In a tale written a few years ago, "The Ninth Wave," I wrote of one whom I knew, one Ivor MacNeill, or "Carminish," so called because of his farm between the hills Strondeval and Rondeval, near the Obb of Harris in the Outer Hebrides. This man heard the secret calling of the ninth wave. None may hear that, when there is no wave on the sea, or when perhaps he is inland, and not follow. That following is always to the ending of all following. For a long while Carminish put his fate from him. He went to other isles: wherever he went he heard the call of the sea. "Come," it cried, "come, come away!" He passed at last to a kinsman's croft on Aird-Vanish in the island of Taransay. He was not free there. He stopped at a place where he had no kin, and no memories, and at a hidden, quiet farm. This was at Eilean Mhealastaidh, which is under the morning shadow of Griomabhal on the mainland. His nights there were a sleepless dread. He went to other places. The sea called. He went at last to his cousin Eachainn MacEachainn's bothy, near Callernish in the Lews, where the Druid Stones stand by the shore and hear nothing for ever but the noise of the waves and the cry of the sea-wind. There, weary in hope, he found peace at last. He slept, and none called upon him. He began to smile, and to hope. One night the two were at the porridge, and Eachainn was muttering his _Bui 'cheas dha 'n Ti_, the Thanks to the Being, when Carminish leaped to his feet, and with a white face stood shaking like a rope in the wind. In the grey dawn they found his body, stiff and salt with the ooze. I did not know, but I have heard of another who had a light tragic end. Some say he was witless. Others, that he had the Friday-Fate upon him. I do not know what evil he had done, but "some one" had met him and said to him "_Bidh ruith na h'Aoin' ort am_ _Feasda_," "The Friday-Fate will follow you for ever." So it was said. But I was told this of him: that he had been well and strong and happy, and did not know he had a terrible gift, that some have who are born by the sea. It is not well to be born on a Friday night, within sound of the sea; or on certain days. This gift is the "_Eòlas na h'Aoine_," the Friday-Spell. He who has this gift must not look upon any other while bathing: if he does, that swimmer must drown. This man, whom I will call Finlay, had this eòlas. Three times the evil happened. But the third time he knew what he did: the man who swam in the sunlight loved the same woman as Finlay loved; so he stood on the shore, and looked, and laughed. When the body was brought home, the woman struck Finlay in the face. He grew strange after a time, and at last witless. A year later it was a cold February. Finlay went to and fro singing an old February rhyme beginning: _Feadag, Feadag, mathair Faoillich fhuair!_