In the boat were Thorkeld, a helot of Iona, and two dark wild-eyed men of the north. They were Picts, but could speak the tongue of the Gael. Myrdu, the Pictish king of Skye, had sent them to Iona, to bring back from Colum a culdee who could show wonders. "And tell the chief Druid of the Godmen," Myrdu had said, "that if his culdee does not show me good wonders, and so make me believe in his two gods and the woman, I will put an ash-shaft through his body from the hips and out at his mouth, and send him back on the north tide to the Isle of the White-Robes." The sun was already among the outer isles when the coracle passed near the Isle of Columns. A great noise was in the air: the noise of the waves in the caverns, and the noise of the tide, like sea-wolves growling, and like bulls bellowing in a narrow pass of the hills. A sudden current caught the boat, and it began to drift towards great reefs white with ceaseless torn streams. Thorkeld leaned from the helm, and shouted to the two Picts. They did not stir, but sat staring, idle with fear. Artân knew now that it was as Colum had said. God would give him glory soon. So he took the little clarsach he had for hymns, for he was the best harper on Iona, and struck the strings, and sang. But the Latin words tangled in his throat, and he knew too that the men in the boat would not understand what he sang; also that the older gods still came far south, and in the caves of the Isle of Columns were demons. There was only one tongue common to all; and since God has wisdom beyond that of Colum himself, He would know the song in Gaelic as well as though sung in Latin. So Artân let the wind take his broken hymn, and he made a song of his own, and sang: O Heavenly Mary, Queen of the Elements, And you, Brigit the fair with the little harp, And all the saints, and all the old gods (And it is not one of them I'd be disowning), Speak to the Father, that he may save us from drowning. Then seeing that the boat drifted closer, he sang again: Save us from the rocks and the sea, Queen of Heaven! And remember that I am a Culdee of Iona, And that Colum has sent me to the _Cruitnè_ To sing them the song of peace lest they be damned for ever! Thorkeld laughed at that. "Can the woman put swimming upon you?" he said roughly. "I would rather have the good fin of a great fish now than any woman in the skies." "You will burn in hell for that," said Artân, the holy zeal warm at his heart. But Thorkeld answered nothing. His hand was on the helm, his eyes on the foaming rocks. Besides, what had he to do with the culdee's hell or heaven? When he died, he, who was a man of Lochlann, would go to his own place. One of the dark men stood, holding the mast. His eyes shone. Thick words swung from his lips like seaweed thrown out of a hollow by an ebbing wave. The coracle swerved, and the four men were wet with the heavy spray.