Then because these two men were leaders, and had had a blood-feud, and because all there, save Torcall, were of one or the other side, swords and knives sang a song.
The rowers dropped their oars; and four men fought against three.
Torcall laughed, and lay back in his place. While out of the wandering wave the death of each man clambered into the hollow of the boat, and breathed its chill upon its man, Torcall the Blind took his harp. He sang this song, with the swirling spray against his face, and the smell of blood in his nostrils, and the feet of him dabbling in the red tide that rose there.
Oh, ’tis a good thing the red blood, by Odin his word!
And a good thing it is to hear it bubbling deep.
And when we hear the laughter of the Sword,
Oh, the corbies croak, and the old wail, and the women weep!
And busy will she be there where she stands,
Washing the red out of the sins of all this slaying horde;
And trampling the bones of them into white powdery sands,
And laughing low at the thirst of her thirsty sword—
The Washer of the Ford!
When he had sung that song there was only one man whose pulse still beat, and he was at the bow.
“A bitter black curse upon you, Torcall Dall!” he groaned out of the ooze of blood that was in his mouth.
“And who will you be?” said the Blind Harper.
“I am Fergus, the son of Art, the son of Fergus of the Dûns.”
“Well, it is a song for your death I will make, Fergus mac Art mhic Fheargus: and because you are the last.”
With that Torcall struck a wild sob out of his harp, and he sang—