“_Ma tha sin an Dàn_—if that be ordained.” Mànus spoke gravely. His very quietude, however, boded ill. There was no hope of clemency; Gloom knew that. Suddenly he laughed scornfully. Then, pointing with his right hand as if to some one behind his two adversaries, he cried out: “Put the death-hand on them, Marcus! Give them the Grave!” Both men sprang aside, the heart of each nigh upon bursting. The death-touch of the newly slain is an awful thing to incur, for it means that the wraith can transfer all its evil to the person touched. The next moment there was a heavy splash. Mànus realised that it was no more than a ruse, and that Gloom had escaped. With feverish haste he hauled in the small boat, leaped into it, and began at once to row so as to intercept his enemy. Achanna rose once, between him and the _Luath_. MacCodrum crossed the oars in the thole-pins and seized the boat-hook. The swimmer kept straight for him. Suddenly he dived. In a flash, Mànus knew that Gloom was going to rise under the boat, seize the keel, and upset him, and thus probably be able to grip him from above. There was time and no more to leap; and, indeed, scarce had he plunged into the sea ere the boat swung right over, Achanna clambering over it the next moment. At first Gloom could not see where his foe was. He crouched on the upturned craft, and peered eagerly into the moonlit water. All at once a black mass shot out of the shadow between him and the smack. This black mass laughed—the same low, ugly laugh that had preceded the death of Marcus. He who was in turn the swimmer was now close. When a fathom away he leaned back and began to tread water steadily. In his right hand he grasped the boat-hook. The man in the boat knew that to stay where he was meant certain death. He gathered himself together like a crouching cat. Mànus kept treading the water slowly, but with the hook ready so that the sharp iron spike at the end of it should transfix his foe if he came at him with a leap. Now and again he laughed. Then in his low sweet voice, but brokenly at times between his deep breathings, he began to sing: The tide was dark, an’ heavy with the burden that it bore; I heard it talkin’, whisperin’, upon the weedy shore; Each wave that stirred the sea-weed was like a closing door; ’Tis closing doors they hear at last who hear no more, no more. My Grief, No more!