“Duit sìth mòr, Beann Macdonald.”
“And deep peace to you, too, Sheen; and to him that is there.”
“Och, ochone, mise ’n diugh; ’tis a dark hour this.”
“Ay; it is bad. Will you have been hearing or seeing anything?”
“Well, as for that, I am thinking I saw lights moving betwixt here and the green place over there.”
“The corpse-lights?”
“Well, it is calling them that they are.”
“I thought they would be out. And I have been hearing the noise of the planks—the cracking of the boards, you know, that will be used for the coffin to-morrow.”
A long silence followed. The old women had seated themselves by the corpse, their cloaks over their heads. The room was fireless, and was lit only by a tall wax death-candle, kept against the hour of the going.
At last Sheen began swaying slowly to and fro, crooning low the while. “I would not be for doing that, Sheen Macarthur,” said the deid-watcher in a low voice, but meaningly; adding, after a moment’s pause, “The mice have all left the house.”