At that, Alasdair, shaking like a reed in the wind, unclasped the latch. A tall, fair man, ill-clad and weary, pale, too, and with dreaming eyes, came in.
“Beannachd Dhe an Tigh,” he said; “God’s blessing on this house, and on all here.”
“The same upon yourself,” Alasdair said, with a weary pain in his voice. “And who will you be? and forgive the asking.”
“I am called Mac-an-t’-Saoir, and Iosa is the name I bear—Jesus, the Son of the Carpenter.”
“It is a good name. And is it good you are seeking this night?”
“I am a Fisher.”
“Well, that’s here an’ that’s there. But will you go to the Strath over the hill, and tell the good man that is there, the minister, Lachlan MacLachlan, that old Sine nic Leòid, wife of Alasdair Ruadh, is dead.”
“I know that, Alasdair Òg.”
“And how will you be knowing that, and my name, too, you that are called Macintyre?”
“I met the white soul of Sine as it went down by the Shadowy Glen a brief while ago. She was singing a glad song, she was. She had green youth in her eyes. And a man was holding her by the hand. It was Alasdair Ruadh.”