“Torcall!”
“Yes, white one.”
“We are not alone, we two in the dark.”
And when she had said that thing, Torcall felt two baby arms go round his neck, and two leaves of a wild rose press cool and sweet against his lips.
“Ah! what is this?” he cried, with his heart beating, and the blood in his body singing a glad song.
A low voice crooned in his ear: a bitter-sweet song it was, passing-sweet, passing-bitter.
“Ah, white one, white one,” he moaned; “ah, the wee fawn o’ me! Baby o’ foam, bonnie wee lass, put your sight upon me that I may see the blue eyes that are mine too and Hildyr’s.”
But the child only nestled closer. Like a fledgling in a great nest she was. If God heard her song, He was a glad God that day. The blood that was in her body called to the blood that was in his body. He could say no word. The tears were in his blind eyes.
Then Hildyr leaned into the dark, and took his harp, and played upon it. It was of the fonnsheen he had learned, far, far away, where the isles are.
She sang: but he could not hear what she sang.