"An' O, an' O, St. Bride's sweet song 'tis I am hearing, dearie,Dearie, dearie, dearie, my wee white babe that's weary,Weary, weary, weary, with this my womb sae weary,And Bride's sweet song ye hear it too, and stir and sigh, my dearie!"Oh, oh, leánaban-mo,Wee hands that give me pain and woe:Pain and woe, but be it so,'Tis his dear self that now doth grow,Leánaban-mo, leánaban-mo,'Tis his dear self one day you'll know,Leánaban-mo, leánaban-mo!"St. Bridget dear, the cradle show,My baby comes, and I must go,Leánaban-mo, leánaban-mo!Arone!... Arò!Arone!... Arò!"
"An' O, an' O, St. Bride's sweet song 'tis I am hearing, dearie,Dearie, dearie, dearie, my wee white babe that's weary,Weary, weary, weary, with this my womb sae weary,And Bride's sweet song ye hear it too, and stir and sigh, my dearie!
"An' O, an' O, St. Bride's sweet song 'tis I am hearing, dearie,
Dearie, dearie, dearie, my wee white babe that's weary,
Weary, weary, weary, with this my womb sae weary,
And Bride's sweet song ye hear it too, and stir and sigh, my dearie!
"Oh, oh, leánaban-mo,Wee hands that give me pain and woe:Pain and woe, but be it so,'Tis his dear self that now doth grow,Leánaban-mo, leánaban-mo,'Tis his dear self one day you'll know,Leánaban-mo, leánaban-mo!
"Oh, oh, leánaban-mo,
Wee hands that give me pain and woe:
Pain and woe, but be it so,
'Tis his dear self that now doth grow,
Leánaban-mo, leánaban-mo,
'Tis his dear self one day you'll know,
Leánaban-mo, leánaban-mo!
"St. Bridget dear, the cradle show,My baby comes, and I must go,Leánaban-mo, leánaban-mo!Arone!... Arò!Arone!... Arò!"
"St. Bridget dear, the cradle show,
My baby comes, and I must go,
Leánaban-mo, leánaban-mo!
Arone!... Arò!
Arone!... Arò!"
He had stood in the shadow, silent, listening with awe and a strange joy. His heart yearned to go to her, but he knew that a mother's first tears were in the dreaming eyes, and that it was not for him, nor any save God, to be seeing them.
So Alan turned, and went up through the dusk to the low green summit of Cnoc-na-shee, a brief way from the sheiling. And when he was there he looked and saw nothing in all the light-gloom sky but one star low in the south—Reul-na-dhuil, the star of hope. Peace was in his heart. He kneeled down and made a prayer for Sorcha, and the child she bore, and for him too. And when he rose, and went home, and looked back at green Cnoc-na-shee, he saw there for a moment a figure as of an angel, shining bright.
Night and day they were alone there. Murdo the shepherd was up at the high sheiling on Ben Iolair, and rarely came to Màm-Gorm save to help with the kye, or do what was needed about the steading. Oona, too, was seldom seen of them; and of late, even she had not always come at sunrise for the food Sorcha placed for her on the bench by the door each morning. As for Nial, he was for long seen of none, save Oona, and where and when that was no one knew.
As October waned, the day of the mountain lovers became more and more a life of joy. Hand in hand they would sit on the bench in the sun, happily content: or dream, hand clasping hand, before the glowing peats. It was in vain that Murdo, fearing "the quiet madness," reproached Alan, urging upon him that he should go down into Inverglas and see to the sale of the cattle and the sheep. The young man shook his head, smiled gently at the shepherd, and once at least murmured these ominous words: "There is a time for all things, and it is my time to be still. I have peace."
Sorcha, being heavy with child, could not now walk far, and indeed cared little to go beyond the door-bench, or, at farthest, to the green slope of the hillock of Cnoc-na-shee. Her beauty had not waned because of her trouble. Her eyes had grown more large and beautiful: wonderful stars of light to Alan always—stars that shone out of infinite depths, wherein his soul could sink till it reached that ninth wave of darkness which is the sea of light beating upon the coasts of heaven.
So, ever and again, glad with his joy and ungrievingly gloomed because of the shadow that day by day wove a closer veil about his spirit, he not grieving because not in himself knowing the mystery, he went out upon the hillside or into the forest. Often it was, then, that he heard the singing of Oona in the woods at sunrise and during the hot noons. Sometimes now, too, when late-wandering through the forest at gloaming, he saw afar off the still figure of Nial crouching by the tarn, or seated with bent head among the flags and rushes of the drought-dried pools. More than once, as he went home by the remoter glades, he heard the elf-man chanting wildly among the pines at night.
It was on one such evening that, returning with his mind strangely troubled because of the soulless man of the woods, and of his futile quest and the bitter wrong and pity of it, he was met by Murdo with startling news. Sorcha had had a vision; and, being wrought by it, had fallen into premature labour. But she was not alone. He, Murdo, had brought his foster-sister, Anna MacAnndra, back with him from the clachan by the Ford of the Sheep: for as he had gone down with some young ewes that noontide he had seen a look like death in Sorcha's face, so white and drawn was it with sudden pain. Anna, he added, was a leal friend and dear to Sorcha, so that all was well.
And that night, in truth, the child of their great love was born to them. A night it was of pain and joy, of agony and rapture. But when at last the long-waited dawn came—when, as the woman Anna said, there was no more need to fear, for the death-hour of woman in travail was well past—there was deep breathing of quiet happiness upon the sleeping mother, deep slumber of birth-weariness upon the child that lay against her breast, deep peace in the heart of Alan.
It was not till the eve of that day that Sorcha told him of her vision. She had been sitting in the sun upon Cnoc-na-shee, when she was amazed to see three people pass from the forest and make their way up the hill. Because of the noon-glare she could not discern who they were, though each seemed vaguely familiar. Dark in the glowing light, their figures were visible till they reached the ancient stones beside the cairn of Marsail. There she thought they passed into the long hollow beyond; but, when she looked again, she saw that they were now four in number, and that they were coming down the kye-path to Màm-Gorm. Her heart had begun to waver; but it was not till they were half-way down that she recognised the white faces of them: Torcall her father and Marsail her mother, Anabal and her man Fergus. All four walked in peace. And she heard a thin song in the air, that may have been from them or may have been behind her: a song that said, "Beannachd do t'anam is buaidh," "Blessing to thy soul, and victory," "Blessing, blessing to thy soul, and peace!" But still the spirit in her was strong, for why should she fear, dead, those whom she had loved, living?
But as they drew nearer she saw the woman Anabal waving her arms slowly as she advanced, even as the prophesying women of old did before the Lord; and, so waving, she chanted a rune. And the rune that she chanted was theRune of the Passion of the Mother, that no man has ever heard since time was, and that has been in the ears of those women, only, who are to lose life in the giving of a life unto Life. So, hearing this rune, she fell sobbing, with the pains already upon her: and, but for the coming of Murdo with Anna, she would have borne her child on Cnoc-na-shee, the fairy hill—and who knows but its doom might have been that of Nial the soulless?
This vision, Sorcha added, she would not have told to any one had she felt the death-breath enter her as the child was delivered; but now that the boy was born, and was so fair and lusty, blue-eyed and golden-haired as his father had been before him when he too was a breast-babe, and, too, that all was well with her, she told it. Moreover, sure, no harm could come of a song of peace: and as for theRune of the Passion of Mary, it was no more than an idle tale, that saying of Anna MacAnndra's and of other women, that whoso shall hear it shall surely die within the birth-month.
And because of her smiling lips and loving eyes, and of the fair, lusty child whose little hands wandered clingingly about the white breast of Sorcha, Alan believed that the ancient wisdom was an idle tale.
When the dark fell, and pinelogs were thrown upon the redhot peats, the two talked in low, hushed tones, with eyes that ever sought each other lovingly—dreamed and talked, whispered and dreamed, far into the night.
Then, with close-clasping arm holding her child to her bosom, as though in her exceeding weakness—a weakness nigh unto death, now that it seemed to float up to her from within, rather than descend upon her from above—she feared her white blossom of love might be taken from her, Sorcha sank suddenly into drowning sleep.
Sitting by the bedside, with his hand stroking or holding hers, Alan revolved other thoughts than those of love only.
Passing strange, passing strange, this mystery of motherhood over which he brooded obscurely. And, truly, who can know the long, bitter travail of the spirit, as well as the pangs of the body, which many women endure—except just such a woman, suffering in just that way? Can any man know? Hardly can it be so. For though a man can understand the agony of birthtide, and even the long ache and strain of the double life, can he comprehend the baffled sense of overmastering weakness, the vague informulate cry against all powers that be—Man, overlord of the womb: God, overlord of men. How many women have prayed not to Him, but to the one Pontiff before whom all thoughts bow down, worshipping in dread: to that shadowy Lord of the veiled face whom some call Death, that Woman of the compassionate eyes whom others call Oblivion, because of the poppied draught she gives the weary to drink, and the quiet glooms of rest that she holds in the hollow of her hand, and the hushed breath of her that is Forgetfulness.
Thoughts such as these, though in crude words and simple symbols, were in Alan's mind.
No, he knew: never again could he even listen to men jeering at birth. He, though he had come to her virginal-pure, yet feared Sorcha's eyes at times, because—though not knowing for what it was—of the deep-buried spiritual anathema which, in the gaze of the purest and noblest of women, affronts the chained brute that is in the man.
Ah, do men know, do men know—many a woman cries in her heart—do men know that a woman with child dies daily: that she wakes up to die, and that she lies down to die: and that even as hourly she dies, so hourly does the child inherit life? Do they know that her body is the temple of a new soul? What men are they, in any land, who profane the sacred altars? Death was of old the just penalty of those who defiled the holy place where godhood stood revealed in stone or wood or living Bread: shall they go free who defile the temple of the human soul?
"Sure, sure," Alan breathed rather than whispered, with some such thought as this in his mind, "sure I am the priest of God, and she there my temple ... and lo, my God!" ... and with that he leaned over and kissed the little rosy fingers, and the hot tears in his eyes fell upon Sorcha's breast, so that she stirred in her sleep and smiled, dreaming that a soft rain was falling upon her out of the Healing Fountain of Tears that is in the midmost Heaven.
It was at sunrise that the door opened and Oona entered. The child was wet with dew which glistered all over her as though she were a new-plucked flower.
"Ah, birdeen, it is you!" whispered Alan softly, lest the sleepers should wake. "See, I have been dreaming and sleeping all night before the peats."
Oona stared at the bed, where all she could see was Sorcha's pale face among its mass of dusky hair.
"Is it true, Alan? That ... over there ... isthattrue?"
"It is true, dear."
"Are yousurethat a baby has come to Sorcha?"
"It is Himself that sent it."
"Alan, has it a soul?"
"A soul?... Yes, sure no evil eye is upon it, to the Stones be it said! But why do you ask that thing?"
The child sighed, but made no answer, her gaze wandering from Alan round the room, and then to where Sorcha lay.
"Why do you say that, Oona? It is not a safe thing to say: sure, it is not a good wishing. Who knows who may be hearing, though I wish evil to no one, banned or blest!"
"I see no one," Oona began calmly: "I see no one, and how canno onehear? But I will not be for saying an unlucky thing: sure, you know that, dear Alan.Happiness be in this house!...And, now, I will be going, Alan, for I...."
"Going?Hush-sh!wait, Oona, wait: sure, you will be wanting to see the little one?"
"I want to see Nial."
"Why?"
"He must not come ... just now."
"Why?"
"At dawn we went up to the top of the hillock, for the 'quiet people' are ever away by then, it is said. And we prayed. I prayed, and Nial said whatever I said. And then, at sunrise, we rose, and went three times round Cnoc-na-shee south-ways, and each time criedDjayseeul!"17
"And what was it you would be praying, Oona?"
"That no soul might be in the body of Sorcha's baby."
Alan stared at her, too amazed at first to be angry.
"What madness is this, lassie?"
"Sure it is no madness at all, at all, Alan! It is a good thought, and no madness.... For ... for why.... There is poor Nial; and when Murdo met him on the hillside last night, and told him about Sorcha, Nial found me out by calling through the woods like a cuckoo, and sure a good way too, for there are no cooaks now; and then he and I hoped the baby would have no soul ... and...."
"Hush-sh! Hush-sh! Enough! enough!bi sàvach!I am not being angered with you, because of the good thought that was in your heart. But say these things no more. Come; look at Sorcha and the child."
With a light, swift step Oona moved across the room. Silently she looked into Sorcha's face; silently she stood looking awhile at the child.
Alan had no word from her, to his sorrow. Steadfastly she stared; but breathed no whisper even. Then, with a faint sigh, she turned, moved like a ray of light across the room, and, before he knew what had happened, she was gone.
Bewildered at the child going thus quietly away, he went slowly to the door; but she had already vanished. So small a lass could soon be lost in that sunlit sea of green-gold bracken.
For some days thereafter he caught at times a faint echo of her singing in the woods. Once, in a gleaming silver-dusk, he saw the imprint of her small feet, darkly distinct in the wet dew, underneath the little window behind which Sorcha lay. But she did not come again.
It was on the eve of the morning that Oona came that Nial also, for the first and last time, beheld the little Ivor—so called after Ivor, the brother of Marsail that was Sorcha's mother, the noblest man Alan had ever known; "Ivor the good," as he was called by some, "Ivor the poet" by others.
Alan was out, talking to Anna MacAnndra, when Nial stole into the room. One hope was in his heart: that Sorcha slept.
With gleaming eyes, seeing that this was so, he drew near. The sight of the little white child, close lain against his mother's bosom, made a pain in his heart greater than ever the stillest moonlit night had done—a suffocating pain, that made him tremble.
He drew a long breath. He, too, he knew, had once been small, perhaps white and sweet, likethat.
Was it possible that so small, so frail a thing could have a soul? Sure, it could not be. If not, should he not take it, and keep it by him in the forest, till the day when it could be mate to him, Nial the soulless? But if....
His hand touched the skin of the little rosy arm. The child opened its eyes of wonder full upon him.
They gazed unwaveringly, seeing nothing, it may be: if seeing, heeding not. Had it cried, even, or turned away its head; but, no, its blue, unfearing eyes were fixed upon this creature of another world.
It was enough. With a low, sobbing moan he turned and stole unseen from the room, and so out on the hillside, and past that praying-place of Cnoc-na-shee, where so vainly he and Oona had urged that which might not be; and so to the forest, that was the home of the wild fawns, and of the red fox, and of Nial.
None, save the child Oona, ever saw again the elf-man that was called Nial the Soulless: none, though Murdo the shepherd averred that, once, as he passed through the forest in the darkness of a black dawn, he heard a wailing cry come from a great hollow oak that grew solitary among the endless avenues of the pines.
It was far within that first month of motherhood, presaged by the secret rune heard of Sorcha, theRune of the Passion of Mary, that only women dying of birth may hear: it was within this time that an unspeakable weakness came upon Sorcha.
Day by day she grew frail and more frail. Her eyes were pools for the coming shadows of death.
Strange had been their love: strange the coming of it: stranger still was their joy in the hour of death.
For this thing upbore her, that was to go, and him, that was to stay:Joy.
Not vainly had they lived in dream. Sweet now was the waning of the dream into long sleep. Sweet is sleep that will never stir to any waking: sweeter that sleep which is but a balm of rest.
For they knew this: that they would awake in the fulness of time.
When, for the first time, the doom-word passed her lips, Alan shuddered slightly, but he did not quail.
"I am dying, dear heart!"
"Sorcha, this thing has been near to us many days. It is not for long."
"And thou wilt look to thine own dark hour with joy?"
"Even so."
"And our legacy to this our child ... shall be ... shall be...."
"It shall be Joy. He shall be, among men, Ivor the Joy-bringer."
No more was said between them, then, nor later.
It was in the afternoon of the day following this that Sorcha died. She was fain to breathe her last breath on the mountain-side. Tenderly, to the green hillock by the homestead, Alan had carried her. Soft was the west wind upon her wandering hands; warm the golden light out of the shining palaces of cloud whence that wind came.
He was stooping, with his arm upholding her, and whispering low, when, suddenly, she lifted the little Ivor toward him. Quietly she lay back against the slope of the green grass. She was dead.
Alan quivered. All the tears of his life rose up in a flood, and drowned his heart. He could not see the child in his arms; but he did not sway nor fall. Sorcha strengthened him.
Then silently the wave of grief, of a grief that might not be spoken, ebbed. Out of the sea of bitterness his soul rose, a rock with the sun shining upon it.
Slowly he raised the child above his head, till the wind was all about it, and the flooding glory of light out of the west.
A look of serene peace came into his face: within him the breath of an immortal joy transcended the poor frailty of the stricken spirit.
When the words that were on his lips were uttered, they were proud and strong as the fires of the sun against the dawn:
"Behold, O God, this is Ivor, the son of Sorcha, that I boon unto Thee, to be, for all the days Thou shalt give him, Thy servant of Joy among men."
There was peace that night upon Iolair. But toward dawn—the morrow of that new, strange life wherein Alan and the child, with Oona mayhap, were to go forth toward those distant isles where, as Sorcha had seen in a vision, Ivor's ministry of joy was to be—a great wind arose.
The hills heard, and the moan of them went up before it. The mountains awoke, and were filled with a sound of rejoicing.
Through the darkness that lightened momently it came down the glens and the dim braes of bracken. Many waters felt the breath of it, and leaped.
The silences of the forest were as yet unbroken. Unbroken of the wind, at least: for, faint and far, there rose and fell a monotonous chanting, the chanting of a gaunt, dwarfed, misshapen figure that moved like a drifting shadow from pine-glade to pine-glade.
But as dawn broke wanly upon the tallest trees, the wings of the tempest struck one and all into a mighty roar, reverberatingly prolonged: a solemn, slow-sounding anthem, full of the awe of the Night, and of the majesty of the Day, hymning mysteries older than the first dawn, deeper than the deepest dark.
And after the passing of that great wind the forest was still. Only a whisper as of the sea breathed through its illimitable green wave.
BY MRS. WILLIAM SHARP
Pharais, the first book written by William Sharp over the signature of "Fiona Macleod," was published, in 1904, by Mr. Frank Murray (Derby), as the third volume of the "Regent Library," (of whichVistas, by William Sharp, was the second volume). It was reissued, in 1907, by Mr. T. N. Foulis. In AmericaPharaiswas originally published by Messrs. Stone & Kimball (Chicago), as the first volume of their "Green Tree Library," and was reissued by Messrs. Duffield & Co. in 1906.
The Mountain Loverswas published in 1895, in England and America by Mr. John Lane, and a second edition was brought out in 1907.
Footnotes1A slightly anglicised lection of the Gaelic wordPàras = Paradise,Heaven. "Pharais,"properly, is the genitive and dative case of Pàras, as in the line from Muireadhach Albannach, quoted after the title page. "Mithich domh triall gu tigh Pharais"—"It is time for me to go up unto the House of Paradise."2A tall, cream-white marguérite, native to the Outer Isles and the Hebrides, is known to the Islanders as the Moonflower.3"Sorcha, my bonnie lassie," "Yes, Alan, my darling."4"Ah, my fair one, my dark-haired lass, joy be on you!"—"And joy on you, my loved-in-secret."Infra: Domnuill-dubh instead of Donncha-dubh:i.e."should be called Black Donald instead of Black Duncan." It is a play upon words: for "Black Donald" is the Highland colloquialism for Satan.5"Bad end to you! Bad death to you! Ay, and may a death of woe be on you! Evil to you, evil to you!"6A pretty and common onomatopœic saying, which I remember first hearing as a lullaby, when I was a child of three or four.7"Serpent-soul, serpent-soul!" Pronounce àn' ŭm nàa-rach.Nathrachis the genitive ofnàthair(pronouncednha'er, or a'ernasally).8Paidiris literally aPater:i. e., aPaternoster, "Our Father."9"Alas, my soul is oppressed within me!" ... "if it be ordained!" ... "if God prolong my days!"10"Grief, my grief! O grief, my grief, ochone, arone! Sorrow upon me, my heart is broken!"11"Dhonas's a dholas ort"—"Bas dunach ort":i.e."Evil and sorrow to you.... A death of woe be yours! God against thee," etc.: this dreadful and dreaded anathema runs in the Gaelic—"Dia ad aghaidh 's ad aodann, bathadh air muir is losgadh air tir, crogan sgithhich eadar do chridhe 's t' airnean": from which it will be seen, by those who know Gaelic, that I have not translated literally either "crogan" or "airnean."12Mios crochaidh nan con.This month is the period from the middle of July till the middle of August.13"Where is the hearse?"Eilidriom(pronounced likeā-ee-drēm, is used in Skye and the isles, rarely if ever on the mainland.Snaoimh(bier) is the common word, though when a hearse is actually meant, it is alluded to as thecarbad-mhàrbh, "the death-chariot."14In many parts of the Highlands it is still the wont of children at Beltane (May Day) to light fires in woods or on rocky spurs, and there cook eggs, or play other pranks, sometimes very fantastic ones. These meaningless observances are a survival of the days of Druidic worship. Beltane means thesacred fire.Baal,beal, orbelis not the actual Gaelic word for the Sun, or the Sun-god: though the Druids may have hadBaalfrom the Phœnician mariners who came to Ireland. The ancient Celtic word isbea'uil, "the life of everything," "the source of everything."Beal(pron.bel) andteine, "fire," give "Beltane"—the Festival of the Sun.15Pron.Kĕ-ăn! Kĕ-ăn! Keen-ăl-ŭs! Doov-ăch-ŭs!To Celtic ears, not unlike the wailing cry of the plover. The words, moreover, meanFor long, ever! Melancholy! Gloom!The wordfeadag(pron.Fāād'ak), in the ensuing sentences, has two meanings—a plover, and a flute. Thebinn fheadagis "the shrill voice of the plover." Murdo turns the word both ways:feadag, the bird, andfeadag, a flute; the flute made of wind and shadow that sometimes is heard on the hills when a (tamhasq)tāvăskmoves through the gloom of night.16The "mircath," or war-frenzy, ismire-chath, the "passion of battle," as the "mirdeeay" ismire-dheidh, the "passion of longing." The word Darthula—infra—is a later Gaelic variant ofDearduil(almost identically pronounced), the Scoto-Gaelic equivalent of the ErseDeirdrê, the most beautiful woman of old.17Deasiul: "the way of the south [i.e.of the sun] (to you!)" Fromdeas, the south, andseol, way of, direction. The common Gaelic exclamation for luck, in the Highlands at any rate. Many old crofters still, on coming out of a morning, cry "Deasiul!"
1A slightly anglicised lection of the Gaelic wordPàras = Paradise,Heaven. "Pharais,"properly, is the genitive and dative case of Pàras, as in the line from Muireadhach Albannach, quoted after the title page. "Mithich domh triall gu tigh Pharais"—"It is time for me to go up unto the House of Paradise."
2A tall, cream-white marguérite, native to the Outer Isles and the Hebrides, is known to the Islanders as the Moonflower.
3"Sorcha, my bonnie lassie," "Yes, Alan, my darling."
4"Ah, my fair one, my dark-haired lass, joy be on you!"—"And joy on you, my loved-in-secret."
Infra: Domnuill-dubh instead of Donncha-dubh:i.e."should be called Black Donald instead of Black Duncan." It is a play upon words: for "Black Donald" is the Highland colloquialism for Satan.
5"Bad end to you! Bad death to you! Ay, and may a death of woe be on you! Evil to you, evil to you!"
6A pretty and common onomatopœic saying, which I remember first hearing as a lullaby, when I was a child of three or four.
7"Serpent-soul, serpent-soul!" Pronounce àn' ŭm nàa-rach.Nathrachis the genitive ofnàthair(pronouncednha'er, or a'ernasally).
8Paidiris literally aPater:i. e., aPaternoster, "Our Father."
9"Alas, my soul is oppressed within me!" ... "if it be ordained!" ... "if God prolong my days!"
10"Grief, my grief! O grief, my grief, ochone, arone! Sorrow upon me, my heart is broken!"
11"Dhonas's a dholas ort"—"Bas dunach ort":i.e."Evil and sorrow to you.... A death of woe be yours! God against thee," etc.: this dreadful and dreaded anathema runs in the Gaelic—"Dia ad aghaidh 's ad aodann, bathadh air muir is losgadh air tir, crogan sgithhich eadar do chridhe 's t' airnean": from which it will be seen, by those who know Gaelic, that I have not translated literally either "crogan" or "airnean."
12Mios crochaidh nan con.This month is the period from the middle of July till the middle of August.
13"Where is the hearse?"Eilidriom(pronounced likeā-ee-drēm, is used in Skye and the isles, rarely if ever on the mainland.Snaoimh(bier) is the common word, though when a hearse is actually meant, it is alluded to as thecarbad-mhàrbh, "the death-chariot."
14In many parts of the Highlands it is still the wont of children at Beltane (May Day) to light fires in woods or on rocky spurs, and there cook eggs, or play other pranks, sometimes very fantastic ones. These meaningless observances are a survival of the days of Druidic worship. Beltane means thesacred fire.Baal,beal, orbelis not the actual Gaelic word for the Sun, or the Sun-god: though the Druids may have hadBaalfrom the Phœnician mariners who came to Ireland. The ancient Celtic word isbea'uil, "the life of everything," "the source of everything."Beal(pron.bel) andteine, "fire," give "Beltane"—the Festival of the Sun.
15Pron.Kĕ-ăn! Kĕ-ăn! Keen-ăl-ŭs! Doov-ăch-ŭs!To Celtic ears, not unlike the wailing cry of the plover. The words, moreover, meanFor long, ever! Melancholy! Gloom!The wordfeadag(pron.Fāād'ak), in the ensuing sentences, has two meanings—a plover, and a flute. Thebinn fheadagis "the shrill voice of the plover." Murdo turns the word both ways:feadag, the bird, andfeadag, a flute; the flute made of wind and shadow that sometimes is heard on the hills when a (tamhasq)tāvăskmoves through the gloom of night.
16The "mircath," or war-frenzy, ismire-chath, the "passion of battle," as the "mirdeeay" ismire-dheidh, the "passion of longing." The word Darthula—infra—is a later Gaelic variant ofDearduil(almost identically pronounced), the Scoto-Gaelic equivalent of the ErseDeirdrê, the most beautiful woman of old.
17Deasiul: "the way of the south [i.e.of the sun] (to you!)" Fromdeas, the south, andseol, way of, direction. The common Gaelic exclamation for luck, in the Highlands at any rate. Many old crofters still, on coming out of a morning, cry "Deasiul!"
Transcriber's Notes:Variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained except in obvious cases of typographical error:"Before they left the farmstead, the (Marcraes—>) Macraes had...""The old (ilsesman—>) islesman muttered...""...(Eaiasaid—>) Ealasaid suddenly fell on her knees,...""For a long while (therafter—>) thereafter...""...Nial thought of Màm-(Gord—>) Gorm as God...""...genitive of (nathair—>) nàthair...""...ifsheis there (to—>) too."Footnotes have been moved to end of document.Chapters have been linked additionally in the ToC.
Variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained except in obvious cases of typographical error:
"Before they left the farmstead, the (Marcraes—>) Macraes had..."
"The old (ilsesman—>) islesman muttered..."
"...(Eaiasaid—>) Ealasaid suddenly fell on her knees,..."
"For a long while (therafter—>) thereafter..."
"...Nial thought of Màm-(Gord—>) Gorm as God..."
"...genitive of (nathair—>) nàthair..."
"...ifsheis there (to—>) too."
Footnotes have been moved to end of document.
Chapters have been linked additionally in the ToC.