Columba, ‘mindful of their labours’, had sent his spirit to meet their steps.

Gladness, then, is the keynote of the experience.

Adamnan knew of it in its many manifestations, and at one point writes: ‘St. Columba, as he himself did not deny . . . in some contemplations of divine grace he beheld even the whole world as if gathered together in one ray of the sun, gazing on it as manifested before him, while his inmost soul was enlarged in a wonderful manner.’

We came down from Dun-I through the fenced fields towards the modern cathedral. The first Celtic Cross we saw stood in a walled bed of fuchsia and was erected to a wife of a Duke of Argyll. The Crew tried to get at it to see why, but was prevented by iron railings. Remembering the acts of a past Synod of Argyll, one could not resist certain ironic reflections, though they gave little pleasure.

As we entered the cathedral ground, two lambs—one white and one black—came running to meet us. The Crew smiled at that and welcomed them, especially the black one. We wandered round the ruins of the old cathedral, but when we wished to enter the new building found the doors shut against us for it was Sunday. However, we were fortunate enough to meet a young man who allowed us to go in alone for a few minutes.

The interior had more than the bareness of the usual Scottish country church, for the walls themselves were bare stones, yet from those stones there came a real effect of light, wonderfully heightened by what appeared on that dull day to be a long low altar of greenish-white glowing stone. Midway on this altar stood a narrow brass vase of flowers—white irises and blue and pink delphiniums—so perfectly arranged that they were a burgeoning of light and colour, an aspiration, a loveliness. The Crew could hardly take her eyes off them, as we stood in the nave at some little distance. And in truth I must confess I have rarely encountered so direct a manifestation of ineffable harmony.

But the harmony of the whole interior was destroyed by two massive recumbent effigies in white marble of a Duke and Duchess of Argyll occupying almost all the southern transept. One hesitates to write one’s full thought about it. At the best, how sad and hopeless this heavy effort at immortality compared with the spirit that fed the birds or even the nameless hands that had arranged the flowers. Perhaps, but for these two in life, the modern church or cathedral would not have been there. We did not inquire.

Outside again, we stood before the great Cross of Iona, dedicated to St. Martin of Tours, the friend of St. Ninian. It has the easy incomparable grace of the true Celtic Cross, strong, sure in workmanship, and at rest. You could feel the harmony behind the chisel that hewed it.

Then we followed the road down towards the village and came upon the ruins of the nunnery, for Columcille’s attitude to women did not withstand the fret of time. The Crew was delighted with the blaze of colour, mostly from red and from white valerian, growing not only about the well-kept grounds but out of the old walls. And when she had seen the nooks and crannies—for apparently the commonest blossom can be a distinguished friend at times—we went down to the village, which strings its little houses along the sea front.