As she finished, she threw the sheath on to the burning peats.
Gloom quietly lifted it, brushed off the sparks of flame as though they were dust, and put it in his pocket.
“And by the same token, Anne,” he said, “your oaths will come to nought.”
Rising, he made a sign to his brothers to follow. When they were outside he told Sheumais to return, and to keep Anne within, by peace if possible—by force if not. Briefly they discussed their plans, and then separated. While Sheumais went back, Marcus and Gloom made their way to the haven.
Their black figures were visible in the moonlight, but at first they were not noticed by the men on board the Luath, for Mànus was singing.
When the isleman stopped abruptly, one of his companions asked him jokingly if his song had brought a seal alongside, and bid him beware lest it was a woman of the sea-people.
He gloomed morosely, but made no reply. When the others listened, they heard the wild strain of the Dàn-nan-Ròn stealing through the moonshine. Staring against the shore, they could discern the two brothers.
“What will be the meaning of that?” asked one of the men uneasily.
“When a man comes instead of a woman,” answered Mànus slowly, “the young corbies are astir in the nest.”