Was it the dead man, standing there unseen in the shadow of the Grave? Was Marcus beside him, Marcus with the knife still thrust up to the hilt, and the lung-foam upon his lips? Can the sea give up its dead? Can there be strain of any feadan that ever was made of man, there in the Silence?
In vain Mànus MacCodrum tortured himself thus. Too well he knew that he had heard the “Dàn-nan-Ròn,” and that no other than Gloom Achanna was the player.
Suddenly an access of fury wrought him to madness. With an abrupt lilt the tune swung into the Davsà-na mairv, and thence, after a few seconds, and in a moment, into that mysterious and horrible Codhail-nan-Pairtean which none but Gloom played.
There could be no mistake now, nor as to what was meant by the muttering, jerking air of the “Gathering of the Crabs.”
With a savage cry Mànus snatched up a long dirk from its place by the chimney, and rushed out.
There was not the shadow of a sea-gull even in front; so he sped round by the byre. Neither was anything unusual discoverable there.
“Sorrow upon me,” he cried; “man or wraith, I will be putting it to the dirk!”
But there was no one; nothing; not a sound.
Then, at last, with a listless droop of his arms, MacCodrum turned and went into the house again. He remembered what Gloom Achanna had said: “You’ll hear the ‘Dàn-nan-Ròn’ the night before you die, Mànus MacCodrum, and lest you doubt it, you’ll hear it in your death-hour.”
He did not stir from the fire for three hours; then he rose, and went over to his bed and lay down without undressing.