MIRCATH

TheMire Chathwas the name given to the war-frenzy that often preceded and accompanied battle.

WHEN Haco the Laugher saw the islanders coming out of the west in their birlinns, he called to his vikings: “Now of a truth we shall hear the Song of the Sword!”

The ten galleys of the Summer-Sailors spread out into two lines of five boats, each boat an arrow-flight from those on either side.

The birlinns came on against the noon. In the sun-dazzle they loomed black as a shoal of pollack. There were fifteen in all, and from the largest, midway among them, flew a banner. On this banner was a disc of gold.

“It is the Banner of the Sunbeam,” shouted Olaf the Red, who with Torquil the One-Armed was hero-man to Haco. “I know it well. The Gael who fight under that are warriors indeed.”

“Is there a saga-man here?” cried Haco. At that a great shout went up from the vikings: “Harald the Smith!”

A man rose among the bow-men in Olaf’s boat. It was Harald. He took a small square harp, and he struck the strings. This was the song he sang:

Let loose the hounds of war,The whirling swords!Send them leaping afar,Red in their thirst for war;Odin laughs in his carAt the screaming of the swords!Far let the white-ones fly,The whirling swords!Afar off the ravens spyDeath-shadows cloud the sky.Let the wolves of the Gael die’Neath the screaming swords!The Shining Ones yonderHigh in ValhallaShout now, with thunder.Drive the Gaels under,Cleave them asunder—Swords of Valhalla!

Let loose the hounds of war,The whirling swords!Send them leaping afar,Red in their thirst for war;Odin laughs in his carAt the screaming of the swords!

Far let the white-ones fly,The whirling swords!Afar off the ravens spyDeath-shadows cloud the sky.Let the wolves of the Gael die’Neath the screaming swords!

The Shining Ones yonderHigh in ValhallaShout now, with thunder.Drive the Gaels under,Cleave them asunder—Swords of Valhalla!

A shiver passed over every viking. Strong men shook as a child when lightning plays.Then the trembling passed. The mircath, the war-frenzy, came on them. Loud laughter, went from boat to boat. Many tossed the great oars, and swung them down upon the sea, splashing the sun-dazzle into a yeast of foam. Others sprang up and whirled their javelins on high, catching them with bloody mouths: others made sword-play, and stammered thick words through a surf of froth upon their lips. Olaf the Red towered high on the steering-plank of theCalling Raven, swirling round and round a mighty battle-axe: on theSea-Wolf, Torquil One-Arm shaded his eyes, and screamed hoarsely wild words that no one knew the meaning of. Only Haco was still for a time. Then he, too, knew the mircath: and he stood up in theRed-Dragonand laughed loud and long. And when Haco the Laugher laughed, there was ever blood and to spare.

The birlinns of the islanders drave on apace. They swayed out into a curve, a black crescent there in the gold-sprent blue meads of the sea. From the great birlinn that carried the Sunbeam came a chanting voice:

O ’tis a good song the sea makes when blood is on the wave,And a good song the wave makes when its crest o’ foam is red!For the rovers out of Lochlin the sea is a good grave,And the bards will sing to-night to the sea-moan of the dead!Yo-ho-a-h’eily-a-yo, eily, ayah, a yo!Sword and Spear and Battle-axe sing the Song of Woe.Ayah, eily, a yo!Eily, ayah, a yo!

Then there was a swirling and dashing of foam. Clouds of spray filled the air from the thresh of the oars.

No man knew aught of the last moments ere the birlinns bore down upon the viking-galleys. Crash and roar and scream: and a wild surging: the slashing of swords, the whistle of arrows, the fierce hiss of whirled spears, the rending crash of battle-axe and splintering of the javelins, wild cries, oaths, screams, shouts of victors and yells of the dying, shrill taunts from the spillers of life and savage choking cries from those drowning in the bloody yeast, that bubbled andfoamed in the maelstrom where the war-boats swung and reeled this way and that—and over all the loud death-music of Haco the Laugher.

Olaf the Red went into the sea, red indeed, for the blood streamed from head and shoulders and fell about him as a scarlet robe. Torquil One-Arm fought, blind and arrow-sprent, till a spear went through his neck, and he sank among the dead. Louder and louder grew the fierce shouts of the Gael: fewer the savage screaming cries of the vikings. Thus it was till two galleys only held living men. TheCalling Raventurned and fled, with the nine men who were not wounded to the death. But on theRed DragonHaco the Laugher still laughed. Seven men were about him. These fought in silence.

Then Toscar mac Aonghas that was leader of the Gael took his bow. None was arrow-better than Toscar of the Nine Battles. He laid down his sword and took his bow, and an arrow went through the right eye of Haco the Laugher. He laughed no more. The seven died in silence. Swaran Swift-footwas the last. When he fell he wiped away the blood that streamed over his face.

“Skoal!” he cried to the hero of the Gael, and with that he whirled his battle-axe at Toscar mac Aonghas: and the soul of Toscar met his, in the dark mist, and upon the ears of both fell at one and the same time the glad laughter of the gods in Valhalla.

Scathach(pronounced Scá-ya or Ský-ya) was an Amazonian queen of the Isle of Skye, and is supposed to have given her name to that island.

IN the year when Cuchullin left the Isle of Skye, where Scathach the warrior-Queen ruled with the shadow of death in the palm of her sword-hand, there was sorrow because of his beauty. He had fared back to Eiré, at the summons of Concobar mac Nessa, Ard-Righ of Ulster. For the Clan of the Red Branch was wading in blood, and there were seers who beheld that bitter tide rising and spreading.

Cuchullin was only a youth in years: but he had come to Skye a boy, and he had left it a man. None fairer had ever been seen of Scathach or of any woman. He was tall and lithe as a young pine: his skin was as white as a woman’s breast: his eyes were of a fierce bright blue, with a white light in them as of the sun. When bent, and with arrow half-way drawn, he stood on the heather, listening against the belling of thedeer; or when he leaned against a tree, dreaming not of eagle-chase or wolf-hunt, but of the woman whom he had never met; or when, by the dûn, he played at sword-whirl or spear-thrust, or raced the war-chariot across the machar—then, and ever, there were eyes upon his beauty and there were some who held him to be Angus Ogue himself. For there was a light about him, such as the hills have in the sun-glow an hour before set. His hair was the hair of Angus and of the fair gods: earth-brown shot with gold next his head, ruddy as flame midway, and, where it sprayed into a golden mist of fire, yellow as windy sunshine.

But Cuchullin loved no woman upon Skye, and none dared openly to love Cuchullin, for Scathach’s heart yearned for him, and to cross the Queen was to put the shroud upon oneself. Scathach kept an open face for the son of Lerg. There was no dark frown above the storm in her eyes when she looked at his sunbright face. Gladly she slew a woman because Cuchullin had lightly reproved the maid for some idle thing: and once, when the youth had looked in gravesilence at three viking-captives whom she had spared because of their comely manhood, she put her sword through the heart of each, and sent him the blade, dripping red, as the flower of love.

But Cuchullin was a dreamer, and he loved what he dreamed of, and that woman was not Scathach, nor any of her warrior-women who made the Isle of Mist a place of terror for those cast upon the wild shores, or stranded there in the ebb of inglorious battle.

Scathach brooded deep upon her vain desire. Once, in a windless shadowy gloaming, she asked him if he loved any woman.

“Yes,” he said, “Etáin.”

Her breath came quick and hard. It was for pleasure to her then to think of Cuchullin lying white at her feet, with the red blood spilling from the whiteness of his breast. But she bit her underlip, and said quietly:

“Who is Etáin?”

“She is the wife of Mídir.”

And with that the youth turned and moved haughtily away. She did not know that the Etáin of whom Cuchullin dreamed was no woman that he had seen in Eiré, but thewife of Mídir the King of Faerie, who was so passing fair that Mac Greine, the beautiful god, had made for her agriananall of shining glass, where still she lives in a dream, and in that sun-bower still is fed at dawn upon the bloom of flowers and at dusk upon their fragrance.O ogham mhic Gréine, tha e boidheach,[15]she sighs for ever in her sleep: and that sigh is in all sighs of love for ever and ever.

[15]“O beauty of my love the Sun-lord” (lit.“O Youth, son of the Sun, how fair he is!”)

Scathach watched him till he was lost behind the flare of the camp-fires of the rath. For long she stood there, brooding deep; till the sickle of the new moon, which had been like a blown feather over the sun as it sank, stood out in silvershine against the blue-black sky, now like a wake in the sea because of the star-dazzle that was there. And what the queen brooded upon was this: whether to send emissaries to Eirèann, under bond to seek in that land till they found Mídir and Etáin, and to slay Mídir and bring to her the corpse, for a gift from her to lay before Cuchullin: or to bring Etáinto Skye, where the Queen might see her lose her beauty and wane into death. Neither way might win the heart of Cuchullin. The dark tarn of the woman’s mind grew blacker with the shadow of that thought.

Slowly she moved dûn-ward through the night. “As the moon sometimes is seen rising out of the east,” she muttered, “and sometimes, as now, is first seen in the west, so is the heart of love. And if I go west, lo the moon may rise along the sunway: and if I go east, lo the moon may be a white light over the setting sun. And who that knoweth the heart of man or woman can tell when the moon of love is to appear full-orbed in the east or sickle-wise in the west?”

It was on the day following that tidings came out of Eirèann. An Ultonian brought a sword to Cuchullin from Concobar the Ard-righ.

“The sword has ill upon it, and will die, unless you save it, Cuculain son of Lerg,” said the man.

“And what is that ill, Ultonian?” asked the youth.

“It is thirst.”

Then Cuchullin understood.

On the night of his going none looked at Scathach. She had a flame in her eyes.

At moonrise, she came back into the rath. No one, meeting her, looked in her face. Death lay there, like the levin behind a cloud. But Maev her chief captain sought her, for she had glad news.

“I would slay you for that glad news, Maev,” said the Dark Queen to the warrior-woman, “for there is no glad news unless it be that Cuchullin is come again: only, I spare, for you saved my life that day the summer-sailors burned my rath in the south.”

Nevertheless, Scathach had gladness because of the tidings. Three viking-galleys had been driven into Loch Scavaig, and been dashed to death there by the whirling wind and the narrow furious seas. Of the ninety men who had sailed in them, only a score had reached the rocks: and these were now lying bound at the dûn, awaiting death.

“Call out my warriors,” said Scathach, “and bid all meet at the oak near the Ancient Stones. And bring thither the twenty men that lie bound in the dûn.”

There was a scattering of fire and a clashing of swords and spears, when the word went from Maev. Soon all were at the Stones beneath the great oak.

“Cut the bonds from the feet of the sea-rovers, and let them stand.” Thus commanded the Queen.

The tall fair men out of Lochlin stood, with their hands bound behind them. In their eyes burned wrath and shame, because that they were the sport of women. A bitter death theirs, with no sword-song for music. “Take each by his long yellow hair,” said Scathach, “and tie the hair of each to a down-caught bough of the oak.”

In silence this thing was done. A shadow was in the paleness of each viking-face.

“Let the boughs go,” said Scathach.

The five score warrior-women who held the great boughs downward, sprang back. Up swept the branches, and from each swung a living man, swaying in the wind by his long yellow hair.

Great men they were, strong warriors: but stronger was the yellow hair of each, andstronger than the hair the bough wherefrom each swung and stronger than the boughs the wind that swayed them idly like drooping fruit, with the stars silvering their hair and the torch-flares reddening the white soles of their dancing feet.

Then Scathach the Queen laughed loud and long. There was no other sound at all there, for none ever uttered sound when Scathach laughed that laugh, for then her madness was upon her.

But at the last Maev strode forward, and struck a smallclarsachthat she carried, and to the wild notes of it sang the death-song of the vikings.

O arone a-ree, eily arone, arone!’Tis a good thing to be sailing across the sea!How the women smile and the children are laughing gladWhen the galleys go out into the blue sea—arone!O eily arone, arone!But the children may laugh less when the wolves come,And the women may smile less in the winter—cold—For the Summer-sailors will not come again, arone!O arone a-ree, eily arone, arone!I am thinking they will not sail back again, O no!The yellow-haired men that came sailing across the sea:For ’tis wild apples they would be, and swing on green branches,And sway in the wind for the corbies to preen their eyne,O eily arone, eily a-ree!And it is pleasure for Scathach the Queen to see this:To see the good fruit that grows upon the Tree of the Stones.Long, speckled fruit it is, wind-swayed by its yellow roots,And like men they are with their feet dancing in the void air!O, O, arone, a-ree, eily arone!

But the children may laugh less when the wolves come,And the women may smile less in the winter—cold—For the Summer-sailors will not come again, arone!O arone a-ree, eily arone, arone!

I am thinking they will not sail back again, O no!The yellow-haired men that came sailing across the sea:For ’tis wild apples they would be, and swing on green branches,And sway in the wind for the corbies to preen their eyne,O eily arone, eily a-ree!

And it is pleasure for Scathach the Queen to see this:To see the good fruit that grows upon the Tree of the Stones.Long, speckled fruit it is, wind-swayed by its yellow roots,And like men they are with their feet dancing in the void air!O, O, arone, a-ree, eily arone!

When she ceased, all there swung swords and spears, and flung flaring torches into the night, and cried out:

O, arone a-ree, eily arone, arone,O, O, arone, a-ree, eily arone!

Scathach laughed no more. She was weary now. Of what avail any joy of death against the pain she had in her heart, the pain that was called Cuchullin?

Soon all was dark in the rath. Flameafter flame died out. Then there was but one red glare in the night, the watch-fire by the dûn. Deep peace was upon all. Not a heifer lowed, not a dog bayed against the moon. The wind fell into a breath, scarce enough to lift the fragrance from flower to flower. Upon the branches of a great oak swung motionless a strange fruit, limp and gray as the hemlock that hangs from ancient pines.

[16]The first part of the story of Ula and Urla, as Isla and Eilidh, is told in “Silk o’ the Kine,” at the end ofThe Sin-Eater. [The name, Eilidh, is pronounced Eily (liq.) or Isle-ih.]

“Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World!You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurledUpon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ringThe bell that calls us on: the sweet far thing.Beauty grown sad with its eternityMade you of us, and of the dim gray sea.”

ULA and Urla were under vow to meet by the Stone of Sorrow. But Ula, dying first, stumbled blindfold when he passed the Shadowy Gate: and, till Urla’s hour was upon her, she remembered not.

These were the names that had been given to them in the north isles, when the birlinn that ran down the war-galley of the vikings brought them before the Maormor.

No word had they spoken that day, and no name. They were of the Gael, though Ula’s hair was yellow and though his eyes were blue as the heart of a wave. They would ask nothing, for both were in love with death. The Maormor of Siol Tormaid lookedat Urla, and his desire gnawed at his heart. But he knew what was in her mind, because he saw into it through her eyes, and he feared the sudden slaying in the dark.

Nevertheless he brooded night and day upon her beauty. Her skin was more white than the foam of the moon: her eyes were as a starlit dewy dusk. When she moved, he saw her like a doe in the fern: when she stooped, it was as the fall of wind-swayed water. In his eyes there was a shimmer as of the sunflood in a calm sea. In that dazzle he was led astray.

“Go,” he said to Ula, on a day of the days. “Go: the men of Siol Torquil will take you to the South Isles, and so you can hale to your own place, be it Eirèann or Manannan, or wherever the south wind puts its hand upon your home.”

It was on that day Ula spoke for the first time.

“I will go, Coll mac Torcall: but I go not alone. Urla that I love goes whither I go.”

“She is my spoil. But, man out of Eirèann—for so I know you to be, becauseof the manner of your speech—tell me this: of what clan and what place are you, and whence is Urla come: and by what shore was it that the men of Lochlin whom we slew took you and her out of the sea, as you swam against the sun, with waving swords upon the strand when the viking-boat carried you away?”

“How know you these things?” asked Ula, that had been Isla, son of the king of Islay.

“One of the sea-rovers spake before he died.”

“Then let the viking speak again. I have nought to say.”

With that the Maormor frowned, but said no more. That eve Ula was seized, as he walked in the dusk by the sea, singing low to himself an ancient song.

“Is it death?” he said, remembering another day when he and Eilidh, that they called Urla, had the same asking upon their lips.

“It is death.”

Ula frowned, but spake no word for a time. Then he spake.

“Let me say one word with Urla.”

“No word canst thou have. She too must die.”

Ula laughed low at that.

“I am ready,” he said. And they slew him with a spear.

When they told Urla she rose from the deer-skins and went down to the shore. She said no word, then. But she stooped, and she put her lips upon his cold lips: and she whispered in his unhearing ear.

That night Coll mac Torcall went secretly to where Urla was. When he entered, a groan came to his lips, and there was froth there: and that was because the spear that had slain Ula was thrust betwixt his shoulders by one who stood in the shadow. He lay there till the dawn. When they found Coll the Maormor he was like a seal speared upon a rock, for he had his hands out, and his head was between them, and his face was downward.

“Eat dust, slain wolf,” was all that Eilidh whom they called Urla said ere she moved away from that place in the darkness of the night.

When the sun rose, Urla was in a glen among the hills. A man who shepherded there took her to his mate. They gave her milk, and because of her beauty, and the frozen silence of her eyes, bade her stay with them, and be at peace.

They knew, in time, that she wished death. But, first, there was the birthing of the child.

“It was Isla’s will,” she said to the woman. Ula was but the shadow of a bird’s wing: an idle name. And she, too, was Eilidh once more. “It was death he gave you when he gave you the child,” said the woman once.

“It was life,” answered Eilidh, with her eyes filled with the shadow of dream. And yet another day the woman said to her that it would be well to bear the child and let it die: for beauty was like sunlight on a day of clouds, and if she were to go forth young and alone and so wondrous fair, she would have love, and love is best.

“Truly, love is best,” Eilidh answered. “And because Isla loved me, I would that another Isla came into the world, and sang his songs—the songs that were so sweet, and the songs that he never sang, because Igave him death when I gave him life. But now he shall live again—and he and I shall be in one body, in him that I carry now.”

At that the woman understood, and said no more. And so the days grew out of the nights, and the dust of the feet of one month was in the eyes of that which followed after: and this until Eilidh’s time was come.

Dusk after dusk, Ula that was Isla the Singer, waited by the Stone of Sorrow. Then a great weariness came upon him. He made a song there, where he lay in the narrow place: the last song that he made, for after that he heard no trampling of the hours.

The swift years slip and slide adown the steep;The slow years pass; neither will come again.Yon huddled years have weary eyes that weep,These laugh, these moan, these silent frown, these plain,These have their lips acurl with proud disdain.O years with tears, and tears through weary years,How weary I who in your arms have lain:Now, I am tired: the sound of slipping spearsMoves soft, and tears fall in a bloody rain,And the chill footless years go over me who am slain.I hear, as in a wood, dim with old light, the rain,Slow falling; old, old, weary, human tears:And in the deepening dark my comfort is my Pain,Sole comfort left of all my hopes and fears,Pain that alone survives, gaunt hound of the shadowy years.

O years with tears, and tears through weary years,How weary I who in your arms have lain:Now, I am tired: the sound of slipping spearsMoves soft, and tears fall in a bloody rain,And the chill footless years go over me who am slain.

I hear, as in a wood, dim with old light, the rain,Slow falling; old, old, weary, human tears:And in the deepening dark my comfort is my Pain,Sole comfort left of all my hopes and fears,Pain that alone survives, gaunt hound of the shadowy years.

But, at the last, after many days, he stirred. There was a song in his ears.

He listened. It was like soft rain in a wood in June. It was like the wind laughing among the leaves.

Then his heart leapt. Sure, it was the voice of Eilidh!

“Eilidh! Eilidh! Eilidh!” he cried. But a great weariness came upon him again. He fell asleep, knowing not the little hand that was in his and the small flower-sweet body that was warm against his side.

Then the child that was his looked into the singer’s heart, and saw there a mist of rainbows, and midway in that mist was the face of Eilidh his mother.

Thereafter the little one looked into his brain that was so still, and he saw the music that was there: and it was the voice of Eilidh his mother.

And, again, the birdeen, that had the blue of Isla’s eyes and the dream of Eilidh’s, looked into Ula’s sleeping soul: and he saw that it was not Isla nor yet Eilidh, but that it was like unto himself, who was made of Eilidh and Isla.

For a long time the child dreamed. Then he put his ear to Isla’s brow, and listened. Ah, the sweet songs that he heard. Ah, bitter-sweet moonseed of song! Into his life they passed, echo after echo, strain after strain, wild air after wild sweet air.

“Isla shall never die,” whispered the child, “for Eilidh loved him. And I am Isla and Eilidh.”

Then the little one put his hands above Isla’s heart. There was a flame there, that the Grave quenched not.

“O flame of love!” sighed the child, and he clasped it to his breast: and it was a moonshine glory about the two hearts that he had, the heart of Isla and the heart of Eilidh, that were thenceforth one.

At dawn he was no longer there. Already the sunrise was warm upon him where he lay, newborn, upon the breast of Eilidh.

“It is the end,” murmured Isla when he waked. “She has never come. For sure now, the darkness and the silence.”

Then he remembered the words of Maol the Druid, he that was a seer and had told him of Orchil, the dim goddess who is under the brown earth, in a vast cavern, where she weaves at two looms. With one hand she weaves life upward through the grass: with the other she weaves death downward through the mould: and the sound of the weaving is Eternity, and the name of it in the green world is Time. And, through all, Orchil weaves the weft of Eternal Beauty, that passeth not, though its soul is Change.

And these were the words of Orchil, on the lips of Maol the Druid, that was old, and knew the mystery of the Grave:

When thou journeyest towards the Shadowy Gate take neither Fear with thee nor Hope, for both are abashed hounds of silence in that place: but take only the purple nightshade for sleep, and a vial of tears and wine, tears that shall be known unto thee andold wine of love. So shalt thou have thy silent festival, ere the end.

So therewith Isla, having in his weariness the nightshade of sleep, and in his mind the slow dripping rain of familiar tears, and deep in his heart the old wine of love, bowed his head.

It was well to have lived, since life was Eilidh. It was well to cease to live, since Eilidh came no more.

Then suddenly he raised his head. There was music in the green world above. A sun-ray opened the earth about him: staring upward he beheld Angus Ogue.

“Ah, fair face of the god of youth,” he sighed. Then he saw the white birds that fly about the head of Angus Ogue, and he heard the music that his breath made upon the harp of the wind.

“Arise,” said Angus; and, when he smiled, the white birds flashed their wings and made a mist of rainbows.

“Arise,” said Angus Ogue again; and, when he spoke, the spires of the grass quivered to a wild sweet haunting air.

So Isla arose, and the sun shone upon him, and his shadow passed into the earth. Orchil wove it into her web of death.

“Why dost thou wait here by the Stone of Sorrow, Isla that was called Ula at the end?”

“I wait for Eilidh, who cometh not.”

At that the wind-listening god stooped and laid his head upon the grass.

“I hear the coming of a woman’s feet,” he said, and he rose.

“Eilidh! Eilidh!” cried Isla, and the sorrow of his cry was a moan in the web of Orchil.

Angus Ogue took a branch, and put the cool greenness against his cheek.

“I hear the beating of a heart,” he said.

“Eilidh! Eilidh! Eilidh!” Isla cried, and the tears that were in his voice were turned by Angus into dim dews of remembrance in the babe-brain that was the brain of Isla and Eilidh.

“I hear a word,” said Angus Ogue, “and that word is a flame of joy.”

Isla listened. He heard a singing of birds. Then, suddenly, a glory came into the shine of the sun.

“I have come, Isla my king!”

It was the voice of Eilidh. He bowed his head, and swayed; for it was his own life that came to him.

“Eilidh!” he whispered.

And so, at the last, Isla came into his kingdom.

But are they gone, these twain, who loved with deathless love? Or is this a dream that I have dreamed?

Afar in an island-sanctuary that I shall not see again, where the wind chants the blind oblivious rune of Time, I have heard the grasses whisper:Time never was, Time is not.

PRINTED BY JOHN WILSON AND SON ATTHE UNIVERSITY PRESS IN CAMBRIDGEDURING JUNE M DCCC XCVI. FORSTONE AND KIMBALLNEW YORK

Transcriber's NoteSome stories are divided into roman numbered sections. In some cases, the first section had no number. This is preserved as printed.Minor punctuation errors have been repaired.Hyphenation and accent usage have been made consistent where there was a clear prevalence of one form over another.The footnote on page321had no corresponding marker in the text. The transcriber has guessed the most likely position of the marker.Variations in spelling are preserved as printed, for example Annir-Coille and Annir-Choille; Cailliach and Cailleach; Halival and Haleval; Haskeval and Haskival. However, the following appeared to be printer errors, and have been amended as follows:Page50—Brighde-nam-Bratj amended to Brighde-nam-Brat—... is “Brighde-nam-Brat,” that is, ...Page54—Loc amended to Loch—... that was then called Loch Feobal.Page135—Padruice amended to Padruic—... I sailed with Padruic Macrae and Ivor McLean, ...Page254—Bad-a-sgailch amended to Bad-a-sgailich—Baille ’n Bad-a-sgailich: the Farm of the Shadowy Clump of Trees.Page329—thae amended to that—... that passeth not, though its soul is Change.Repeated titles have been deleted. Omitted page numbers were half title or blank pages in the original book.

Transcriber's Note

Some stories are divided into roman numbered sections. In some cases, the first section had no number. This is preserved as printed.

Minor punctuation errors have been repaired.

Hyphenation and accent usage have been made consistent where there was a clear prevalence of one form over another.

The footnote on page321had no corresponding marker in the text. The transcriber has guessed the most likely position of the marker.

Variations in spelling are preserved as printed, for example Annir-Coille and Annir-Choille; Cailliach and Cailleach; Halival and Haleval; Haskeval and Haskival. However, the following appeared to be printer errors, and have been amended as follows:

Page50—Brighde-nam-Bratj amended to Brighde-nam-Brat—... is “Brighde-nam-Brat,” that is, ...Page54—Loc amended to Loch—... that was then called Loch Feobal.Page135—Padruice amended to Padruic—... I sailed with Padruic Macrae and Ivor McLean, ...Page254—Bad-a-sgailch amended to Bad-a-sgailich—Baille ’n Bad-a-sgailich: the Farm of the Shadowy Clump of Trees.Page329—thae amended to that—... that passeth not, though its soul is Change.

Page50—Brighde-nam-Bratj amended to Brighde-nam-Brat—... is “Brighde-nam-Brat,” that is, ...

Page54—Loc amended to Loch—... that was then called Loch Feobal.

Page135—Padruice amended to Padruic—... I sailed with Padruic Macrae and Ivor McLean, ...

Page254—Bad-a-sgailch amended to Bad-a-sgailich—Baille ’n Bad-a-sgailich: the Farm of the Shadowy Clump of Trees.

Page329—thae amended to that—... that passeth not, though its soul is Change.

Repeated titles have been deleted. Omitted page numbers were half title or blank pages in the original book.

Back to Index Next