"How came you out of hell, you that are dead, and the dust of whose crumbling bones is in the hollow of this oak?" "There is no hell, Culdee." "No hell!" Molios the Saint stared at the wood-man in blank amaze. "No hell!" he said again; "and is there no heaven?" "A hell there is, and a heaven there is: but not what Colum taught, and you taught." "Doth Christ live?" "I know not." "And Mary?" "I know not." "And God the Father?" "I know not." "It is a lie that you have upon your lips. Sure, Cathal, you shall be dead indeed soon, to the glory of God. For I shall have thy dust scattered to the four winds, and thy bones consumed in flame, and a stake be driven through the place where thou wast." Once more Cathal laughed. "Go back to the sea-cave, Molios. Thou hast much to learn. Brood there upon the ways of thy God before thou judgest if He knoweth no more than thou dost. And see, I will show you a wonder. Only, first, tell me this one thing. What of Ardanna whom I loved?" "She was accursed. She would not believe. When Ecta took the child from her, that was born in sin, to have the water put upon it with the sign of the Cross, she went north beyond the Hill of the Pinnacles. There she saw the young king of the Picts of Argyll, and he loved her, and she went to his dûn. He took her to his rath in the north, and she was his queen. He, and she, and the two sons she bore to him are all under the hill-moss now: and their souls are in hell." Cathal laughed, low and mocking. "It is a good hell that, I am thinking, Molios. But come ... I will show you a wonder." With that he stooped, and took the moonshine dew out of a white flower, and put it upon the eyes of the old man. Then Molios saw. And what he saw was a strangeness and a terror to him. For everywhere were green lives, fair and comely, gentle-eyed, lovely, of a soft shining. From tree to tree they flitted, or passed to and fro from the tree-boles, as wild bees from their hives. Beside Cathal stood a woman. Beautiful she was, with eyes like stars in the gloaming. All of green flame she seemed, though the old monk saw her breast rise and fall, and the light lift of her earth-brown hair by a wind-breath eddying there, and the hand of her clasped in that of Cathal. Beyond her were fair and beautiful beings, lovely shapes like unto men and women, but soulless, though loving life and hating death, which, of a truth, is all that the vain human clan does. "Who is this woman, Cathal?" asked the saint, trembling. "It is Deòin, whom I love, and who has given me life." "And these ... that are neither green phantoms out of trees, nor yet men as we are?" "These are the offspring of our love." Molios drew back in horror. But Cathal threw up his arms, and with glad eyes cried: "O green flame of life, pulse of the world. O Love! O Youth! O Dream of Dreams."