Then the little lips, that were like a cool wave upon the dry sand of his life, whispered into a low song: and the wavering of it was like this in his brain—
Where the winds gather
The souls of the dead,
O Torcall, my father,
My soul is led!
In Hildyr-mead
I was thrown, I was sown:
Out of thy seed
I am sprung, I am blown!
But where is the way
For Hildyr and me,
By the hill-moss gray
Or the gray sea?
For a river is here,
And a whirling sword—
And a Woman washing
By a Ford!
With that, Torcall Dall gave a wild cry, and sheathed an arm about the wee white one, and put out a hand to the bosom that loved him. But there was no white breast there, and no white babe: and what was against his lips was his own hand red with blood.
“O Hildyr!” he cried.
But only the splashing of the waves did he hear.
“O white one!” he cried.
But only the scream of a sea-mew, as it hovered over that boat filled with dead men, made answer.