"Is it death I am fearing now--I who have washed my hands in blood, and had love, and known all that is given to man? But I will sing you a song, I will." And with that he took his harp, and struck the strings. There is a lonely stream afar in a lone dim land: It hath white dust for shore it has, white bones bestrew the strand: The only thing that liveth there is a naked leaping sword; But I, who a seer am, have seen the whirling hand Of the Washer of the Ford. A shadowy shape of cloud and mist, of gloom and dusk, she stands, The Washer of the Ford: She laughs, at times, and strews the dust through the hollow of her hands. She counts the sins of all men there, and slays the red-stained horde-- The ghosts of all the sins of men must know the whirling sword Of the Washer of the Ford. She stoops and laughs when in the dust she sees a writhing limb: "Go back into the ford," she says, "and hither and thither swim; Then I shall wash you white as snow, and shall take you by the hand, And slay you here in the silence with this my whirling brand, And trample you into the dust of this white windless sand--" This is the laughing word Of the Washer of the Ford Along that silent strand. There was silence for a time after Torcall Dall sang that song. The oars took up the moonshine and flung it hither and thither like loose shining stones. The foam at the prow curled and leaped. Suddenly one of the rowers broke into a long, low chant-- _Yo, eily-a-ho, ayah-a-ho, eily-ayah-a-ho,_ Singeth the Sword _Eily-a-ho, ayah-a-ho, eily-ayah-a-ho,_ Of the Washer of the Ford! And at that all ceased from rowing. Standing erect, they lifted up their oars against the stars, and the wild voices of them flew out upon the night-- _Yo, eily-a-ho, ayah-a-ho, eily-ayah-a-ho,_ Singeth the Sword _Eily-a-ho, ayah-a-ho, eily-ayah-a-ho,_ Of the Washer of the Ford! Torcall Dall laughed. Then he drew his sword from his side and plunged it into the sea. When he drew the blade out of the water and whirled it on high, all the white shining drops of it swirled about his head like a sleety rain. And at that the steersman let go the steering-oar and drew his sword, and clove a flowing wave. But with the might of his blow the sword spun him round, and the sword sliced away the ear of the man who had the sternmost oar. Then there was blood in the eyes of all there. The man staggered, and felt for his knife, and it was in the heart of the steersman. Then because these two men were leaders, and had had a blood-feud, and because all there, save Torcall, were of one or the other side, swords and knives sang a song. The rowers dropped their oars; and four men fought against three.