“Then you will know that the MacCodrums of North Uist are called the _Sliochd-nan-Ròn_?” “I have heard.” “And would you be for marrying a man that is of the race of the beasts, and himself knowing what that _geas_ means, and who may any day go back to his people?” “Ah, now, Marcus, sure it is making a mock of me you are. Neither you nor any here believe that foolish thing. How can a man born of a woman be a seal, even though his _sinnsear_ were the offspring of the sea-people, which is not a saying I am believing either, though it may be; and not that it matters much, whatever, about the far-back forebears.” Marcus frowned darkly, and at first made no response. At last he answered, speaking sullenly: “You may be believing this or you may be believing that, Anna-nic-Gilleasbuig, but two things are as well known as that the east wind brings the blight and the west wind the rain. And one is this: that long ago a Seal-man wedded a woman of North Uist, and that he or his son was called Neil MacCodrum; and that the sea-fever of the seal was in the blood of his line ever after. And this is the other: that twice within the memory of living folk, a MacCodrum has taken upon himself the form of a seal, and has so met his death, once Neil MacCodrum of Ru’ Tormaid, and once Anndra MacCodrum of Berneray in the Sound. There’s talk of others, but these are known of us all. And you will not be forgetting now that Neildonn was the grandfather, and that Anndra was the brother of the father of Mànus MacCodrum?” “I am not caring what you say, Marcus. It is all foam of the sea.” “There’s no foam without wind or tide, Anne, an’ it’s a dark tide that will be bearing you away to Uist, and a black wind that will be blowing far away behind the East, the wind that will be carrying his death-cry to your ears.” The girl shuddered. The brave spirit in her, however, did not quail. “Well, so be it. To each his fate. But, seal or no seal, I am going to wed Mànus MacCodrum, who is a man as good as any here, and a true man at that, and the man I love, and that will be my man, God willing, the praise be His!” Again Gloom took up the feadan, and sent a few cold, white notes floating through the hot room, breaking, suddenly, into the wild, fantastic, opening air of the “Dàn-nan-Ròn.” With a low cry and passionate gesture Anne sprang forward, snatched the oat-flute from his grasp, and would have thrown it in the fire. Marcus held her in an iron grip, however. “Don’t you be minding Gloom, Anne,” he said quietly, as he took the feadan from her hand and handed it to his brother: “sure he’s only telling you in _his_ way what I am telling you in mine.”