Not a breath of sound ascended like smoke.
“Cathal! Cathal!”
The slow drip of the rain slipped and pattered among the leaves. The cry of a sea-bird flying inland came mournfully across the woods. A distant clang, as of a stricken anvil, iterated from the barren mountain beyond the forest.
“Cathal! Cathal!”
Mûrta broke a straight branch, stripped it of the leaves, and, forcing the thicker end downward, let it fall sheer.
It struck with a dull, soft thud. He listened: there was not a sound.
“A quiet sleep to you, monk,” he whispered, and slipped down through the boughs, and was beside Diarmid again.
At dusk the rain ceased. A cool green freshness came into the air. The stars were as wind-whirled fruit blown upward from the tree-tops. The moon, full-orbed and with a pulse of flame, led a tide of soft light across the brown shores of the world.
The vigils of the watchers were over. Mûrta and Diarmid rose. Without a word they moved across the glade: the faint rustle of their feet stirred the bracken: then they left the under-growth and were among the pines. Their shadows lapsed into the obscure wilderness. A doe, heavy with fawn, lay down among the dewy fern, and was at peace there.