With that Colum rose in awe and great grief. There was no light in his cell. In the deep darkness, his spirit quailed. But lo, the beauty of his heart wrought a soft gleam about him, and in that moonshine of good deeds he rose and made his way to where Murtagh slept.
The old monk slept indeed. It was a sweet breath he drew—he, young and fair now, and laughing with peace under the apples in Paradise.
“O Murtagh,” Colum cried, “and thee I thought the least of the brethren, because that thou wast a Druid, and loved not to see thy pagan kindred put to the sword if they would not repent. But, true, in my years I am becoming as a boy who learns, knowing nothing. God wash the sin of pride out of my life!”
At that a soft white shining, as of one winged and beautiful, stood beside the dead.
“Art thou Murtagh?” whispered Colum, in deep awe.
“No, I am not Murtagh,” came as the breath of vanishing song.
“What art thou?”
“I am Peace,” said the glory.
Thereupon Colum sank to his knees, sobbing with joy, for the sorrow that had been and was no more.
“Tell me, O White Peace,” he murmured, “can Murtagh hearken, there under the apples where God is?”