The priestess reached up, caught at O'Keefe.

He seized the soft hand; caressed it; his gaze grew far away, sombre.
"The Shining One." He spoke low.

"An' now again I see the faces of those who dance with it.

It is the Fires of Mora--come, God alone knows how--from Erin--to this place.

The Fires of Mora!" He contemplated the hushed folk before him; and then from his lips came that weirdest, most haunting of the lyric legends of Erin--the Curse of Mora: "The fretted fires of Mora blew o'er him in the night; He thrills no more to loving, nor weeps for past delight.
For when those flames have bitten, both grief and joy take flight--" Again Yolara tried to draw him down beside her; and once more he gripped her hand.