And as she ended she saw before her two quicken-trees, of which the boughs were interwrought so that they made an arch. Deep in the green foliage was a white merle that sang a wondrous sweet song. Above it the small branches were twisted into the shape of a wreath or crown, lovely with the sunlit rowan-clusters, from whose scarlet berries red drops as of blood fell.
Before her flew a white dove, all aglow as with golden light. She followed, and passed beneath the quicken arch.
Sweet was the song of the merle, that was then no more; sweet the green shadow of the rowans, that now grew straight as young pines. Sweet the far song in the sky, where the white dove flew against the sun.
Bride looked, and her eyes were glad. Bonnie the blooming of the heather on the slopes of Dun-I. Iona lay green and gold, isled in her blue waters. From the sheiling of Dùvach, her father, rose a thin column of pale blue smoke. The collies, seeing her, barked loudly with welcoming joy.
The bleating of the sheep, the lowing of the kye, the breath of the salt wind from the open sea beyond, the song of the flowing tide in the Sound beneath: dear the homing.
With a strange light in her eyes she moved down through the heather and among the green bracken: white, wonderful, fair to see.
THE THREE MARVELS OF IONA
I. [THE FESTIVAL OF THE BIRDS.] II. [THE SABBATH OF THE FISHES AND THE FLIES.] III. [THE MOON-CHILD.]