The sky was almost cloudless save for an angry flush in the north-east--a deep, living blue of infinite, though indiscernibly faint gradation. Here and there, too, were thin, almost invisible grey mare's-tails swept upward, as though they were snow-dust or sea-spray, before the flying feet of the Weaver of the Winds. As soon as Ian had reached the last dyke, and had seen "Righ-geal" lead his impatient following toward the uplands, he stood swaying his grey head slowly to and fro, with his right hand moving automatically in rhythmic accord, while he repeated the familiar "Rann Buacbailleac," or Rune on the driving of the cattle to the pasture: I "_Siubhal beinne, siubhal baile, Siubhal gu re fada farsuinn; Buachaille Mhic De m'ar casaibh, Gu mu slan a thig sibh dachaidh, Buachaille Mhic De m'ar casaibh Gu mu slan a thig sibh dachaidh._ II "_Comraig, Dhia agus Chalum-Chille, Bhith m'ar timchioll a fabh's a tilleadh, Agus nan or-chiabh down! Agus Banachaig nan basa min-gheal, Bride nan or-chiabh down!_" I Travel ye moorland, travel ye townland, Travel ye gently far and wide, God's Son be the Herdsman about your feet, Whole may ye home return. God's Son be the Herdsman about your feet, Whole may ye home return. II The protection of God and of Columba, Encompass your going and coming; And about you be the milkmaid of the smooth white palms, Bridget of the clustering hair, golden brown, And about you be the milkmaid of the smooth white palms, Bridget of the clustering hair, golden brown! Turning aside, the shepherd searched here and there among the boulders and split rocks which everywhere obtruded from the sea of heather. For a time his quest was unrewarded; but just as he was about to relinquish it he gave an abrupt exclamation. He had seen the _Torranan_, that rare plant, of which he had often heard, but had never found: and, for sure, he would never have sought it there, for it was said to be a plant of the sea's lip--that is to say, of the shore, within reach of the tide-breath. Muttering over and over, "_Buainams' thu thorranain!_"--Let me pluck thee, Torranan,--he gained the precious bloom at last, and then, holding it before him, half spoke, half chanted this ancient incantation, known in the isles as the "Eolas an Torranain," a spell of good service to keep the cows from the harm of the evil eye, and also to increase their milk: "_Buainams' thu thoranain Le'd uile bheannachd's le'd uile bhuaidh--_" Let me pluck thee, Torranan! With all thy blessedness and all thy virtue. The nine blessings came with the nine parts, By the virtue of the Torranan. The hand of St. Bride with me. I am now to pluck thee.