the rugged grey walls, then he sat down in his chair leaning his chin on his hand to think.
He had a habit of talking aloud, a habit that is very easily acquired by those who delight in being much by themselves in very lonely places.
"Yes," he was saying, "just this very night five years ago that my wee pet came on shore."
Pit—pit—pit—pit. It was the sound of softly-padded feet coming trotting towards him, and next minute Tippetty with immense effort had sprang on his knees.
"Why Tip," said Eean, "what are you doing here? and gasping too, with a quarter of a yard at least of a pink ribbon of a tongue hanging out over your snow-white teeth?"