"Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun." "Hush!" It was Mary who spoke. She had that in her face which made him rise. "Hush, Angus Macrae. Truly, the eyes are the delight of the body, but this is not the time for the bitterness of that saying. Never for this child, that is born in the shadow of death, and can itself live but a brief while, shall there be the sweet light of which you speak, nor the pleasantness of beholding the sun, nor the way of the day betwixt rise and set." "Is the child blind?" "Ay ... blind ... blind." "And weakling?" "Ay." "And she?" "God hath given her strength to endure." "Does she know all that has happened?" "If she did, she would be with Alastair. Her mind is dazed. She is as one distraught. My friend, read no more to-night. Go home now, and God be with you. Bring on the morrow what tidings you have." Soon after the departure of the old man, a great stillness fell upon the house. Lora slept in a stupor like unto death. The child lay upon her breast, as a frail flower drifted there by a chance wind. Ealasaid sat by the bed watching. Mary knelt against it, crying silently. Toward dawn, Mrs. Maclean rose, and looked out upon the chill dusk. When she came back, she kneeled again; and, in a low voice, repeated a strange Celtic "Prayer of Women": O Spirit, that broods upon the hills And moves upon the face of the deep, And is heard in the wind, Save us from the desire of men's eyes, And the cruel lust of them, And the springing of the cruel seed In that narrow house which is as the grave For darkness and loneliness ... That women carry with them with shame, and weariness, and long pain, Only for the laughter of man's heart, And the joy that triumphs therein, And the sport that is in his heart, Wherewith he mocketh us, Wherewith he playeth with us, Wherewith he trampleth upon us. Us, who conceive and bear him; Us, who bring him forth; Who feed him in the womb, and at the breast and at the knee: Whom he calleth Mother, And Mother again of his wife and children: When he looks at our hair, and sees it is white; And at our eyes, and sees they are dim; And at our lips, straitened out with long pain; And at our breasts, fallen and seared as a barren hill; And at our hands, worn with toil; And, seeing, seeth all the bitter ruin and wreck of us-- All save the violated womb that curses him-- All save the heart that forbeareth ... for pity-- All save the living brain that condemneth him-- All save the spirit that shall not mate with him-- All save the soul he shall never see Till he be one with it, and equal; He who hath the bridle, but guideth not; He who hath the whip, yet is driven; He who as a shepherd calleth upon us, But is himself a lost sheep, crying among the hills! O Spirit, and the Nine Angels who watch us, And Thy Son, and Mary Virgin, Heal us of the Wrong of Man: