So Isla arose, and the sun shone upon him, and his shadow passed into the earth. Orchil wove it into her web of death.
“Why dost thou wait here by the Stone of Sorrow, Isla that was called Ula at the end?”
“I wait for Eilidh, who cometh not.”
At that the wind-listening god stooped and laid his head upon the grass.
“I hear the coming of a woman’s feet,” he said, and he rose.
“Eilidh! Eilidh!” cried Isla, and the sorrow of his cry was a moan in the web of Orchil.
Angus Ogue took a branch, and put the cool greenness against his cheek.
“I hear the beating of a heart,” he said.
“Eilidh! Eilidh! Eilidh!” Isla cried, and the tears that were in his voice were turned by Angus into dim dews of remembrance in the babe-brain that was the brain of Isla and Eilidh.
“I hear a word,” said Angus Ogue, “and that word is a flame of joy.”