But, at the last, after many days, he stirred. There was a song in his ears.
He listened. It was like soft rain in a wood in June. It was like the wind laughing among the leaves.
Then his heart leapt. Sure, it was the voice of Eilidh!
“Eilidh! Eilidh! Eilidh!” he cried. But a great weariness came upon him again. He fell asleep, knowing not the little hand that was in his and the small flower-sweet body that was warm against his side.
Then the child that was his looked into the singer’s heart, and saw there a mist of rainbows, and midway in that mist was the face of Eilidh his mother.
Thereafter the little one looked into his brain that was so still, and he saw the music that was there: and it was the voice of Eilidh his mother.
And, again, the birdeen, that had the blue of Isla’s eyes and the dream of Eilidh’s, looked into Ula’s sleeping soul: and he saw that it was not Isla nor yet Eilidh, but that it was like unto himself, who was made of Eilidh and Isla.
For a long time the child dreamed. Then he put his ear to Isla’s brow, and listened. Ah, the sweet songs that he heard. Ah, bitter-sweet moonseed of song! Into his life they passed, echo after echo, strain after strain, wild air after wild sweet air.
“Isla shall never die,” whispered the child, “for Eilidh loved him. And I am Isla and Eilidh.”
Then the little one put his hands above Isla’s heart. There was a flame there, that the Grave quenched not.