But few were the sunny days on the sea of Moyle, and many were the
tempests that ruffled its waters. Still keener grew the winter frosts, and
the misery of the four white swans was greater than ever before. Even
their most sorrowful Gaelic songs told not half their woe. From the fury
of the storm they still sought shelter on that rocky isle where Finola had
despaired of seeing her dear ones more.
Slowly passed the years of doom, until one mid-winter a frost more keen
than any known before froze the sea into a floor of solid black ice. By
night the swans crouched together on the rocky isle for warmth, but each
morning they were frozen to the ground and could free themselves only with
sore pain, for they left clinging to the ice-bound rock the soft down of
their breasts, the quills from their white wings, and the skin of their
poor feet.
And when the sun melted the ice-bound surface of the waters, and the swans
swam once more in the sea of Moyle, the salt water entered their wounds,
and they well-nigh died of pain. But in time the down on their breasts and
the feathers on their wings grew, and they were healed of their wounds.
The years dragged on, and by day Finola and her brothers would fly toward
the shores of the Green Island of Erin, or to the rocky blue headlands of
Alba, or they would swim far out into a dim grey wilderness of waters. But
ever as night fell it was their doom to return to the sea of Moyle.
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