The notes slid into a wild remote air: cold moonlight on the dark o’ the sea, it was. It was the Dàn-nan-Ròn.
Anne flushed, trembled, and then abruptly rose. As she leaned on her clenched right hand upon the table, the light of the peats showed that her eyes were aflame.
“Why do you play that, Gloom Achanna?”
The man finished the bar, then blew into the oaten pipe, before, just glancing at the girl, he replied:
“And what harm will there be in that, Anna-ban?”
“You know it is harm. That is the Dàn-nan-Ròn!”
“Ay; and what then, Anna-ban?”
“What then? Are you thinking I don’t know what you mean by playing the Song of the Seal?”
With an abrupt gesture Gloom put the feadan aside. As he did so, he rose.