Mûrta put his hollow reed to his lips, and he played. It was a forlorn, sweet air that he had heard from a shepherding woman upon the hills. Then he played a burying-song of the islanders, wherein the wash of the sea and the rippling of the waves upon the shore was heard. Then he played the song of love, and the beating of hearts was heard, and sighs, and a voice like a distant bird-song rose and fell. When he ceased, a voice came out of the hollow oak-- "Play me a death-song, Mûrta mac Mûrta mac Neisa." Mûrta smiled, and he played again the song of love. After that there was silence for a brief while. Then Mûrta played upon his reed for the time it takes a heron to mount her seventh spiral. Then he ceased, and threw away the reed, and stood erect, staring into the greenness. In his eyes was a strange shine. He sang-- Out of the wild hills I am hearing a voice, O Cathal! And I am thinking it is the voice of a bleeding sword. Whose is that sword? I know it well: it is the sword of the Slayer-- Him that is called Death, and the song that it sings I know:-- _O where is Cathal mac Art, that is the cup for the thirst of my lips?_ Out of the cold grayness of the sea I am hearing, O Cathal, I am hearing a wave-muffled voice, as of one who drowns in the depths: Whose is that voice? I know it well: it is the voice of the Shadow-- Her that is called the Grave, and the song that she sings I know:-- _O where is Cathal mac Art, he has warmth for the chill that I have?_ Out of the hot greenness of the wood I am hearing, O Cathal, I am hearing a rustling step, as of one stumbling blind. Whose is that rustling step? I know it well: the rustling walk of the Blind One-- She that is called Silence, and the song that she sings I know:-- _O where is Cathal mac Art, that has tears to water my stillness?_ After that there was silence. Mûrta moved away. When he sat by Diarmid and ate, there was no word spoken. Diarmid did not look at him, for he had sung a song of death, and the shadow was upon him. He kept his gaze upon the moss: if he raised his eyes might he not see the Slayer, or the Shadow or the Blind One? Noon came. None drew nigh: not a face was seen shadowily afar off. Sometimes the hoofs of the deer rustled among the bracken. The snarling of young foxes in an oak-root hollow was like a red pulse in the heat. At times, in the sheer abyss of blue sky to the north, a hawk suspended: in the white-blaze southerly a blotch like swirled foam appeared for a moment at long intervals, as a gannet swung from invisible pinnacles of air to the invisible sea. The afternoon drowsed through the sunflood. The green leaves grew golden, saturated with light. At sundown a flight of wild doves rose out of the pines, wheeled against the shine of the west and flashed out of sight, flames of purple and rose, of foam-white and pink.