"Can the woman put swimming upon you?" he said roughly. "I would rather have the good fin of a great fish now than any woman in the skies."
"You will burn in hell for that," said Artân, the holy zeal warm at his heart.
But Thorkeld answered nothing. His hand was on the helm, his eyes on the foaming rocks. Besides, what had he to do with the culdee's hell or heaven? When he died, he, who was a man of Lochlann, would go to his own place.
One of the dark men stood, holding the mast. His eyes shone. Thick words swung from his lips like seaweed thrown out of a hollow by an ebbing wave.
The coracle swerved, and the four men were wet with the heavy spray.
Thorkeld put his oar in the water, and the swaying craft righted.
"Glory to God," said Artân.
"There is no glory to your god in this," said Thorkeld scornfully. "Did you not hear what Necta sang? He sang to the woman in there that drags men into the caves, and throws their bones on the next tide. He put an incantation upon her, and she shrank, and the boat slid away from the rocks."
"That is a true thing," thought Artân. He wondered if it was because he had not sung his hymn in the holy Latin.
When the last flame died out of the west, and the stars came like sheep gathering at the call of the shepherd, Artân remembered that he had not said his prayers and sang the vesper hymn.