The whiteness that was on the mother's hair was now in the face. There was no blood there, or in the drawn lips. The light in the old, dim eyes was like water after frost. He took her hand in his. Clay-cold it was. He let it go, and it fell straight by the chair, stiff as the cromak he carried when he was with the sheep. "O my God and my God," he whispered, white with the awe, and the bitter cruel pain. Then it was that he heard a knocking at the door. "Who is there?" he cried hoarsely. "Open, and let me in." It was a low, sweet voice; but was that gray hour the time for a welcome? "Go, but go in peace, whoever you are. There is death here." "Open, and let me in." At that, Alasdair, shaking like a reed in the wind, unclasped the latch. A tall, fair man, ill-clad and weary, pale, too, and with dreaming eyes, came in. "_Beannachd Dhe an Tigh_," he said; "God's blessing on this house, and on all here." "The same upon yourself," Alasdair said, with a weary pain in his voice. "And who will you be? and forgive the asking." "I am called Mac-an-t'-Saoir, and Iosa is the name I bear--Jesus, the Son of the Carpenter." "It is a good name. And is it good you are seeking this night?" "I am a Fisher." "Well, that's here an' that's there. But will you go to the Strath over the hill, and tell the good man that is there, the minister, Lachlan MacLachlan, that old Sine nic Leòid, wife of Alasdair Ruadh, is dead." "I know that, Alasdair Òg." "And how will you be knowing that, and my name, too, you that are called Macintyre?" "I met the white soul of Sine as it went down by the Shadowy Glen a brief while ago. She was singing a glad song, she was. She had green youth in her eyes. And a man was holding her by the hand. It was Alasdair Ruadh." At that Alasdair fell on his knees. When he looked up, there was no one there. Through the darkness outside the door, he saw a star shining white, and leaping like a pulse. It was three days after that day of shadow that Sine Macleod was put under the green turf. On each night, Alasdair Òg walked in the Shadowy Glen, and there he saw a man fishing, though ever afar off. Stooping he was, always, and like a shadow at times. But he was the man that was called Iosa Mac-an-t'-Saoir--Jesus, the Son of the Carpenter. And on the night of the earthing he saw the Fisher close by. "Lord God," he said, with the hush on his voice, and deep awe in his wondering eyes: "Lord God!" And the Man looked at him. "Night and day, Alasdair MacAlasdair," he said, "night and day I fish in the waters of the world. And these waters are the waters of grief, and the waters of sorrow, and the waters of despair. And it is the souls of the living I fish for. And lo, I say this thing unto you, for you shall not see me again: _Go in peace._ Go in peace, good soul of a poor man, for thou hast seen the Fisher of Men." THE LAST SUPPER "... and there shall be Beautiful things made new...." Hyperion.