"Lord ha' massy!"
"Dead, you say?"
"Aw, dead enough."
"Washed ashore by the Mooragh?"
"So they're sayin', so they're sayin'."
"Hiain Jean myghin orrin—Lord have mercy upon us!"
Half a minute later the whole congregation were gathered outside the west porch. There, in the recess between the chapel and the house, two men, fisher-fellows of Michael, stood surrounded by a throng of people. Something lay at their feet, and the crowd made a circle about it, looked down at it, and drew long breaths. And when one after another came up, reached over the heads of others, and saw what lay within, he turned away with uplifted hands and a face that was white with fear.
"Lord ha' massy! Lord ha' massy!" cried the people on every side, and their senses were confused and overpowered.
What the dread thing was that lay at the feet of the two fishermen does not need to be said.
"At the Mooragh, d'ye say—came ashore at the Mooragh?"