“‘Oh,’ she cried, ‘have you seen a man going this way?’
“‘Ay, for sure,’ I answered, ‘but what man would he be?’
“‘He is called Mac-an-t’-Saoir.’
“‘Well, there are many men that are called Son of the Carpenter. What will his own name be?’
“‘Iosa,’ she said.
“And when I looked at her, she was weaving the wavy branches of a thorn near by, and sobbing low, and it was like a wreath or crown that she made.
“‘And who will you be, poor woman?’ I asked.
“‘O my Son, my Son,’ she said, and put her apron over her head and went down into the Shadowy Glen, she weeping sore, too, at that, poor woman.
“So now, Alasdair, my son, tell me what thought you have about this thing that I have told you. For I know well whom I met on the brae there, and who the Fisher was. And when I was at the peats here once more I sat down, and my mind sank into myself. And it is knowing the knowledge I am.”
“Well, well, dear, it is sore tired you are. Have rest now. But sure there are many men called Macintyre.”