Slowly across the loch the birlinn, filled with white-robed Culdees, drew near. At the prow stood a tall old man, with streaming hair and beard, white as sea-foam. In his right hand he grasped a great Cross, whereon was Christ crucified.
"Hail them in their own tongue, Sweno," said Olaus.
The Hammerer moved to the water-edge, as the birlinn stopped, a short arrow-flight away.
"Ho, there, priests of the Christ-faith!"
"What would you, viking?" It was Maoliosa himself that spoke.
"Why do you come here among us, you that are Maoliosa?"
"Is it madness that is upon you, old man? We have swords and spears here, if we lack hymns and prayers."
All this time Olaus kept a wary watch inland and seaward, for he feared that Maoliosa came because of an ambush.
Truly the old monk was mad. He had told his Culdees that God would prevail, and that the pagans would melt away before the Cross.
The ebb-tide was running swift. Even while Sweno spoke, the birlinn touched a low sea-hidden ledge of rock.
A cry of consternation went up from the white-robes. Loud laughter came from the vikings.
With that three score men took their bows. There was a hail of death-shafts. Many fell into the water, but some were in the brains and hearts of the Culdees.
Maoliosa himself stood in death, transfixed to the mast.
With a wild cry the monks swept their oars backward. Then they leaped to their feet and changed their place, and rowed for life or death.
The summer-sailors sprang into their galley. Sweno the Hammerer was at the bow. The foam curled and hissed.
The birlinn grided upon the opposite shore at the selfsame moment when Sweno brought down his battle-axe upon the monk who steered. The man was cleft to the shoulder. Sweno swayed with the blow, stumbled, and fell headlong into the sea. A Culdee thrust at him with an oar, and pinned him among the sea-tangle. Thus died Sweno the Hammerer.
Then all the white-robes leaped upon the shore. Yet Olaus was quicker than they. With a score of vikings he raced to the Church of the Cells, and gained the sanctuary. The monks uttered a cry of despair, and, turning, fled across the moor. Olaus counted them. There were now forty in all.
Like white birds, the monks fled this way and that. Olaus and those who watched laughed at them as they stumbled because of their robes. One by one fell, sword-cleft or spear-thrust. The moorland was red.