They had come to a wide glade. It was crowded with warriors, and through the trees wherever the moonlight fell, Edain caught a glimpse of figures and the glint of arms. Ebor jumped from his horse, and taking the Lady Edain in his arms lifted her gently down. A warrior, of stately mien and wearing the golden helmet of a king, advanced towards them.
“A hundred thousand welcomes, Edain,” he cried, as he clasped her in his arms.
It was her kinsman, Labraidh, the rightful King of Leinster, who had come back to claim his own. Labraidh had been across the seas seeking allies. On his return, he landed at the mouth of the Slaney, and, by forced marches through the woods, had come hither. Unwilling to risk his cousin’s life by making an assault on the dun while she was still in it, he easily yielded to the entreaties of his harper, Craiftine, and of Ebor to allow them to undertake the task of effecting the escape of Edain. He had known of old the skill of Craiftine and the courage and address of Ebor, and did not doubt their success. And now that Edain was free he determined to push on at once, and try the hazard of an assault on the dun. But first he led the Lady Edain to his tent, where his wife, the Lady Moriadh and her women were, and entrusting her to Moriadh’s care, he returned and put himself at the head of his troops, and gave them their orders to push on as quickly as possible until they came to the edge of the forest, within view of the dun. Ebor was at the prince’s side, happy in the knowledge that the Lady Edain was safe, and too full of the desire of battle to give even a moment’s thought to the vision of the woman of the Sidhe. When they arrived at the edge of the forest they halted for a while. They could see the ramparts plainly, and that no one was moving on them. The moon had by this time gone down over the forest, and in the east there was the first faint grey streak of dawn. Then the prince drew out his forces into three battalions. The centre he commanded in person, that to the right was under Ebor, and it was to move along the river bank and make the assault in that direction. The third battalion was to push round the fortress to the left. Orders were given that no trumpets were to be sounded and no shout raised until the troops were face to face with the foe.
The garrison not dreaming of the near approach of Labraidh, who was not known to be in Erin, was buried in sleep almost as deep as that which sealed the lids of Cathal and his comrades in the guard-room. The ramparts were scaled without much difficulty, and it was not until they had passed within the inner wall and had surrounded the house of the usurper that their presence was discovered, and then only when they began to batter in the door. The noise was followed by the cry, “to arms!” which rang through the whole fortress. It was heard by the warriors in the other houses, who, hastily arming themselves, burst out. A desperate hand-to-hand struggle took place, but surprise had given complete advantage to the assailants. They hemmed round the now desperate garrison with a ring of steel, growing ever narrower as their ranks were thinning. Soon the cry of fire was raised. The king’s house was ablaze. He in front of it was fighting desperately, but one by one his men were falling round him. The roar of the flames, which had now spread to the other houses, mingled with the cries of the warriors and the clangour of stricken shields. Prince Labriadh again and again pressed forward to engage Cobhthach, but the tide of battle swept them apart. To save the dun had become impossible, and Cobhthach determined if he could to cut his way out. By desperate efforts he drove those who were in front of him back against the inner rampart, and before they could recover succeeded in leaping on it. He was perceived by Ebor, who, guessing his design, leaped, by the aid of the handles of his spears, on the rampart, and called on Cobhthach to turn and fight like a warrior and not run like a coward, and he launched a javelin against him which glanced off the helmet of Cobhthach. But Cobhthach stayed not, and Ebor launched the second with a surer aim, which, striking Cobhthach through the back, pierced his heart as he was endeavouring to spring to the outer wall, and the usurper fell dead in the intervening ditch. Ebor was on the point of again descending into the dun when his eye caught the sight of a figure on the river bank. It was the woman of the Sidhe, no longer weaving, but dabbling her hands in the waters of the river that were now running red with blood. A cold chill seized his heart, for he thought of the Lady Edain, and he knew that his hour had come. But he would die fighting. He turned round, and coming against him along the rampart was Cathal, son of Rory. The latter hurled his spear, to which Ebor presented his shield, but it had been hurled with such force that it pierced the shield, and entered into the vitals of Ebor. His only weapon now was his sword, and as Cathal, son of Rory, pressed on him, he, with all his remaining strength, drove it into Cathal’s side; but the effort exhausted his last strength, and he fell back dead, and Cathal, son of Rory, fell dead beside him, and the woman of the Sidhe still continued dabbling her hands in the crimson waters of the Barrow river.
“BENDEMEER COTTAGE.”
Some years ago I was on a visit with a friend in the county of Wicklow, whose house was situated in one of the most delightful valleys of “the garden of Ireland.” It was when the lilac and the laburnum were in full bloom and the air was sweet with scent. The weather was delightful, and I spent most of my time out of doors, taking long walks over the hills and through the hedgerows, musical with the songs of birds and soon to be laden with the perfume of the hawthorn.
In the course of my rambles I chanced one day to pass a rusty iron gate fastened by an equally rusty chain, the base of which was partially concealed by tall, rank grass, showing that it had not been opened for a long time. The gate was hung upon two stone piers covered with lichen. On the top of one was a stone globe. That which had surmounted the other had been removed, or had fallen off through the action of time and weather. From the gate a pathway once gravelled, but now almost overgrown with grass, led up through a fair-sized lawn to a long, one-storied cottage, stoutly built, the windows and door of which were faced with stone, which, like that of the piers, was also stained with lichen. The grass, pushed itself high over the threshold of the door and almost reached the windowsills. The slates on the roof appeared to be nearly all perfect, but were covered with brown or grey patches of moss or lichen. A few of the slates had fallen away and exposed part of a rafter. On the lawn, as doubtless was the case when the cottage was inhabited, a number of sheep were browsing. In the centre of it was a nearly circular piece of water, fenced by a wire railing. Towards this pond the ground dipped gently, both from the roadside and from the side immediately fronting the cottage. The gate pierced a long, high hedgerow, and this it was, perhaps, that caused me stop to look over it to see what lay beyond. The silent, almost grim desolation of the cottage was a curious and striking contrast to the cheerful aspect of all the others which I had seen in the neighbourhood, and this it was that tempted me to cross a stile that was close to the gate and stroll up to the cottage. The windows had been barred up with timber that was giving way in some places. The door, which was of oak, was firm and well secured, and over it I noticed a stone on which were carved some words, of which at first, owing to the incrustation of lichen, I was able only to distinguish the letters “ottage.” By the aid of the ferule of my walking stick I succeeded in clearing off the lichen so as to enable me to decipher the inscription. It was “Bendemeer Cottage.” The name brought to my mind the familiar and delightfully melodious lines of Moore:—
“There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s stream,
And the nightingale sings round it all the day long.”