The gloaming came, silverly. The dew glistened on the fronds of the ferns, in the cups of the moss. From glade to glade the cuckoos called. The stars emerged delicately, as the eyes of fawns shining through the greengloom of the forest. Once more the moon snowed the easter frondage of the pines and oaks. No one came nigh. Not a sound had sighed from the oak since Mûrta had sung at the goldening of the day. At sunset Mûrta had risen, to lean, intent, against the vast bole. His keen ears caught the jar of a beetle burrowing beneath the bark. There was no other sound. At the fall of dark the watchers heard the confused far noise of a festival. It waned as a lost wind. Dim veils of cloud obscured the moon; a low rainy darkness suspended over the earth. Thus went the second day and the second night. When, after the weary vigil of the hours, dawn came at last, Mûrta rose and struck the oak with a stone. "Cathal!" he cried, "Cathal!" There was no sound: not a stir, not a sigh. "Cathal! Cathal!" Mûrta looked at Diarmid. Then, seeing his own thought in the eyes of his friend he returned to his side. "The Blind One has been here," said Diarmid in a low voice. At noon there was thunder, and great heat. The noise of rustling wings filled the underwood. Diarmid fell into a deep sleep. When the thunder had travelled into the hills, and a soft rain fell, Mûrta climbed into the branches of the oak. He stared down into the hollow, but could see nothing save a green dusk that became brown shadow, and brown shadow that grew into a blackness. "_Cathal!_" he whispered. Not a breath of sound ascended like smoke. "Cathal! Cathal!" The slow drip of the rain slipped and pattered among the leaves. The cry of a sea-bird flying inland came mournfully across the woods. A distant clang, as of a stricken anvil, iterated from the barren mountain beyond the forest. "Cathal! Cathal!" Mûrta broke a straight branch, stripped it of the leaves, and, forcing the thicker end downward, let it fall sheer. It struck with a dull, soft thud. He listened: there was not a sound. "A quiet sleep to you, monk," he whispered, and slipped down through the boughs, and was beside Diarmid again. At dusk the rain ceased. A cool green freshness came into the air. The stars were as wind-whirled fruit blown upward from the tree-tops. The moon, full-orbed and with a pulse of flame, led a tide of soft light across the brown shores of the world. The vigils of the watchers were over. Mûrta and Diarmid rose. Without a word they moved across the glade: the faint rustle of their feet stirred the bracken: then they left the under-growth and were among the pines. Their shadows lapsed into the obscure wilderness. A doe, heavy with fawn, lay down among the dewy fern, and was at peace there. III At midnight, when the whole isle lay in the full flood of the moon, Cathal stirred.