And with that each red soul was seized and thrown into the water of the ford; and when white as a sheep-bone on the hill, was taken in one hand by the Washer of the Ford and flung into the air, where no wind was and where sound was dead, and was then severed this way and that, in four whirling blows of the sword from the four quarters of the world. Then it was that the Washer of the Ford trampled upon what fell to the ground, till under the feet of her was only a white sand, white as powder, light as the dust of the yellow flowers that grow in the grass. It was at that Torcall Dall smiled in his sleep. He did not hear the washing of the sea; no, nor any idle plashing of the unoared boat. Then he dreamed, and it was of the woman he had left, seven summer-sailings ago, in Lochlin. He thought her hand was in his, and that her heart was against his. "Ah, dear, beautiful heart of woman," he said, "and what is the pain that has put a shadow upon you?" It was a sweet voice that he heard coming out of sleep. "Torcall, it is the weary love I have." "Ah, heart o' me, dear! sure 'tis a bitter pain I have had, too, and I away from you all these years." "There's a man's pain, and there's a woman's pain." "By the blood of Balder, Hildyr, I would have both upon me to take it off the dear heart that is here." "Torcall!" "Yes, white one." "We are not alone, we two in the dark." And when she had said that thing, Torcall felt two baby arms go round his neck, and two leaves of a wild rose press cool and sweet against his lips. "Ah! what is this?" he cried, with his heart beating, and the blood in his body singing a glad song. A low voice crooned in his ear: a bitter-sweet song it was, passing-sweet, passing-bitter. "Ah, white one, white one," he moaned; "ah, the wee fawn o' me! Baby o' foam, bonnie wee lass, put your sight upon me that I may see the blue eyes that are mine too and Hildyr's." But the child only nestled closer. Like a fledgling in a great nest she was. If God heard her song, He was a glad God that day. The blood that was in her body called to the blood that was in his body. He could say no word. The tears were in his blind eyes. Then Hildyr leaned into the dark, and took his harp, and played upon it. It was of the fonnsheen he had learned, far, far away, where the isles are. She sang: but he could not hear what she sang. Then the little lips, that were like a cool wave upon the dry sand of his life, whispered into a low song: and the wavering of it was like this in his brain-- Where the winds gather The souls of the dead, O Torcall, my father, My soul is led! In Hildyr-mead I was thrown, I was sown: Out of thy seed I am sprung, I am blown! But where is the way For Hildyr and me, By the hill-moss gray Or the gray sea? For a river is here, And a whirling sword-- And a Woman washing By a Ford!