"Duit cíat, no runach!"[4]
"The sheep and the kye don't know love, Sorcha, or they would stay here till the mists go, and then we would see each other."
"Let us cry deasiul, and turn thrice sunways!"
"Ay; and meanwhile the beasts won't stand still! That evil beast of a bull, Donncha-dhu, who ought to be called Domnuill-dhu, is leading the way over the shoulder of Maol-Gorm. I must go, Sorcha-mo-ghraidh, or never a sheep will I find again; and as for the kye, they'll go smelling the four winds. Sorcha! Sorcha! Can you hear?"
Hear came back in a sweet falling echo, the more remote and aerial because of the mist.
"Come down to-night after the milking, and meet me at the Linn.... Sorcha! I'm going to see Mr. Morrison again!"
"'Tis no use, Alan. But I'll meet you at the Linn in the late gloaming."
"Sorcha!"
"Alan!"
Then, fainter and fainter, Sorcha!... Alan! And at last no response came when Alan Gilchrist cried, with a prolonged echoing call, the name of his ghaolaiche, his heart's joy.