In vain Mànus MacCodrum tortured himself thus. Too well he knew that he had heard the “Dàn-nan-Ròn,” and that no other than Gloom Achanna was the player. Suddenly an access of fury wrought him to madness. With an abrupt lilt the tune swung into the _Davsà-na mairv_, and thence, after a few seconds, and in a moment, into that mysterious and horrible _Codhail-nan-Pairtean_ which none but Gloom played. There could be no mistake now, nor as to what was meant by the muttering, jerking air of the “Gathering of the Crabs.” With a savage cry Mànus snatched up a long dirk from its place by the chimney, and rushed out. There was not the shadow of a sea-gull even in front; so he sped round by the byre. Neither was anything unusual discoverable there. “Sorrow upon me,” he cried; “man or wraith, I will be putting it to the dirk!” But there was no one; nothing; not a sound. Then, at last, with a listless droop of his arms, MacCodrum turned and went into the house again. He remembered what Gloom Achanna had said: “_You’ll hear the ‘Dàn-nan-Ròn’ the night before you die, Mànus MacCodrum, and lest you doubt it, you’ll hear it in your death-hour._” He did not stir from the fire for three hours; then he rose, and went over to his bed and lay down without undressing. He did not sleep, but lay listening and watching. The peats burned low, and at last there was scarce a flicker along the floor. Outside he could hear the wind moaning upon the sea. By a strange rustling sound he knew that the tide was ebbing across the great reef that runs out from Berneray. By midnight the clouds had gone. The moon shone clear and full. When he heard the clock strike in its worm-eaten, rickety case, he sat up, and listened intently. He could hear nothing. No shadow stirred. Surely if the wraith of Gloom Achanna were waiting for him it would make some sign, now, in the dead of night. An hour passed. Mànus rose, crossed the room on tiptoe, and soundlessly opened the door. The salt wind blew fresh against his face. The smell of the shore, of wet sea-wrack and pungent bog-myrtle, of foam and moving water, came sweet to his nostrils. He heard a skua calling from the rocky promontory. From the slopes behind, the wail of a moon-restless lapwing rose and fell mournfully.