Thus went the second day and the second night.
When, after the weary vigil of the hours, dawn came at last, Mûrta rose and struck the oak with a stone.
“Cathal!” he cried, “Cathal!”
There was no sound: not a stir, not a sigh.
“Cathal! Cathal!”
Mûrta looked at Diarmid. Then, seeing his own thought in the eyes of his friend he returned to his side.
“The Blind One has been here,” said Diarmid in a low voice.
At noon there was thunder, and great heat. The noise of rustling wings filled the underwood.
Diarmid fell into a deep sleep. When the thunder had travelled into the hills, and a soft rain fell, Mûrta climbed into the branches of the oak. He stared down into the hollow, but could see nothing save a green dusk that became brown shadow, and brown shadow that grew into a blackness.
“Cathal!” he whispered.