It was a long walk to Isla Macleod’s cottage that few-score yards: a long, long walk.
When Sheumas stood on the wet grass round the flagstones he saw that the door was ajar. Isla had not lain down. He had taken his ash-lute, and was alternately playing and singing low to himself.
Maclean went close up to the wall, and listened. At first he could hear no more than snatches of songs.
And is there any home for him whose portion is the night?…
And one goes out into the night and is as wind-blown foam …
O heart that is breaking,
Breaking, breaking,
O for the home that I canna, canna win:
O the weary aching,