Turning on his heel, Neil walked slowly round to the front of the house. A tall man was there, gaunt and brown, with hairless face and lank brown hair, but with eyes cold and gray as the sea.
"Good day to you, an' good faring. Will you be passing this way to anywhere?"
"Health to you. I am a stranger here. It is on my way to Iona I am. But I have the hunger upon me. There is not a brown bit in my pocket. I asked at the door there, near the byres. The woman told me she could give me nothing—not a penny even, worse luck—nor, for that, a drink of warm milk. 'Tis a sore land this."
"You have the Gaelic of the Isles. Is it from Iona you are?"
"It is from the Isles of the West I come."
"From Tiree ... from Coll?"
"No."
"From the Long Island ... or from Uist ... or maybe from Benbecula?"
"No."
"Oh well, sure it is no matter to me. But may I be asking your name?"