"I list not strain like that!" he exclaimed, starting from his seat.
"You list no other, boy, from me," rejoined the old man; "it is your welcome home."—"My home," ejaculated Niall, "is the tomb where Glorvina sleeps the sleep of death!"
"The Psalter," said the old man solemnly, "is the promise of Destiny, and is sure to be fulfilled."
"Why, then," asked the youth sternly,—"why, then, is Glorvina no longer among the living?—Why in the place of her glowing cheek do I meet the tomb?—the silence of death, instead of her voice?"
The bard made no reply, but leaned over his harp again, and spanned its golden strings. He sang of the chase. The game was a beauteous hind; eager was the hunter, but too swift was her light foot for his wish. She distanced him like the wind, which at one moment brushes the cheek, and the next will be leagues away; and now she was safe, pressing the mossy sward in the region of the mountain and the lake, where the waters mingle and spread one silvery sheet for the fair tall heavens to look into.
Niall sat amazed!—conjecture and doubt seemed to divide his soul. He sprang towards the old man, and, throwing himself at his feet, snatched the hand that still lay upon the strings and caught it to his bosom. Yet he spake not, save by his eyes; in the intense expression of which, inquiry, and entreaty, and deprecation were mingled.
The old man rose and stood silent for a time, looking down benevolently upon Niall, who seemed scarcely to breathe, watching the lips that he felt were about to move.
"Niall," at length said the bard,—"Niall, the strength of the day is the rest of night. Fair upon the eye of the sleeper, awakening him, breaks the light of morning. Then he springs from his couch, and stretches his limbs, and braces them, eager for action; and he asks who will go with him to the field of the feat; or haply betakes him to the road to try his strength alone; and following it through hill and valley, moor and mead, suddenly shows his triumph-shining face to the far friend that looked not for him!"
The bard ceased. Both he and the youth remained motionless for several seconds, intently regarding one another. At last Niall sprang upon his feet, and threw himself upon the neck of the old man, whose arms simultaneously closed around the boy.
"You will sleep to-night, my son," said the bard, withdrawing himself at length from the embrace of Niall. "The dawn shall not come to thy casement before thou shalt hear my summons at thy door. Good-night!" They parted.