A great weakness came upon the old woman when she had spoken thus far.
Ian feared that she would have breath for no further word; but after a thin gasping, and a listless fluttering of weak hands upon the coverlet, whereon her trembling fingers plucked aimlessly at the invisible blossoms of death, she opened her eyes once more, and stared in a dim questioning at him who sat by her bedside.
"Tell me," whispered Ian, "tell me Marsail, what thought it is that is in your own mind?"
But already the old woman had begun to wander.
"For sure, for sure," she muttered, "_Am Faidh ... Am Faidh_ ... an" a child will be born ... the Queen of Heaven, an" ... that will be the voice of Domhuill, my husband, I am hearing ... an" dark it is, an" the tide comin" in ... an"----"
Then, sure, the tide came in, and if in that darkness old Marsail Macrae heard any voice at all, it was that of Domhuill who years agone had sunk into the wild seas off the head of Barra.
An hour later Alan walked slowly under the cloudy night. All he had heard from Ian came back to him with a strange familiarity. Something of this, at least, he had known before. Some hints of this mysterious Herdsman had reached his ears. In some inexplicable way his real or imaginary presence there upon Rona seemed a pre-ordained thing for him.
He knew that the wild imaginings of the islanders had woven the legend of the Prophet, or of his mysterious message, out of the loom of the deep longing whereon is woven that larger tapestry, the shadow-thridden life of the island Gael. Laughter and tears, ordinary hopes and pleasures, and even joy itself, and bright gaiety, and the swift, spontaneous imaginations of susceptible natures--all this, of course, is to be found with the island Gael as with his fellows elsewhere. But every here and there are some who have in their minds the inheritance from the dim past of their race, and are oppressed as no other people are oppressed by the gloom of a strife between spiritual emotion and material facts. It is the brains of dreamers such as these which clear the mental life of the community; and it is in these brains are the mysterious looms which weave the tragic and sorrowful tapestries of Celtic thought. It were a madness to suppose that life in the isles consists of nothing but sadness and melancholy. It is not so, or need not be so, for the Gael is a creature of shadow and shine. But whatever the people is, the brain of the Gael hears a music that is sadder than any music there is, and has for its cloudy sky a gloom that shall not go; for the end is near, and upon the westernmost sh.o.r.es of these remote isles the voice of Celtic sorrow may be heard crying, "_Cha till, cha till, cha till mi tuille_": "I will return, I will return, I will return no more."
Alan knew all this well; and yet he too dreamed his dream--that, even yet, there might be redemption for the people. He did not share the wild hope which some of the older islanders held, that Christ Himself shall come again to redeem an oppressed race; but might not another saviour arise, another redeeming spirit come into the world? And if so, might not that child of joy be born out of suffering and sorrow and crime; and if so, might not the Herdsman be indeed a prophet, the Prophet of the Woman in whom G.o.d should come anew as foretold?
With startled eyes he crossed the thyme-set ledge whereon stood Caisteal-Rhona. Was it, after all, a message he had received, and was that which had appeared to him in that lonely cavern of the sea but a phantom of his own destiny? Was he himself, Alan Carmichael, indeed _Am Faidh_, the predestined Prophet of the isles?
V
Ever since the night of Marsail"s death, Ian had noticed that Alan no longer doubted, but that in some way a special message had come to him, a special revelation. On the other hand, he had himself swung further into his conviction that the vision he had seen in the cavern was, in truth, that of a living man. On Borosay, he knew, the fishermen believed that the _aonaran nan creag_, the recluse of the rocks, as commonly they spoke of him, was no other than Donnacha Ban Carmichael, survived there through these many years, and long since mad with his loneliness and because of the burden of his crime.
But by this time the islanders had come to see that Alan MacAilean was certainly not Donnacha Ban. Even the startling likeness no longer betrayed them in this way. The ministers and the priests on Berneray and Barra scoffed at the whole story, and everywhere discouraged the idea that Donnacha Ban could still be among the living. But for the common belief that to encounter the Herdsman, whether the lost soul of Donnacha Ban or indeed the strange phantom of the hills of which the old legends spoke, was to meet inevitable disaster, the islanders might have been persuaded to make such a search among the caves of Rona as would almost certainly have revealed the presence of any who dwelt therein.
But as summer lapsed into autumn, and autumn itself through its golden silences waned into the shadow of the equinox, a strange, brooding serenity came upon Alan. Ian himself now doubted his own vision of the mysterious Herdsman--if he indeed existed at all except in the imaginations of those who spoke of him either as the Buachaill Ban, or as the _aonaran nan creag_. If a real man, Ian believed that at last he had pa.s.sed away. None saw the Herdsman now; and even Morag MacNeill, who had often on moonlight nights been startled by the sound of a voice chanting among the upper solitudes, admitted that she now heard nothing unusual.
St. Martin"s summer came at last, and with it all that wonderful, dreamlike beauty which bathes the isles in a flood of golden light, and draws over sea and land a veil of deeper mystery.
One late afternoon, Ian, returning to Caisteal-Rhona after an unexplained absence of several hours, found Alan sitting at a table.
Spread before him were the sheets of one of the strange old Gaelic tales which he had ardently begun to translate. Alan lifted and slowly read the page or paraphrase which he had just laid down. It was after the homelier Gaelic of the _Eachdaireachd Challum mhic Cruimein_.
"And when that king had come to the island, he lived there in the shadow of men"s eyes; for none saw him by day or by night, and none knew whence he came or whither he fared; for his feet were shod with silence, and his way with dusk. But men knew that he was there, and all feared him.
Months, even years, tramped one on the heels of the other, and perhaps the king gave no sign, but one day he would give a sign; and that sign was a laughing that was heard somewhere, upon the lonely hills, or on the lonely wave, or in the heart of him who heard. And whenever the king laughed, he who heard would fare ere long from his fellows to join that king in the shadow. But sometimes the king laughed only because of vain hopes and wild imaginings, for upon these he lives as well as upon the strange savours of mortality."
That night Alan awakened Ian suddenly, and taking him by the hand made him promise to go with him on the morrow to the Teampull-Mara.
In vain Ian questioned him as to why he asked this thing. All Alan would say was that he must go there once again, and with him, for he believed that a spirit out of heaven had come to reveal to him a wonder.
Distressed by what he knew to be a madness, and fearful that it might prove to be no pa.s.sing fantasy, Ian would fain have persuaded him against this intention. Even as he spoke, however, he realised that it might be better to accede to his wishes, and, above all, to be there with him, so that it might not be one only who heard or saw the expected revelation.
And it was a strange faring indeed, that which occurred on the morrow.
At noon, when the tide was an hour turned in the ebb, they sailed westward from Caisteal-Rhona. It was in silence they made that strange journey together; for, while Ian steered, Alan lay down in the hollow of the boat, with his head against the old man"s knees, and slept, or at least lay still with his eyes closed.
When at last they pa.s.sed the headland and entered the first of the sea-arcades, Alan rose and sat beside him. Hauling down the now useless sail, Ian took an oar and, standing at the prow, urged the boat inward along the narrow corridor which led to the huge sea-cave of the Altar.
In the deep gloom--for even on that day of golden light and beauty the green air of the sea-cave was heavy with shadow--there was a deathly chill. What dull light there was came from the sheen of the green water which lay motionless along the black basaltic ledges. When at last the base of the Altar was reached, Ian secured the boat by a rope pa.s.sed around a projecting spur, and then seated himself in the stern beside Alan.
"Tell me, Alan-a-ghaoil, what is this thing that you are thinking you will hear or see?"
Alan looked at him strangely for a while, but, though his lips moved, he said nothing.
"Tell me, my heart," Ian urged again, "who is it you expect to see or hear?"
"_Am Buachaill Ban_," Alan answered, "the Herdsman."
For a moment Ian hesitated. Then, taking Alan"s hand in his and raising it to his lips, he whispered in his ear--
"There is no Herdsman upon Rona. If a man was there who lived solitary, the _aonaran nan creag_ is dead long since. What you have seen and heard has been a preying upon you of wild thoughts. Be thinking no more now of this vision."
"This man," Alan answered quietly, "is not Donnacha Ban, but the Prophet of whom the people speak. He himself has told me this thing. Yesterday I was here, and he bade me come again. He spoke out of the shadow that is about the Altar, though I saw him not. I asked him if he were Donnacha Ban, and he said "No." I asked him if he were _Am Faidh_, and he said "Yes." I asked him if he were indeed an immortal spirit and herald of that which was to be, and he said "Even so.""
For a long while after this no word was spoken. The chill of that remote place began to affect Alan, and he shivered slightly at times. But more he shivered because of the silence, and because that he who had promised to be there gave no sign. Sure, he thought, it could not be all a dream; sure, the Herdsman would come again.
Then at last, turning to Ian, he said, "We must come on the morrow, for to-day he is not here."
"I will do what you ask, Alan-mo-ghaol."
But of a sudden Alan stepped on the black ledges at the base of the Altar, and slowly mounted the precipitous rock.
Ian watched him till he became a shadow in that darkness. His heart leaped when suddenly he heard a cry fall out of the gloom.
"Alan, Alan!" he cried, and a great fear was upon him when no answer came; but at last he heard him clambering slowly down the perilous slope of that obscure place. When he reached the ledge Alan stood still regarding him.
"Why do you not come into the boat?" Ian asked, terrified because of what he saw in Alan"s eyes.
Alan looked at him with parted lips, his breath coming and going like that of a caged bird.
"What is it?" Ian whispered.
"Ian, when I reached the top of the Altar, and in the dim light that was there, I saw the dead body of a man lying upon the rock. His head was lain back so that the gleam from a crevice in the cliff overhead fell upon it. The man had been dead many hours. He is a man whose hair has been greyed by years and sorrow, but the man is he who is of my blood; he whom I resemble so closely; he that the fishermen call the hermit of the rocks; he that is the Herdsman."
Ian stared, with moving lips: then in a whisper he spoke--
"Would you be for following a herdsman who could lead you to no fold?
This man is dead, Alan mac Alasdair; and it is well that you brought me here to-day. That is a good thing, and for sure G.o.d has willed it."
"It is not a man that is dead. It is my soul that lies there. It is dead. G.o.d called me to be His Prophet, and I hid in dreams. It is the end." And with that, and death staring out of his eyes, he entered the boat and sat down beside Ian.
"Let us go," he said, and that was all.
Slowly Ian oared the boat across the shadowy gulf of the cave, along the narrow pa.s.sage, and into the pale green gloom of the outer cavern, wherein the sound of the sea made a forlorn requiem in his ears.
But the short November day was already pa.s.sing to its end. All the sea westward was aflame with gold and crimson light, and in the great dome of the sky a wonderful radiance lifted above the paleness of the clouds, whose pinnacled and bastioned heights towered in the south-west.
A faint wind blew eastwardly. Raising the sail, Ian made it fast and then sat down beside Alan. But he, rising, moved along the boat to the mast, and leaned there with his face against the setting sun.
Idly they drifted onward. Deep silence lay between them; deep silence was all about them, save for the ceaseless, inarticulate murmur of the sea, the splash of low waves against the rocks of Rona, and the sigh of the surf at the base of the basalt precipices.