There were now but two out of the Twelve. Oh the gladness and the joy when I looked at him who had his eyes fixed on the face of Iosa that was the Life! He lifted the three shuttles of Beauty and Wonder and Mystery, and he wove a Mist of Rainbows in that room; and in the glory I saw that even the dark twelfth one lifted up his eyes and smiled. "O what will the name of you be!" I cried, straining my arms to the beautiful lordly one. But he did not hear, for he wrought Rainbow after Rainbow out of the mist of glory that he made, and sent each out into the green world, to be for ever before the eyes of men. "He is the Weaver of Hope," whispered Iosa mac Dhe, "and he is the soul of each that is here." Then I turned to the twelfth, and said, "Who art thou, O lordly one with the shadow in the eyes?" But he answered not, and there was silence in the room. And all there, from the Weaver of Joy to the Weaver of Peace, looked down, and said nought. Only the Weaver of Hope wrought a rainbow, and it drifted into the heart of the lonely Weaver that was twelfth. "And who will this man be, O Iosa mac Dhe?" I whispered. "Answer the little child," said Iosa, and his voice was sad. Then the Weaver answered. "I am the Weaver of Glory"--he began, but Iosa looked at him, and he said no more. "Art, little lad," said the Prince of Peace, "he is the one who betrayeth me for ever. He is Judas, the Weaver of Fear." And at that the sorrowful shadow-eyed man that was the twelfth took up the three shuttles that were before him. "And what are these, O Judas?" I cried eagerly, for I saw that they were black. When he answered not one of the Twelve leaned forward and looked at him. It was the Weaver of Death who did this thing. "The three shuttles of Judas the Fear-Weaver, O little Art," said the Weaver of Death, "are called Mystery, and Despair, and the Grave." And with that Judas rose and left the room. But the shape that he had woven went forth with him as his shadow: and each fared out into the dim world, and the Shadow entered into the minds and into the hearts of men, and betrayed Iosa that was the Prince of Peace. Thereupon, Iosa rose, and took me by the hand and led me out of that room. When, once, I looked back I saw none of the Twelve save only the Weaver of Hope, and he sat singing a wild sweet song that he had learned of the Weaver of Joy, sat singing amid a mist of rainbows and weaving a radiant glory that was dazzling as the sun. * * * * * And at that I woke, and was against my mother's heart, and she with the tears upon me, and her lips moving in a prayer. THE DARK NAMELESS ONE One day this summer I sailed with Padruic Macrae and Ivor McLean, boatmen of Iona, along the southwestern reach of the Ross of Mull.