So there and then they drew for chance. The gaining of that hazard was with Sheumas Maclean.
Without a word Isla turned and went into the house. There he took his feadan, and played low to himself, staring into the red heart of the smouldering peats. He neither smiled nor frowned; but only once he smiled, and that was when Sheumas came back, and said Come.
So the two walked in silence across the dewy grass. There was a loud calling of skuas and terns, and the raucous laughing cry of the great herring-gull, upon the weedy shore of Craigard. The tide bubbled and oozed through the wilderness of wrack. Farther off there were the cackling of hens, the lowing of restless kye, and the bleating of the sheep on the slopes of Melmonach. A shrewd salt air tingled in the nostrils of the two men.
At the closed door Sheumas made a sign of silence. Then he unfastened the latch, and entered.
“Silis,” he said in a low voice, but clear.
“Silis, I’ve come back again. Dry your tears, my lass, and tell me once again—for I’m dying to hear the blessed truth once again—tell me once again if it’s me you love best, or Isla Macleod.”
“I have told you, Sheumas.”
Without, Isla heard her words and drew closer.
“And it is a true thing that you love me best, and that since the choice between him and me has come, you choose me?”