Nevertheless, Scathach had gladness because of the tidings. Three viking-galleys had been driven into Loch Scavaig, and been dashed to death there by the whirling wind and the narrow furious seas. Of the ninety men who had sailed in them, only a score had reached the rocks: and these were now lying bound at the dûn, awaiting death. "Call out my warriors," said Scathach, "and bid all meet at the oak near the Ancient Stones. And bring thither the twenty men that lie bound in the dûn." There was a scattering of fire and a clashing of swords and spears, when the word went from Maev. Soon all were at the Stones beneath the great oak. "Cut the bonds from the feet of the sea-rovers, and let them stand." Thus commanded the Queen. The tall fair men out of Lochlin stood, with their hands bound behind them. In their eyes burned wrath and shame, because that they were the sport of women. A bitter death theirs, with no sword-song for music. "Take each by his long yellow hair," said Scathach, "and tie the hair of each to a down-caught bough of the oak." In silence this thing was done. A shadow was in the paleness of each viking-face. "Let the boughs go," said Scathach. The five score warrior-women who held the great boughs downward, sprang back. Up swept the branches, and from each swung a living man, swaying in the wind by his long yellow hair. Great men they were, strong warriors: but stronger was the yellow hair of each, and stronger than the hair the bough wherefrom each swung and stronger than the boughs the wind that swayed them idly like drooping fruit, with the stars silvering their hair and the torch-flares reddening the white soles of their dancing feet. Then Scathach the Queen laughed loud and long. There was no other sound at all there, for none ever uttered sound when Scathach laughed that laugh, for then her madness was upon her. But at the last Maev strode forward, and struck a small clarsach that she carried, and to the wild notes of it sang the death-song of the vikings. O arone a-ree, eily arone, arone! 'Tis a good thing to be sailing across the sea! How the women smile and the children are laughing glad When the galleys go out into the blue sea--arone! O eily arone, arone! But the children may laugh less when the wolves come, And the women may smile less in the winter--cold-- For the Summer-sailors will not come again, arone! O arone a-ree, eily arone, arone! I am thinking they will not sail back again, O no! The yellow-haired men that came sailing across the sea: For 'tis wild apples they would be, and swing on green branches, And sway in the wind for the corbies to preen their eyne, O eily arone, eily a-ree!