Fenella began to sing, and before Stowell knew what he was doing he was singing with her:
She: Oh Molla-caraine, where got you your gold?
He: Lone, lone, you have left me here.
It was entrancing—the hour, the surroundings, the charm and sonority of the sea! "But this is madness," thought Stowell. It would only make it the harder to do—what he had to do.
Nevertheless he went on, and when they came to the end of another Manx ballad Kiree fo naightey (the sheep under the snow) he said:
"Would you like to know where that old song was written?"
"Where?"
"In Castle Rushen—by a poor wretch whose life had been sworn away by a vindictive woman."
"And what had he done to her? Betrayed her, and then deserted her for another woman, I suppose. That's the one thing a woman can never forgive—never should, perhaps."
"I must tell her soon," thought Stowell. But he could think of no way to begin—no natural way to lead up to what he had to say.
The night was now very dark and silent. The majesty and solemnity around were grand and moving. Fenella, who had been laughing all the evening, was serious enough at last.