“You can whisper that to the rope when it is round your neck.”
“And what will you be doing now, Gloom-nic-Achanna?”
For the first time Gloom shifted uneasily. A swift glance revealed to him the awkward fact that the boat trailed behind the Luath, so that he could not leap into it; while if he turned to haul it close by the rope, he was at the mercy of the two men.
“I will go in peace,” he said quietly.
“Ay,” was the answer, in an equally quiet tone: “in the white peace.”
Upon this menace of death the two men stood facing each other.
Achanna broke the silence at last.
“You’ll hear the Dàn-nan-Ròn the night before you die, Mànus MacCodrum: and, lest you doubt it, you’ll hear it again in your death-hour.”
“Ma tha sìn an Dàn—if that be ordained.” Mànus spoke gravely. His very quietude, however, boded ill. There was no hope of clemency. Gloom knew that.