When the last sunfire burned upon his neck and made the long hair upon his shoulders ashine, he smelt the green smell of grass. Then it was too that he heard the muffled fall of the sea, in a quiet haven, where shelves of sand were.
He followed that sound, and while he strained to hear any voice the boat grided upon the sand, and drifted to one side. Taking his harp, Torcall drove an oar into the sand, and leaped on to the shore. When he was there, he listened. There was silence. Far, far away he heard the falling of a mountain-torrent, and the thin, faint cry of an eagle, where the sun-flame dyed its eyrie as with streaming blood.
So he lifted his harp, and, harping low, with a strange, wild song on his lips, moved away from that place, and gave no more thought to the dead.
It was deep gloaming when he came to a wood. He felt the cold green breath of it.
“Come,” said a voice, low and sweet.
“And who will you be?” asked Torcall the Harper, trembling because of the sudden voice in the stillness.
“I am a child, and here is my hand, and I will lead you, Torcall of Lochlin.”
The blind man had fear upon him.
“Who are you that in a strange place are for knowing who I am?”
“Come.”