y talked and told stories, subdued stories and ghostly, of the
banshee and the death-watch, and wraiths of them gone that rise from
the sea to warn fishermen of approaching death. Gaiety there was none:
the Islanders had no heart for gaiety: but the pipes and tobacco were
there, and the plate of snuff, and the jar of poteen to lift up the
heavy hearts. And Moya lay like an image wrought of silver, her lids
kept down by coins over her blue eyes.

She had lain so two nights, nights of starlit calm. On the fourth day
they were to bury her beside Patrick Lavelle in his narrow house, and
the little bridal cabin would be abandoned, and presently would rot to
ruins. The third night had come, overcast with heavy clouds. The group
gathered in the death chamber was more silent than before. Some had
sat up the two nights, and were now dazed with sleep. By the wall the
old women nodded over their beads, and a group of men talked quietly
at the bed-head where Moya lay illumined by the splendour of the four
candles all shining on her white garments.

Suddenly in the quietness there came a roar of wind. It did not come
freshening from afar off, but seemed to waken suddenly in the ravine
and cry about the house. The folk sprang to their feet startled, and
the eyes of many turned towards the little dark window, expecting to
see wild eyes and a pale face set in black hair gazing in. Some who
were nearest saw in the half-light--for it was whitening towards
day--a wall of gray water travelling up the ravine. Before they could
cry a warning it had encompassed the house, had driven door and
window before it, and the living and the dead were in the sea.

The wave retreated harmlessly, and in a few minutes the frightened
folk were on their feet amid the wreck of stools and tables floating.
The wave that had beaten them to earth had extinguished the lights.
When they stumbled to their feet and got the water out of their eyes
the dim dawn was in the room. They were too scared for a few minutes
to think of the dead. When they recovered and turned towards the bed
there was a simultaneous loud cry. Moya Lavelle was gone. The wave had
carried her away, and never more was there tale or tidings of her
body.

Achill people said she belonged to the sea, and the sea had claimed
her. They remembered Patrick Lavelle's silence as to where he had
found her. They remembered a thousand unearthly ways in her; and which
of them had ever seen her pray? They p