ULTIMA THULS 77 



As we watch their dwindling figures, something in 

 their dusky hue reminds us of those darker wings that, 

 on the flag of Sigurd, flapped along these very seas. 

 These isles are haunted by memories of the Norsemen. 

 From every height and headland looking down, the 

 grave-mounds of old sea-kings recall 



" that earlier time, 



The bygone rule of force and crime : 

 The good old days when might was law, 

 And sword and chains held men in awe." 



The How of Hoxay, the grassy barrow that has guarded 

 for a thousand years the dust of Horfinn, still looks 

 seaward from the cliff of Ronaldshay. Still may the 

 traveller read among the runes on the walls of the 

 chamber of Maes-howe the epitaph of the sons of 

 Lodbrock. Scattered over the fields of Summerdale the 

 barrows of the nameless slain commemorate still that 

 triumph of the Orcadian arms, five centuries later, when 

 by the shore of Harray the invaders perished to a man. 

 But these are works of yesterday compared with the 

 Ring of Brogar, whose grey stones stand and wait 

 beside the loch of Stenness. Who shall say by how 

 many centuries they are older than the barrows of the 

 Vikings ? To their long-forgotten past no clue remains. 

 Their origin, their plan, their use are all a mystery. A 

 pleasant place under the warm sun of noon is the trench 

 that girds them round, where broad sheets of ling and 

 belts of yellow bedstraw sweeten the soft air of summer 

 that stirs the nodding grass. A few rough cattle wander 

 by the lake ; no other sign is near of man's dominion 



