Tha mi 'nis ga'd bhuain!"
The hand of St. Bride with me
I am now to pluck thee!
So, too, now—now that he had the Torranan safe at last, he kept repeating:
"'Cuir buaidh anns an ni,
Tha mo lus lurach a nis air a bhuain!"
Darling plant of all virtue,
I am now plucking thee!
But the line that was on his lips for long that day—even after he had given the flower to Mary Maclean, with assurance that it was gathered during the lift of the tide, was Ri lionadh gun tra'adh—"With the flowing tide that shall know no ebbing." Over and over he said this below his breath. Ri lionadh gun tra'adh; strange words these: what was the hidden thing in them? What was the lionadh, the flowing tide: was it life or death?
But now the rare bloom was found: he was glad of that. He doffed his weather-worn bonnet, and placed the flower in the hollow of it: then, calling Ghaoth from the already scattered kye, he turned and made his way back to the clachan.