She watched him as he moved slowly down to the _Ellù_. He stepped on board, followed by Ranald Macrae, and sat down beside Lora, whose hand he took in his, and with the other stroked it gently. As old Angus Macrae shook out the sail, Ealasaid suddenly fell on her knees, and, swaying to and fro, began a wailing lament: "_Tha mo latha goirid, Tha mo feasgar fada, O, oi, oi, tha cèo air a' bheinn, O, oi, oi, tha drùchd air an fheur!_" My day is short, Long is my night-- O, alas, alas, the mist upon the hill, O, alas, alas, the dew upon the grass! Slowly the _Ellù_ moved out from the haven. Lora and Mary sat with bowed heads. Alastair had turned and was staring seaward, where a glory of gold and scarlet was gathered against the going down of the sun. "_O, oi, oi, tha cèo air a' bheinn, O, oi, oi, tha drùchd air an fheur!_" sang the islanders in a long, wailing chant. Suddenly the sail filled, became taut. The boat moved swiftly before the wind. A deep silence fell upon all. Then Griogair Fionnladh, the oldest of the islesmen, raised the pipes from his shoulder and began to play. But the wild, mournful, plaintive air was not the expected Lament of Farewell. It was the ancient Coronach for the Dead. One by one, every man doffed his bonnet; the white-haired elders bowing their heads, and, with downcast eyes, muttering inaudibly. Sobs were heard and tears fell; but no word was spoken. When the sun set, the _Ellù_ was far on her way--a black speck in the golden light. With the coming of the gloaming, the islanders slowly dispersed. Soon there was none left, save Fionnladh and Ealasaid. For a long while thereafter upon the twilight-water rose and fell, mingling with the solemn, rhythmic chant of the waves, the plaintive, mournful wail of the Coronach for those who have passed into the silence. When that, too, had ceased, there was no sound that the sea heard not nightly, save the sobbing of the woman Ealasaid. VII Week after week, month after month, until nigh the end of the fourth, passed by on Ithona: and they who dwelt there took no heed of the passage of the days. There are no hours for those who are beyonder the rumour of that "time or chance" of which the Preacher speaks. Day grows out of night, and in night fulfilleth itself again: the stars succeed the diurnal march of the sun, and hardly are they lost in his glory ere they come again. Scarce distinguishable are the twilight of the dawn and the twilight of the eve: and even as the coming and going of these similar shadows are the appearance and evanishing of the shadows whom we know for our fellowmen, so little differing one from the other, individual from individual, people from people, race from race. And even as a shadow, to those who abode on Ithona, was that world they had seen so little of, but of which they had yet known enough.