“Ah, heart o’ me,” she whispered, “O Isla, Isla, mo rùn, moghray, Isla, Isla, Isla!” Sheumas drew back. He too was like the man in her dream, for it was dead-white he was, with the sweat in great beads upon his face. He made no noise as he went back to the hearthside, and took his wet clothes from where he had hung them before the smoored peats, and put them on again. Then he went out. It was a long walk to Isla Macleod’s cottage that few-score yards: a long, long walk. When Sheumas stood on the wet grass round the flagstones he saw that the door was ajar. Isla had not lain down. He had taken his ash-lute, and was alternately playing and singing low to himself. Maclean went close up to the wall, and listened. At first he could hear no more than snatches of songs. And is there any home for him whose portion is the night?… And one goes out into the night and is as wind-blown foam … O heart that is breaking, Breaking, breaking, O for the home that I canna, canna win: O the weary aching, The weary, weary aching To be in the home that I canna, canna win! Then suddenly the man within put down his ash-lute, and stirred. In a loud vibrant voice he sang: O far away upon the hills at the lighting of the dawn I saw a stirring in the fern and out there leapt a fawn: And O my heart was up at that and like a wind it blew Till its shadow hovered o’er the fawn as ’mid the fern it flew. And _Silis! Silis! Silis!_ was the wind-song on the hill, And _Silis! Silis! Silis!_ did the echoing corries fill: My hunting heart was glad indeed, at the lighting of the dawn, For O it was the hunting then of my bonnie, bonnie Fawn! For some moments there was dead silence. Then a heavy sigh came from within the cottage. Sheumas Maclean at last made a step forward. But before his shadow fell across the doorway Isla had breathed a few melancholy notes from his _feadan_, and then began a slow wailing song. O heart that is breaking, Breaking, breaking, O for the home that I canna, canna win: O the weary aching, The weary, weary aching To be in the home that I canna, canna win! For O the long home-sickness, The long, long home-sickness! ’Tis slow, slow death for me who long for home, for home! And a heart is breaking, I know a heart that’s breaking, All to be at home at last, to be at home, at home, O Silis, Silis, Home, Home, Home! Sheumas’ face was white and tired. It is weary work with the herring, no doubt. He lifted a white stone and rapped loudly on the door. Isla came out, and looked at him. The singer smiled, though that smiling had no light in it. It was dark as a dark wave it was. “Well?” he said. “May I come in?” “Come in, and welcome. And what will you be wanting, Sheumas Maclean?”