Duncan the Fair-haired, and Hector, but
the last of them--this poor wretch--what will they say of him? "Oh, he
died for the love of a woman!" She struck him in the heart; and he could
not strike back, for she was a woman. Ah, but if it was a man now! They
say the Macleods are all become sheep; and their courage has gone; and
if they were to grasp even a Rose-leaf they could not crush it. It is
dangerous to say that; do not trust to it. Oh, it is you, you poor fool
in the newspaper, who are whirling along behind the boat? Does the
swivel work? Are the sharks after you? Do you hear them behind you
cleaving the water? The men of Dubh-Artach will have a good laugh when
we whisk you past. What! you beg for mercy?--come out, then, you poor
devil! Here is a tarpaulin for you. Give him a glass of whiskey, John
Cameron. And so you know about theatres; and perhaps you have ambition,
too; and there is nothing in the world so fine as people clapping their
hands? But you--even you--if I were to take you over in the dark, and
the storm came on, you would not think that I thrust you aside to look
after myself? You are a stranger; you are helpless in boats: do you
think I would thrust you aside? It was not fair--oh, it was not fair? If
she wished to kill my heart, there were other things to say than that.
Why, sweetheart, don't you know that I got the little English boy out of
the water; and you think I would let you drown! If we were both drowning
now, do you know what I should do? I should laugh, and say, "Sweetheart,
sweetheart, if we were not to be together in life, we are now in death,
and that is enough for me."

* * * * *

What is the slow sad sound that one hears? The grave is on the lonely
island; there is no one left on the island now; there is nothing but the
grave. "_Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and
is full of misery._" Oh no, not that! That is all over; the misery is
over, and there is peace. This is the sound of the sea-birds, and the
wind coming over the seas, and the waves on the rocks. Or is it Donald,
in the boat going back to the land? The people have their heads bent; it
is a Lament the boy is playing. And how will you play the _Cumhadh na
Cloinne_ to-night, Donald?--and what will the mother say? It is six sons
she has to think of now; and Patrick Mor had but seven dead when he
wrote the Lament of the Children. Janet, see to her! Tell her it is no
matter