“I thought you would tell it,” laughed Niall Mor. “There was never one of your clan but had a tight grip of his little life.”
“Ay!” said Calum Dubh; “but it's my secret. I had it from one who made me swear on the holy steel to keep it; but take me to Carnus, and I'll make you the heather-ale.”
“So be't, and——”
“But there's this in it, I can look no clansmen nor kin in the face after telling it, so Art and Uileam must be out of the way first.”
“Death, MacKellar?”
“That same.”
Uileam shook like a leaf, and Art laughed, with his face still to Shira, for he had guessed his father's mind.
“Faith!” said Niall Mor, “and that's an easy thing enough,” and he nodded to John-Without-Asking.
The man made stay nor tarry. He put a hand on each son's back and pushed them over the edge to their death below. One cry came up to the listening Diarmaids, one cry and no more—the last gasp of a craven.
“Now we'll take you to Camus, and you'll make us the ale, the fine ale, the cream of rich heather-ale,” said Niall Mor, putting a knife to the thongs that tied MacKellar's arms to his side.