He bowed his head. Tears scalded the burning lids of his blind eyes. Suddenly he sank to his knees, and with outstretched arms repeated an ancient rune of his fathers, the Cry to Age, the Rann-an-h' Aoise: O thou that on the hills and wastes of Night art Shepherd, Whose folds are flameless moons and icy planets, Whose darkling way is gloomed with ancient sorrows: Whose breath lies white as snow upon the olden, Whose sigh it is that furrows breasts grown milkless, Whose weariness is in the loins of man And is the barren stillness of the woman: O thou whom all would 'scape and all must meet, Thou that the Shadow art of Youth-Eternal, The gloom that is the hush'd air of the Grave, The sigh that is between last parted love, The light for aye withdrawing from weary eyes, The tide from stricken hearts for ever ebbing! O thou, the Elder Brother whom none loveth, Whom all men hail with reverence or mocking, Who broodeth on the peaks of herbless summits, Yet dreamest in the eyes of babes and children: Thou, Shadow of the Heart, the Brain, the Life, Who art that dusk _What is_ that is already _Has been_, To thee this rune of the-fathers-to-the-sons, And of the sons to the sons, and mothers to new mothers-- To thee who art _Aois_, To thee who art _Age_! Breathe thy frosty breath upon my hair, for I am weary; Lay thy frozen hand upon my bones that they support not, Put thy chill upon the blood that it sustain not, Place the crown of thy fulfilling on my forehead, Throw the silence of thy spirit on my spirit, Lay the balm and benediction of thy mercy On the brain-throb and the heart-pulse and the life-spring-- For thy child that bows his head is weary, For thy child that bows his head is weary. I the shadow am that seeks the Darkness. Age, that hath the face of Night unstarr'd and moonless, Age that doth extinguish star and planet, Moon and sun and all the fiery worlds, Give me now thy darkness and thy silence! It was there, lying with his face in the wet heather, that Sorcha found her father. She had seen Nial flying as for his life, and, from behind the boulder where she was sheltering a lamb, had sprung forward to stop him. But all the elf-man saw was a woman's figure--perhaps the Cailliach who had already stolen his soul and now wanted his body in this night of storm! With a scream he turned aside and dashed onward in his wild, ungainly flight. Sorcha's great eyes filled with amazement, then with dread. What did it mean? Her bosom heaved, the swell of the sudden tide at her heart. More beautiful than any Fairy-Woman that ever herded the deer or sang a fatal song, she stood with one hand at her breast, the colour ebbing from her face, her slim firm body poised as an intent stag. Slowly her gaze travelled back the way Nial had come. In the gloom of storm she could descry nothing, no one. If the Cailliach were there, she was now invisible.