"Ay, sure, it is coming I am, white one; but tell me who you are, and whence you came, and whither we go." Then a voice that he knew sang: O where the winds gather The souls of the dead, O Torcall, my father, My soul is led! But a river is here, And a whirling Sword-- And a Woman washing By a Ford! Torcall Dall was as the last leaf on a tree at that. "Were you on the boat?" he whispered hoarsely. But it seemed to him that another voice answered: "_Yea, even so._" "Tell me, for I have blindness: Is it peace?" "It is peace." "Are you man, or child, or of the Hidden People?" "I am a shepherd." "A shepherd? Then, sure, you will guide me through this wood? And what will be beyond this wood?" "A river." "And what river will that be?" "Deep and terrible. It runs through the Valley of the Shadow." "And is there no ford there?" "Ay, there is a ford." "And who will guide me across that ford?" "She." "Who?" "The Washer of the Ford." But hereat Torcall Dall gave a sore cry and snatched his hand away, and fled sidelong into an alley of the wood. It was moonshine when he lay down, weary. The sound of flowing water filled his ears. "Come," said a voice. So he rose and went. When the cold breath of the water was upon his face, the guide that led him put a fruit into his hand. "Eat, Torcall Dall!" * * * * * He ate. He was no more Torcall Dall. His sight was upon him again. Out of the blackness shadows came; out of the shadows, the great boughs of trees; from the boughs, dark branches and dark clusters of leaves; above the branches, white stars; below the branches, white flowers; and beyond these, the moonshine on the grass and the moonfire on the flowing of a river dark and deep. "Take your harp, O Harper, and sing the song of what you see." Torcall heard the voice, but saw no one. No shadow moved. Then he walked out upon the moonlit grass; and at the ford he saw a woman stooping and washing shroud after shroud of woven sunbeams: washing them there in the flowing water, and singing a low song that he did not hear. He did not see her face. But she was young, and with long black hair that fell like the shadow of night over a white rock. So Torcall took his harp, and he sang: Glory to the great Gods, it is no Sword I am seeing: Nor do I see aught but the flowing of a river. And I see shadows on the flow that are ever fleeing, And I see a woman washing shrouds for ever and ever. Then he ceased, for he heard the woman sing: Glory to God on high, and to Mary, Mother of Jesus, Here am I washing away the sins of the shriven, O Torcall of Lochlin, throw off the red sins that ye cherish And I will be giving you the washen shroud that they wear in Heaven. Filled with a great awe, Torcall bowed his head. Then once more he took his harp, and he sang: