What is the slow sad sound that one hears?  The grave is on the lonely island; there is no one left on the island now; there is nothing but the grave. “Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery.” Oh no, not that!  That is all over; the misery is over, and there is peace.  This is the sound of the sea-birds, and the wind coming over the seas, and the waves on the rocks.  Or is it Donald, in the boat going back to the land?  The people have their heads bent; it is a Lament the boy is playing.  And how will you play the Cumhadh na Cloinne to-night, Donald?—­and what will the mother say?  It is six sons she has to think of now; and Patrick Mor had but seven dead when he wrote the Lament of the Children.  Janet, see to her!  Tell her it is no matter now; the peace has come; the misery is over; there is only the quiet sound of the waves.  But you, Donald, come here.  Put down your pipes, and listen.  Do you remember the English lady who was here in the summer-time; and your pipes were too loud for her, and were taken away?  She is coming again.  She will try to put her foot on my grave.  But you will watch for her coming, Donald; and you will go quickly to Hamish; and Hamish will go down to the shore and send her back.  You are only a boy, Donald; she would not heed you; and the ladies at the Castle are too gentle, and would give her fair words; but Hamish is not afraid of her—­he will drive her back; she shall not put her foot on my grave, for my heart can bear no more pain.

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And are you going away—­Rose-leaf—­Rose-leaf—­are you sailing away from me on the smooth waters to the South?  I put out my hand to you; but you are afraid of the hard hands of the Northern people, and you shrink from me.  Do you think we would harm you, then, that you tremble so?  The savage days are gone.  Come—­we will show you the beautiful islands in the summer-time; and you will take high courage, and become yourself a Macleod; and all the people will be proud to hear of Fionaghal, the Fair Stranger, who has come to make her home among us.  Oh, our hands are gentle enough when it is a Rose-leaf they have to touch.  There was blood on them in the old days; we have washed it off now:  see—­this beautiful red rose you have given me is not afraid of rough hands!  We have no beautiful roses to give you, but we will give you a piece of white heather, and that will secure to you peace and rest and a happy heart all your days.  You will not touch it, sweetheart?  Do not be afraid!  There is no adder in it.  But if you were to find, now, a white adder, would you know what to do with it?  There was a sweetheart in an old song knew what to do with an adder.  Do you know the song?  The young man goes back to his home, and he says to his mother, “Oh make my bed soon; for I’m weary, weary hunting, and fain would lie doon.”  Why do you turn so pale, sweetheart?  There is the whiteness of a white adder in your cheeks; and your eyes—­there is death in your eyes!  “Donald!—­Hamish! help! help!—­her foot is coming near to my grave!—­my heart—!”