The girl recoiled in horror. Marsail ... her long-dead mother!
"What is this thing that you say, O Torcall MacDiarmid?" she whispered, awestruck.
"It is nothing. I was dreaming. Sorcha, I came here dreaming of past days. Your mother lies below the cairn there. I was talking to her to ease my pain. I thought she might hear. And while I spoke, I felt hands clasp mine, and try to pull me down—below the cairn, it may be! And then I fell into a horror, and the darkness came over my mind. And, suddenly, I knew that God spared me, though I had cursed Him, and I fell on my knees and cried the rune of Age, that is a rune of old, forgotten among our people, and therewith I was heard, and my strength knew the Breath, and I fell as you found me."
"But, father, father, you are not in the dark way—you are not old, for all the grey of your hair—you are not going to die, and leave your Sorcha and Oona?"
"Would you have me live, nic-chridhe?"
Seldom did he speak to her thus, though often he called Oona his heart's dearie and other loving names. The tears came to her eyes.
"Yes, yes, father! I would have you live. I love you."
"My age is come upon me. I am weary."
"Not yet: not yet!"
"Do you not know the wisdom of old—s'mairg a dh'iarradh an aoise, Woe to him that desireth extreme old age!"