There was silence for many seconds. A greenish streak of flame shot across the mountain, intolerably vivid. A sound as of mirthless laughter was drowned in an avalanche-roar overhead. Out of the tumult, later, came wild fragments of human shouting:
"Let there be a duel between us then ... ay, Marsail, you may weep; ay, Fergus, you may leap out of your shroud to be soul to soul with me ... what do I care for the hounds of the night?... Call off thy hounds, O Hunter!... Be the day between us, and the night, O God; and the two noons, and the darkness of the coming and the darkness of the going; and the blood of the living, and the corruption of the dead; and the earth and the sea; and the stars beneath the world, and the stars above the world; and the friend of man that is Time, and Thy friend that is Eternity ... for I will not, I will not, I will not ... no, though I perish for ever and for ever" ... (and at last, with a scream) ... "Go Thy ways, O God.... Leave me, if Thou wilt not slay! ... I will not! I will not! I will not!"
When the next flash and thunderblast had hurtled and gone, Nial thought that Death had indeed come. Then he heard a low whisper:
"What is it that I hear? Do the dead stir? Marsail ... Marsail ... or ... or ... is it you, Fergus, son of Fergus, son of Ian?"
Sick with fear, Nial sprang to his feet, seized one of the fallen hands in his own, and tried to lead Màm-Gorm away.
The blind man shook as a tuft of canna in a wind-eddy; white, too, as the canna, was his face.
His lips moved convulsively. At last, hoarse, choking, sobbing sounds came forth, and from these grew three or four words:
"Is—it—you, Marsail?"
Nial shrank appalled, but could not withdraw his hands.
"Is—it—you, Fergus Gilchrist?"