There was a long silence.  His eyes, faded from the bright blue-grey that used to flash with fire, were dull and almost colourless as he lay looking at the faded tapestry of the bed canopy.

“When I pray for courage, Lord, Thou givest pain—­Thou givest weakness.  When I pray for strength Thou givest a great hunger and a sinking into the depths.  And then in Thy loving kindness Thou givest Thy body and blood—­for my comfort.”

The room grew darker.  The fire flickered and spurted as the salt dried out of the driftwood and burnt in blue tongues of flame.  Marcella shivered, listening to the distant beat of the sea.  The house was very silent, with that dead silence that falls on houses where many of the rooms are unfurnished.  The stir and clamour of the beasts outside had gone forever.  Outside now was only one old cow, kept to give milk for Andrew.  The barren fields lay untended, for Duncan went to the fishing to bring a little handful of coins to the master he feared and loved, and Jean went softly about the kitchen in the shadows.

Suddenly Andrew spoke, and Marcella started, drawing a little nearer to him.

“Do ye mind, Marcella, when we read yon books from Edinburgh—­and you used to be such an idiot, and make me so mad?”

“I mind it,” she nodded, thinking painfully of those hard books.

“There was something in one of them that I seized on with a bitter scorn.  It was explaining how the idea of the sacrament of the Body and Blood of Christ had grown up.  It said how savages, when they saw one of the tribe better than themselves, would kill him and eat him to make themselves as good as he.  I liked that fine, Marcella.  I was bitter in those days.”

“Horrible!” said Marcella with a shiver.  “I like to think of the Last Supper, and the Holy Grail—­mother used to read about it all to me—­she used to tell me all about Parsifal and the Love Feast.”

“Yes, little Rose was wiser than those books.  Ye see, Marcella, it seems to me there is a time when ye’re led by something inside ye to do things.  Like Christ was led to preach, though perhaps he didn’t quite know why.  The word was taken out of his mouth—­and like I was led to yon barrel.  Things come out of you, right out of deep inside you.  Maybe they’re God, maybe they’re a beast deep down.”  He paused, and moved impatiently.  “It’s hard to piece thoughts together when you’re weak.  Can you finish my thought for me, Marcella?  It’s getting muddled—­down under sand and stones like Castle Lashcairn under Lashnagar.”

Marcella hesitated.  Then she told him Wullie’s idea about the path.

“He says other things beside God walk along our lives, but in the end God’s footmarks burn out all the rest.”

Andrew nodded again and again.

“I suppose Christ was a pathway.  I remember reading something about that.  ‘My humanity is the path whereby men must travel to God,’ but I’m too tired to piece it all out.”