But on his way back sleep passed from him. The sweet salt smell of the sea was in his nostrils; he heard the running of a wave in all his blood.
At the cells he turned, and bade the brethren go in. “Peace be with you,” he sighed wearily.
Then he moved downwards to the sea.
A great tenderness, of late, was upon Colum the Bishop. Ever since he had blessed the fishes and the flies, the least of the children of God, his soul had glowed in a whiter flame. There were deep seas of compassion in his gray-blue eyes. One night he had waked, because God was there.
“O Christ,” he cried, bowing low his old gray head. “Sure, ah sure, the gladness and the joy, because of the hour of the hours.”
But God said: “Not so, Colum, who keepest me upon the Cross. It is Murtagh, Murtagh the druid that was, whose soul I am taking to the glory.”
With that Colum rose in awe and great grief. There was no light in his cell. In the deep darkness, his spirit quailed. But lo, the beauty of his heart wrought a soft gleam about him, and in that moonshine of good deeds he rose and made his way to where Murtagh slept.
The old monk slept indeed. It was a sweet breath he drew—he, young and fair now, and laughing with peace under the apples in Paradise.
“O Murtagh,” Colum cried, “and thee I thought the least of the brethren, because that thou wast a druid, and loved not to see thy pagan kindred put to the sword if they would not repent. But, true, in my years I am becoming as a boy who learns, knowing nothing. God wash the sin of pride out of my life!”
At that a soft white shining, as of one winged and beautiful, stood beside the dead.