"O, oi, oi, tha cèo air a' bheinn,
O, oi, oi, tha drùchd air an fheur!"
sang the islanders in a long, wailing chant.
Suddenly the sail filled, became taut. The boat moved swiftly before the wind.
A deep silence fell upon all. Then Griogair Fionnladh, the oldest of the islesmen, raised the pipes from his shoulder and began to play.
But the wild, mournful, plaintive air was not the expected Lament of Farewell. It was the ancient Coronach for the Dead.
One by one, every man doffed his bonnet; the white-haired elders bowing their heads, and, with downcast eyes, muttering inaudibly. Sobs were heard and tears fell; but no word was spoken.
When the sun set, the Ellù was far on her way—a black speck in the golden light. With the coming of the gloaming, the islanders slowly dispersed. Soon there was none left, save Fionnladh and Ealasaid.
For a long while thereafter upon the twilight-water rose and fell, mingling with the solemn, rhythmic chant of the waves, the plaintive, mournful wail of the Coronach for those who have passed into the silence.
When that, too, had ceased, there was no sound that the sea heard not nightly, save the sobbing of the woman Ealasaid.