The tide was in the salt sea-weed, and like a knife it tore; The wild sea-wind went moaning, sooing, moaning o’er and o’er; The deep sea-heart was brooding deep upon its ancient lore— I heard the sob, the sooing sob, the dying sob at its core, My Grief, Its core! The white sea-waves were wan and gray its ashy lips before, The yeast within its ravening mouth was red with streaming gore; O red sea-weed, O red sea-waves, O hollow baffled roar, Since one thou hast, O dark dim Sea, why callest thou for more, My Grief, For more! In the quiet moonlight the chant, with its long, slow cadences, sung as no other man in the isles could sing it, sounded sweet and remote beyond words to tell. The glittering shine was upon the water of the haven, and moved in waving lines of fire along the stone ledges. Sometimes a fish rose, and split a ripple of pale gold; or a sea-nettle swam to the surface, and turned its blue or greenish globe of living jelly to the moon dazzle. The man in the water made a sudden stop in his treading and listened intently. Then once more the phosphorescent light gleamed about his slow-moving shoulders. In a louder chanting voice came once again: Each wave that stirs the sea-weed is like a closing door; ’Tis closing doors they hear at last who hear no more—no more, My Grief, No more! Yes, his quick ears had caught the inland strain of a voice he knew. Soft and white as the moonshine came Anne’s singing as she passed along the corrie leading to the haven. In vain his travelling gaze sought her; she was still in the shadow, and, besides, a slow drifting cloud obscured the moonlight. When he looked back again a stifled exclamation came from his lips. There was not a sign of Gloom Achanna. He had slipped noiselessly from the boat, and was now either behind it, or had dived beneath it, or was swimming under water this way or that. If only the cloud would sail by, muttered Mànus, as he held himself in readiness for an attack from beneath or behind. As the dusk lightened, he swam slowly toward the boat, and then swiftly round it. There was no one there. He climbed on to the keel, and stood, leaning forward, as a salmon-leisterer by torchlight, with his spear-pointed boat-hook raised. Neither below nor beyond could he discern any shape. A whispered call to Aulay MacNeil showed that he, too, saw nothing. Gloom must have swooned, and sunk deep as he slipped through the water. Perhaps the dog-fish were already darting about him.