“Eilidh! Eilidh! Eilidh!” Isla cried, and the tears that were in his voice were turned by Angus into dim dews of remembrance in the babe-brain that was the brain of Isla and Eilidh.
“I hear a word,” said Angus Ogue, “and that word is a flame of joy.”
Isla listened. He heard a singing of birds. Then, suddenly, a glory came into the shine of the sun.
It was the voice of Eilidh. He bowed his head, and swayed; for it was his own life that came to him.
“Eilidh!” he whispered.
And so, at the last, Isla came into his kingdom.
But are they gone, these twain, who loved with deathless love? Or is this a dream that I have dreamed?
Afar in an island-sanctuary that I shall not see again, where the wind chants the blind oblivious rune of Time, I have heard the grasses whisper: Time never was, Time is not.
PRINTED BY JOHN WILSON AND SON AT
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS IN CAMBRIDGE
DURING JUNE M DCCC XCVI. FOR
STONE AND KIMBALL
NEW YORK