Mur docha leam i na’n lamh ’sa bheil).
MacLean was then convinced of his wife’s disgrace, and went away and sent for his kinsman, Fair Lachlan (Lachunn fionn) who was then at Hynish, and who, on receiving a message from his Chief, went immediately to Island House. On reaching, MacLean said to him, “I sent for you to go to Ireland; you are a clever man and you have seven sons, go and bring me the head of O’Power, and any crime you may commit, or any injustice you may from this time do to any one, will be over looked by me (tha thu ’n ad dhuine tapaidh ’s seachdnar mhac agad, falbh ’s thoir g’ am ionnsuidh ceann Uilleam O’ buaidhe ’s aona chron na anaceart sam bith nì thu theid a mhathadh dhuit leamsa). Next day, Lachunn fionn with his sons set off in the galley, and before sundown he was in Islay. The following day he was in Ireland, and asked the first person he met for the man he was tracing (a bha e air a luirg). “If you wish to see him,” the person said, “he is coming this way, in a coach drawn by two white horses, and no one in Ireland has that but himself.” The old man then went on to try and meet him, and after going a short distance he saw him coming towards him to meet him (chaidh an sean duine air aghaidh feuch an tachradh e air, ’s an ceann ceum na dhà chunnaic e e tighinn ’na choinneamh ’s ’na chòmhail). When he came near, O’Power (O’ buaidh) commanded him to stop, and said, “I see you are a stranger in the place?” “Indeed,” he replied, (seadh ars’ esan). “Whence have you come?” the Chief asked, (Co ás a thàinig thu?). “I came from Tiree,” he answered. “Do you know the lady of MacLean there?” “I know her well,” he said. “Will you bring her a message from me?” (An toir thu fios uam g’ a h-ionnsuidh?) “I will,” he said, (bheir, ars’ esan). The chief there and then put the message in order, and put his head out of the coach to deliver it, but the other, while taking it with the one hand, struck off his head with the other hand. (Sin fhéin chuir e ’n teachdaireachd air doigh ’s chuir e mach a cheann g’ a toirt dà, ’s ’nuair bha e ’ga gabhail leis an aona laimh thilg e dheth an ceann leis an laimh eile). The man-servant was stupified (lit. went astray), (chaidh an gille air seacharan), and Fair Lachlan got an opportunity (fhuair e fàth) of taking the head with him to the galley with which he set sail (leig e ri cuain di) and was in Islay on his return journey that evening. Next day after (maireach ’na dheighinn sin) he was in Tiree, and went early in the day to Island House (do ’n eilean). Finding, on reaching, that MacLean and his wife were at breakfast, he went in where they were and put the head of the Irish Chief on the end of the table, with the face towards MacLean’s wife. She looked at it and fell down stone dead at the side of the table (sheall i air ’s thuit i fuar marbh aig taobh a’ bhùird). Some time after this Fair Lachlan’s sons were taking peats home from Moss to Hynish. There were five of them with seven horses, which were fastened together, and went on one after another, having a sort of deep basket (cliabh) slung on each side of each horse for the conveyance of burdens. On account of Big Dewar of Balemartin, who was so fierce, (co fiadhaich) they could not take the straight way by Balemartin to Hynish, but had to take the more rugged path by Hynish hill, where, at Creag nan cliabh (Creel rock) the footpath was so narrow that on these occasions a person was in waiting to be in readiness to take the creels off the horses and carry them past the rock. At that time, there was a mill past Balviceon, with a bridge across the dam which had to be lifted before sundown, and on their way they had to pass across the bridge. It happened on this occasion that the young men, by their own folly (le ’n amaideachd fhein), were later than usual of returning, and the bridge was withdrawn; and with the speed with which they were going on, they did not observe that the bridge was lifted, and the foremost of the horses went headlong into the dam and was choked (air a thachdadh). The lads made their way home, and told their father how the miller had taken away the bridge, and what had happened to them. He said, “If my horse was choked on his account (air a thàillibh), the same thing will be done to him to-night yet”; and that was what happened. He and his sons went back the same way, step by step, (air a’ cheart cheum), and they caught the poor man while he was asleep (rug iad air an duine ’na leabaidh) and took him with them and hung him on the hillock of the cross (bac na croiche), opposite Island House. When a servant went in early next morning to kindle a fire in the room where MacLean was, he asked what sort of day it was. The servant said that it was a good day, but that a strange sight was to be seen (ni a tha cuir ioghnadh mór orm ri fhaicinn). “What is that?” the Chief asked. “It is a man hung on the hillock up yonder (duine air a chrochadh air a’ chroich shuas ud). MacLean said, as he rose up, “Who or what person dared do this without my permission? (Co an aona duine ’san dùthaich aig an robh ’chridh leithid so dheanamh gun chuir ’nam cheadsa?) When he saw the deed that was done, he shed bitter tears, and said that no one had done this but Fair Lachlan (cha d’ rinn duine riamh so ach Lachunn fionn). “It was in the agreement I made with him when he brought me the man’s head from Ireland.” This was the last hanging that was done in the island (b’e so an crochadh mu dheireadh a rinneadh ’s an eilean).
THE MESSAGE DELIVERED TO THE LOVER AND THE MANNER OF HIS DEATH.
LEGENDARY HISTORY.
PRINCESS THYRA OF ULSTER AND HER LOVERS.
A Story of Lochmaree. [21]
At one time the King of Denmark is said to have sent his son to the Scottish court along with six others (seisear eile). They landed in Caithness, where, as they came chiefly for sport, they began to look for deer and other wild animals, and to enquire where they were to be found. They were told that all animals of the chase had become scarce since more people had come to that part, but that in the neighbouring parts of the country, especially in Ross-shire, they were still numerous, and if they went there they would get abundant sport. They went, and while they remained lived in a house of the MacKenzies’, near Lochmaree. One day then, when following deer in the hill, the young prince got separated from his companions, who each and all found their way safely home. When he came in sight of the house, being fatigued, he sat down by the roadside and fell asleep. He was awakened by the sound of voices, and on looking he saw two men, one of whom was young and the other old, coming on the road towards him with a young woman walking between. He got up, and as they were coming nearer he was making out that he never saw a more beautiful woman. He stood before them and spoke. The old man said, “You are doing wrong in delaying us on our way.” “Methinks,” said the young prince, “that I am not doing any thing out of the way, nor have I spoken a wrong word.” The old man got angry, and calling him rough names said he was ill-bred. “That was not the way in which I was taught,” the prince answered, “I have the blood of the kings of Denmark in my veins, and I am inclined to put your head as low as your shoes for your ill words (air son do dhroch bheul) which I have not deserved.” When the old man heard this he became afraid, and made excuses for the warmth of temper he had shewn, but said he was under vows to protect the girl from all intrusion, “the reason being that she is with us under the vows of the church (fo naomhachadh na h-eaglais), by her father’s commands,” and told him that they came ashore from the monastery of Isle-maree and were to return before nightfall. “I would like well to know who the maiden is whom you befriend,” said the young prince. “The name of the daughter is,” the old man answered, “Princess Thyra (Deorath) of the house of Ulster in Ireland—and let us now pass.” In the parting the young prince said to the maiden, “As this has been our first meeting, so I fear it is to be our last: Farewell!” “I do not say,” she answered. He went home, but, after some days, returned to the same place expecting to see the same company, but no one came ashore from the islet that day. The next time he went he waited two days in vain, and the third time three days, and returned home in the same way ill-pleased at his mischance. He then resolved to go to the isle if there was a way of getting to it. He was told that a man on the other side of the loch had a boat, and he went to him and got him to go with him. On landing, the man pointed out to him the way to the monastery, and told him that he would come to a well, which he was not to pass till he drank of its water; that the well was famed for its efficacy in every malady to which mankind is subject, and especially in restoring those who had lost their reason; “and beside the well,” said the man, “there is a tree with a hollow in its side (slochd ’n a taobh), and no one goes past it without putting something of more or less value in.” The youth went ashore, and, heedless of tree and well, reached the house and demanded admittance at the first door he met. When asked what brought him, or why he came, he said he came to see the Irish princess. He was told that could not be (ni nach gabhadh deanamh). He then asked if there was any one in authority of whom he could make the request, and was told there was the oldest of rank in the monastery, who, when he came, said, “No! you cannot see the princess.” The young man then told who he was, and said, “If I want her for my wife and she consents, can you prevent the union?” “We will leave the matter to her own will,” the old man answered. She came gladly, and the prince spent that day on the islet. Before he left she said, “I have a doubt in this matter.” “What is that?” he asked. “It is that I never saw you but once before now, neither did you see me, and if love comes quickly, it may go as quickly.” “You know that from yourself,” he said. “No,” she answered. He told her to look at the evening star, which was to be seen in the south-western sky, and said, “As truly as that star shines on yonder hill, so truly do I love you.” “I have another doubt,” she said. “Your doubts are very many,” he said. Her doubt was, that Red Hector of the hills, as he was called from being among the hills day and night, would be a dangerous foeman if he met him on his way. He returned, landed, and having cause, as he thought, to be pleased with events, was going on joyously and light-hearted, whistling as he went along. He was not far on his way when an arrow passed close to his face; the next one stuck in his bonnet. He stood looking about him and saw a big man standing beside a rock that was at the roadside before him. “What sort of man are you, when you are going to make a target of me?” the prince said. “Have you never heard of Red Hector of the hills (Eachann Ruadh nan cnoc)? If you have not, you now see him and will feel his skill. There is a matter to settle between us which can never be done but in one way, and that is, that you kill me or I kill you.” They took their swords, one each (claidheamh an t-aon), blood was shed; the prince then asked if there was no other way of settling the matter except by bloodshed. “Do not waste speech (Na bi ’cosg do sheanachais); that you kill me or I kill you, there is no other way,” he said, and struck the prince on the side with his sword and sorely wounded him. He fell and his enemy fled. The wounded man kept his hand on the wound, but whenever he moved the blood spurted from it, and he was passing the night in that way till his tongue became swollen in his mouth. In the midst of his agony he heard the drip of a streamlet in the hollow underneath where he lay, and tried to move himself towards it, but could not, though he made every effort. At last he thought it was better to bleed to death than die of thirst, and by dragging himself along he reached the water, but before he got to drink of it he fainted and lay beside the streamlet till next day, when those, the humane people (na daoine cneasda), who came ashore in the boat heard his moaning, and recognising him, took him back to the islet, where he remained unconscious for many weeks, during which his own men, who had been brought to the isle, and the princess attended him. When he recovered and knew that the maiden’s constant care and watchfulness had helped to restore him to life, he expressed much gratitude. “When you are up and well,” she said, “it will be time to thank me.” He kept telling her every day how he would take her to Denmark. One day then a ship was seen coming, from which a boat was sent ashore to take away the maiden, whose father lay dying. “Will you return?” he said. “I will return,” she said. “And you will not forget me among your own people.” “Nothing but death will prevent my return,” she said. She went away, and nothing was heard of her for many days. In his impatience the prince sent men from day to day to the top of the highest hills to look for the ship. At last they saw three ships coming, and the first had the royal flag of Ireland in its topmast. Some time before the maiden left the islet, the prince one day when on land met an old man who intercepted him; his men bade the intruder keep to one side of the road, but the man refused to be put aside, and the prince then asked what his business was with him. “Do not speak so gruffly,” the old man said, “I have come to you, as I am in need of shelter, to ask if you will take me into your service while you are here.” “My burden is on others at present,” the prince said, “and little an old man like you with a staff in his hand can do to help me. Have you a house or home?” “I had till yesterday; to-day I have nothing. I had house, wife, son, land, cattle, and yesterday every beast that I had was lifted, except a stray sheep, and my son went in search of it and fell over the rocks (chaidh am balach leis na creagan) and was killed. When his mother heard what had happened to him she went to the place, and on seeing her son dead she leapt in the sea and was drowned, and I am left alone. If you will take me with you I will do you more service in the hills than a younger man can do.” He said his name was MacKenzie (Dùghall MacChoinnich). The prince took him to be with them while they remained in the isle.
When the ships were seen the prince went to the highest summit of the hills, taking with him, among the rest, the old man, who on their way said, “Delay (air do shocair), till I tell you my dream.” “I care naught for dreams,” the other said. “Will you not listen, for I dreamt the same dream three nights after each other; and it was that she was dead.” “We wish to get joyous news and you have given us instead news of sorrow.” The old man then said, “I will go to the ship, and when I reach, if all is well you will see a red signal, and if sorrow awaits you it will be a black one.” He went, and on reaching, she was there. She knew him and asked if all was well. He told her, and she said, “He is impatient for news.” He then persuaded the princess, against her own will and the advice of those around her, to shew the death-signal, saying the joy of seeing her living would compensate her lover for the deception. When the signal was seen by those on land, the prince said he could no longer live, and took his dagger from its sheath and killed himself. When the princess reached the shore, those who met her told her how her lover, believing that she was dead, had killed himself. She asked where he was, and said that no seen or unseen power could prevent her from taking a last farewell, and that she would go alone and do no injury to herself. When she was going in where the dead body lay, she noticed that some one was following her, and turning she saw that the intruder was the old man, “Wretched Dugall (a dhroch Dhùghaill), what evil advice you gave me.” “That is not my name,” he said, “I am Red Hector of the hills, and this is my revenge!” and he killed her with his dirk. He then disappeared and was never seen or heard of in the country after that time.