“I am here, O Molios,” said a voice behind him.
The old Culdee turned, as though arrow-nipped. Before him, white in the moonshine, stood a man, naked.
At first Molios knew him not. He was so tall and strong, so fair and wonderful. Long locks of ruddy hair hung upon his white shoulders: his eyes were lustrous, and had the lovely, soft light of the deer. When he moved, it was swiftly and silently. No stag upon the hills was more fair to see.
Then, slowly, Cathal the monk swam into Cathal of the Woods. Molios saw him whom he knew of old, as a blue flame is visible within the flame of yellow.
Strange was the voice: faint and far the tone of it: yet it was that of a living man.
“Is it a spirit you are, Cathal?”
“I am no spirit. I am Cathal the monk that was, Cathal the man now.”
“How came you out of hell, you that are dead, and the dust of whose crumbling bones is in the hollow of this oak?”
“There is no hell, Culdee.”