She was conscious of the wave of relief that went into Sheumas’ face. She saw the rising of a dark, strange tide in the eyes of Isla.
He stared at her. Perhaps he did not hear? Perhaps he was dreaming still? He was a dreamer, a poet: perhaps he could not understand.
It was a little while wherein to kill a man.
“My Fawn,” he whispered hoarsely, “my wee Fawn!”
But Silis was frozen.
The deadly frost in her eyes slew the dream that the brain of the poet dreamed.
Then it slew the poet.
Isla, the man, stood awhile, strangely tremulous. She could see his nerves quivering below his clothes. He was a big, strong giant of a lover: but he trembled now just like a bit fawn, she thought. His blue eyes were suddenly grown cloudy and dim. Then the deadly frost slew the brain that was the altar where the poet offered up his dreams of beauty.
And that is how Isla the dreamer ceased to dream.
He was quite white and still when they found him three days later. He seemed a giant of a man as he lay, face upward, among the green flags by the water-edge. The chill starlight of three nights had got into the quiet of his face.