Full fathom five thy father lies; Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes: Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange ... That was it, something rich and strange, like some old cloister into which one might turn from an inquiet and hubbubby street ... A knock at an oaken wicket; a peering shy brother, and one was on green lawns and the shadows of a gabled monastery. Cowled, meditative friars, and the quiet of Christ like spread wings ... But there was a reason for the cloister's glamour: cool thoughts and the rhythm of quiet praying, and the ringing of the little bell of mass, and the cadenced sacramental. All these were sympathetic magic ... But whence came the glamour of Tusa hErin? Section 7 And she said: "I am glad you came. I knew somehow you would." "I am glad, too. I knew Tusa hErin as a boy. It was then a weird old place. The yew-trees were unclipped, the turf riotous, the little lake ungraveled ... It had an eeriness. But now--it is very different." "Any place is different for being loved, tended." "I suppose so. One loves but one gets careless toward ... I know Antrim has always had an immense attraction for me ..." "Antrim--alone?" "Yes, of course, Antrim." "Not all Ireland, then?" "I never thought of Ireland as all Ireland." "O Shane Campbell, you've sailed so much and seen so much--China, they tell me, and South America, and the Levant. And in the North, Archangel. I'll warrant you don't know Ireland." "I never saw much, though, in any place outside Antrim." "You never saw much in the little towns of the Pale, or gray Dublin, with the Parliament where Grattan spoke now a money-changer's business house, and the bulk of Trinity of Goldsmith and Burke--or the great wide streets where four-in-hands used to go. And Three-Rock Mountain. And Bray. And the beauty of the Boyne Valley. And the little safe harbors of the South. And the mountains of Kerry. And all the kingdom of Connacht. And the great winds of Donegal." "But it's so eery, deserted, a dead country. All like Tusa hErin was before you took it." "If one could take it all, and do to it as I've done to Tusa hErin. By the way," she asked suddenly, "is Tusa hErin haunted?" "No, I never heard. Did you see anything?" "I think I heard something a few times. A piper piping when the storms rose. A queer little tune--like that thing about McCrimmon." "_Cha till, cha till, cha till McCrimmon._" "Are there words to it?" "_Le cogadh mo sidhe cha till McCrimmon._" Never, never, never, will return McCrimmon. With war or peace never will come McCrimmon. For money or spoil never will return McCrimmon. He will come no more till the Day of the Gathering. "A lamenting tune like that, I heard." "The drone was just the grinding of the waves, the air the wind among the yews." "That's possible. But isn't a phantom piper possible, too, in a land of ghosts?" Section 8