And is there any home for him, whose portion is the night? And is there any peace for him whose doom is endless flight? O wild sad bird, O wind-spent bird, O bird upon the wave, There is no home for thee, wild bird, but in the cold sea-grave! Sheumas leaned against the tiller of the _Luath_, and looked at Isla. He saw a shadow on his face. With his right foot the man tapped against a loose spar that was on the starboard deck. When the singer ceased, Isla raised his arm and shook menacingly his clenched fist, over across the water to where the _Brudhearg_ lay. There were words on his lips, but they died away when Neil Macalpine broke into a love song, “Mo nighean donn.” “Can you be telling me, Isla,” said Sheumas, “who was the man that made that song about the homeless man?” “Ian Mòr.” “Ian Mòr of the Hills?” “Ay.” “They say he had the shadow upon him?” “Well, what then?” “Was it because of love?” “It was because of love.” “Did the woman love him?” “Ay.” “Did she go to him?” “No.” “Was that why he had the mind-dark?” “Ay.” “But he loved her, and she loved him?” “He loved her, and she loved him.” For a time Sheumas kept silence. Then he spoke again. “She was the wife of another man?” “Ay; she was the wife of another man.” “Did _he_ love her?” “Yes, for sure.” “Did _she_ love _him_?” “Yes … yes.” “Whom, then, did she love? For a woman can love one man only.” “She loved both.” “That is not a possible thing: not the one deep love. It is a lie, Isla Macleod.” “Yes, it is a lie, Sheumas Maclean.” “Which man did she love?” Isla slowly shook the ash from his pipe, and looked for a second or two at a momentary quiver in the sky in the north-east. “The dawn will be here soon now, Sheumas.” “Ay. I was asking you, Isla, which man did she love?” “Sure she loved the man who gave her the ring.” “Which man did she love?” “O for sure, man, you’re asking me just like the lawyer who has the trials away at Balliemore on the mainland yonder.” “Well, I’ll tell you that thing myself, Isla Macleod, if you’ll tell me the name of the woman.” “I am not for knowing the name.” “Was it Mary … or Jessie … or mayhap was it Silis, now?” “I am not for knowing the name.” “Well, well, it might be Silis, then?” “Ay, for sure it might be Silis. As well Silis as any other.” “And what would the name of the other man be?” “What man?” “The man whose ring she wore?” “I am not remembering that name.” “Well, now, would it be Padruic, or mayhap Ivor, or … or … perhaps, now, Sheumas?” “Ay, it might be that.” “Sheumas?” “Ay, as well that as any other.” “And what was the end?” “The end o’ what?” “The end of that loving?” Isla Macleod gave a low laugh. Then he stooped to pick up the pipe he had dropped. Suddenly he rose without touching it. He put his heel on the warm clay, and crushed it. “That is the end of that kind of loving,” he said. He laughed low again as he said that.