Art listened to their honey-sweet song, and grew drowsy with the joy and peace of it. And one there was who sang of deathless life; and Art, murmuring the name of Etain, fell asleep.
He was an old, old man when he awoke, and the grey hair that lay down the side of his face was damp with unremembered tears. But, not knowing this, he rose and cried “Etain,” “Etain!”
When he reached his dûn there was no Etain there. He sat down by old ashes, where the wind blew through a chink, and pondered. An old man entered at dusk.
“Where is Etain?” Art asked.
“Etain, the wife of Midir?”
“No; Etain, the wife of Art.”
The old man mumbled through his open jaws:
“All these years since I was young, Etain the wife of Art has been Etain the wife of Midir.”
“And who is Midir?”
“Midir is the King of the World; he, they say, who makes sand of women’s hearts and dust of men’s hopes.”