The rope of the small boat was unfastened, and Donull rowed it swiftly through the moonshine. The passing of a cloud dusked the shore, but they saw him throw a rope for the guiding of the boat alongside the ledge of the landing place; then the sudden darkening obscured the vision. Donull must be talking, they thought, for two or three minutes elapsed without sign, but at last the boat put off again, and with two figures only. Doubtless the lad had had to argue against the coming of both Marcus and Gloom. This, in truth, was what Donull had done. But while he was speaking Marcus was staring fixedly beyond him. “Who is it that is there?” he asked, “there, in the stern?” “There is no one there.” “I thought I saw the shadow of a man.” “Then it was my shadow, Eilanmore.” Achanna turned to his brother. “I see a man’s death there in the boat.” Gloom quailed for a moment, then laughed low. “I see no death of a man sitting in the boat, Marcus, but if I did I am thinking it would dance to the air of the ‘Dàn-nan-Ròn,’ which is more than the wraith of you or me would do.” “It is not a wraith I was seeing, but the death of a man.” Gloom whispered, and his brother nodded sullenly. The next moment a heavy muffler was round Donull’s mouth; and before he could resist, or even guess what had happened, he was on his face on the shore, bound and gagged. A minute later the oars were taken by Gloom, and the boat moved swiftly out of the inner haven. As it drew near Mànus stared at it intently. “That is not Donull that is rowing, Aulay!” “No: it will be Gloom Achanna, I’m thinking.” MacCodrum started. If so, that other figure at the stern was too big for Donull. The cloud passed just as the boat came alongside. The rope was made secure, and then Marcus and Gloom sprang on board. “Where is Donull MacDonull?” demanded Mànus sharply. Marcus made no reply, so Gloom answered for him. “He has gone up to the house with a message to Anne-nic-Gilleasbuig.” “And what will that message be?” “That Mànus MacCodrum has sailed away from Eilanmore, and will not see her again.” MacCodrum laughed. It was a low, ugly laugh. “Sure, Gloom Achanna, you should be taking that feadan of yours and playing the _Cod-hail-nan-Pairtean_, for I’m thinkin’ the crabs are gathering about the rocks down below us, an’ laughing wi’ their claws.” “Well, and that is a true thing,” Gloom replied slowly and quietly. “Yes, for sure I might, as you say, be playing the ’meeting of the Crabs.’ Perhaps,” he added, as by a sudden afterthought, “perhaps, though it is a calm night, you will be hearing the _comh-thonn_. The ‘Slapping of the Waves’ is a better thing to be hearing than the ’meeting of the Crabs.’”