On a day of the days every year, Molios fared to the Hollow Oak that was in the hill-forest beyond the rath of Ecta mac Ecta. There he spake long upon the youth that had been his friend, and upon how the Evil One had prevailed with Cathal, and how the islander had been done to death there in the oak. Then he and all his company sang the hymns of peace, and great joy there was over the doom of Cathal the monk, and many would have cleft the great tree or burned it, so that the dust of the sinner might be scattered to the four winds: only this was banned by Molios.
It was well for Cathal, who slept there through the hours of light! Deep slumber was his, for never once did he hear the noontide voices, nor ever in his ears was the long rise and fall of the holy hymns.
But when, in the twentieth year after Cathal had been thrust into the hollow oak, Molios came at sundown, being weary with the heat, the saint heard a low, faint laughter issuing from the tree, like fragrance from a flower.
None other heard it. He saw that with gladness. Quietly he went with the islanders.
When the moon was over the pines, and all in the rath slept, Molios arose and went silently back into the forest.
When he came to the Doom-Tree he listened long, with his ear against the bark. There was no sound.
His voice was old and quavering, but fresh and young in the courts of heaven, when it reached there like a fluttering bird tired from long flight. He sang a holy hymn.
He listened. There was no laughter. He was glad at that. All had been a dream, for sure.
Then it was that he heard once again the low, mocking laughter. He started back, trembling.
“Cathal!” he cried, with his voice like a wuthering wind.