“Sure, now,” said Colum angrily, “I am knowing by that curse that you are no friend of Christ, but of the evil pagan faith out of the north. For here I am known ever as Colum the White, or as Colum the Saint: and it is only the Picts and the wanton Normen who deride me because of the holy white robe I wear.”
“Well, well,” replied the seal, speaking the good Gaelic as though it were the tongue of the deep sea, as God knows it may be for all you, I, or the blind wind can say: “Well, well, let that thing be: it’s a wave-way here or a wave-way there. But now if it is a Druid you are, whether of Fire or of Christ, be telling me where my woman is, and where my little daughter.”
At this, Colum looked at him for a long while. Then he knew.
“It is a man you were once, O Ròn?”
“Maybe ay and maybe no.”
“And with that thick Gaelic that you have, it will be out of the north Isles you come?”
“That is a true thing.”
“Now I am for knowing at last who and what you are. You are one of the race of Odrum the Pagan.”
“Well, I am not denying it, Colum. And what is more, I am Angus MacOdrum, Aonghas mac Torcall mhic Odrum, and the name I am known by is Black Angus.”
“A fitting name too,” said Colum the Holy, “because of the black sin in your heart, and the black end God has in store for you.”