“He hates those things,” she muttered to me, her eyes wet with pain, and with something of shame, too, for admitting that she believed in incantations. And why not, poor old woman? Sure there are stranger things than _sian_ or _rosad_, charm or spell; and who can say that the secret old wisdom is mere foam o’ thought. “He hates those things, but I am for saving my poor lass if I can. I will be saying that old ancient _eolas_, that is called the _Eolas an t-Snaithnean_.” “What is that, Aunt Elspeth? What are the three threads?” “That _eolas_ killed the mother of my mother, dearie; she that was a woman out of the isle of Benbecula.” “Killed her!” I repeated, awe-struck. “Ay; ’tis a charm for the doing away of bewitchment, and sure it is my poor Muireall who has been bewitched. But my mother’s mother used the _eolas_ for the taking away of a curse upon a cow that would not give milk. She was saying the incantation for the third time, and winding the triple thread round the beast’s tail, when in a moment all the ill that was in the cow came forth and settled upon her, so that she went back to her house quaking and sick with the blight, and died of it next day, because there was no one to take it from her in turn by that or any other _eolas_.” I listened in silence. The thing seemed terrible to me then; no, no, not then only, but now, too, whenever I think of it. “Say it then, Aunt Elspeth,” I whispered; “say it, in the name of the Holy Three.” With that she went on her knees, and leaned against her chair, though with her face towards her husband, because of the fear that was ever in her. Then in a low voice, choked with sobs, she said this old _eolas_, after she had first uttered the holy words of the “Pater Noster”: _“Chi suil thu,_ _Labhraidh bial thu;_ _Smuainichidh cridhe thu._ _Tha Fear an righthighe_ _Gad’ choisreagadh,_ _An t-Athair, am Mac, ’s an Spiorad Naomh._ _“Ceathrar a rinn do chron--_ _Fear agus bean,_ _Gille agus nighean._ _Co tha gu sin a thilleadh?_ _Tri Pearsannan na Trianaid ro-naomh,_ _An t-Athair, am Mac, ’s an Spioraid Naomh._ _“Tha mi ’cur fianuis gu Moire, agus gu Brighde,_ _Ma ’s e duine rinn do chron,_ _Le droch run,_ _No le droch shuil,_ _No le droch chridhe,_ _Gu’m bi thusa, Muireall gu math,_ _Ri linn so a chur mu’n cuairt ort._ _An ainm an Athar, a’ Mhic, ’s an Spioraid Naomh!”_ (“An eye will see you, Tongue will speak of you, Heart will think of you, The Man of Heaven Blesses you-- The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. “Four caused your hurt-- Man and Wife, Young man, and maiden. Who is to frustrate that? The three Persons of the most Holy Trinity, The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.