"'And is it the way down the Strath you are seeking?' I asked: 'and will you not be coming up to the house yonder, poor cot though it is, and have a sup of milk, and a rest if it's weary you are?' "'You are having my thanks for that,' he said, 'and it is as though I had both the good rest and the cool sweet drink. But I am following the flowing water here.' "'Is it for the fishing?' I asked. "'I am a Fisher,' he said, and the voice of him was low and sad. He had no hat on his head, and the light that streamed through a rowan-tree was in his long hair. He had the pity of the poor in his sorrowful gray eyes. "'And will you not sleep with us?' I asked again: 'that is, if you have no place to go to, and are a stranger in this country, as I am thinking you are; for I have never had sight of you in the home-straths before.' "'I am a stranger,' he said, 'and I have no home, and my father's house is a great way off.' "'Do not tell me, poor man,' I said gently, for fear of the pain, 'do not tell me if you would fain not; but it is glad I will be if you will give me the name you have.' "'My name is Mac-an-t'-Saoir,' he answered with the quiet deep gaze that was his. And with that he bowed his head, and went on his way, brooding deep. "Well, it was with a heavy heart I turned, and went back through the bracken. A heavy heart, for sure, and yet, oh peace too, cool dews of peace. And the fawn was there: healed, Alasdair, healed, and whinny-bleating for its doe, that stood on a rock wi' lifted hoof an' stared down the glen to where the Fisher was. "When I was at the burnside, a woman came down the brae. She was fair to see, but the tears were upon her. "'Oh,' she cried, 'have you seen a man going this way?' "'Ay, for sure,' I answered, 'but what man would he be?' "'He is called Mac-an-t'-Saoir.' "'Well, there are many men that are called Son of the Carpenter. What will his own name be?' "'Iosa,' she said. "And when I looked at her, she was weaving the wavy branches of a thorn near by, and sobbing low, and it was like a wreath or crown that she made. "'And who will you be, poor woman?' I asked. "'O my Son, my Son,' she said, and put her apron over her head and went down into the Shadowy Glen, she weeping sore, too, at that, poor woman. "So now, Alasdair, my son, tell me what thought you have about this thing that I have told you. For I know well whom I met on the brae there, and who the Fisher was. And when I was at the peats here once more I sat down, and my mind sank into myself. And it is knowing the knowledge I am." "Well, well, dear, it is sore tired you are. Have rest now. But sure there are many men called Macintyre." "Ay, and what Gael that you know will be for giving you his surname like that?" Alasdair had no word for that. He rose to put some more peats on the fire. When he had done this, he gave a cry.