It was while the dew was yet wet on the
grass that Bride came out of her father's
house, and went up the steep slope of Dun-I.
The crying of the ewes and lambs at the pas-
tures came plaintively against the dawn. The
lowing of the kye arose from the sandy hol-
lows by the shore, or from the meadows on
the lower slopes. Through the whole island
went a rapid trickling sound, most sweet to
hear: the myriad voices of twittering birds,
from the dotterel in the seaweed to the larks
climbing the blue spirals of heaven.
This was the morning of her birth, and she
was clad in white. About her waist was a
girdle of the sacred rowan, the feathery green
leaves of it flickering dusky shadows upon her

193



St Bride of the Isles

robe as she moved. The light upon her yellow
hair was as when morning wakes, laughing
low with joy amid the tall corn. As she went
she sang, soft as the crooning of a dove. If
any had been there to hear he would have
been abashed, for the words were not in Erse,
and the eyes of the. beautiful girl were as
those of one in a vision.
When, at last, a brief while before sunrise,
she reached the summit of the Scuir, that is
so small a hill and yet seems so big in lona
where it is the sole peak, she found three
young Druids there, ready to tend the sacred
fire the moment the sun-rays should kindle it.
Each was clad in a white robe, with fillets of
oak leaves; and each had a golden armlet.
