The girl rose often and attended to the wants of her companions. Cormac’s eye fell on her and marked the difference between her and Ethne. The contrast was strong. The young Saxon wore a straight robe of sack-cloth, frayed here and there, and stained from labour in the field and at the fire-side; her feet were bare; she wore no ornaments; her hair, tangled and powdered with ashes, was badly plaited, tied with rushes and drawn round her neck. Her skin was red and rough, her movements awkward, her hands large and toil-worn. She was as broad and tall as a fully-developed woman, but she had the shapeless figure and raw limbs of a child, or an awkward boy.
Once when she stooped over Ethne, in filling her cup, the Celtic woman raised her hand and slapped her in the face.
“Ah, beast!” she cried. “Cub of a Saxon sire—I loathe thy very touch!”
When the meal was over, some water was required from the spring, and the girl ran to get it. The hound, who could not endure the Saxon out of his sight, followed her.
Ethne sneered as she glanced after the retreating figures.
“It will soon be time, Cormac of Fail,” she said, “for you to take the Saxon maid to wife. She will make a fitting bride for a king, in yon sack-cloth shift.”
Again she sneered—Cormac grew crimson.
“And thou can’st have none other. Remember that! One wife must suffice for a Christian. Ha, ha!”
Cormac pushed his platter from before him and rose.
“Ethne,” he said, “I cannot fulfil my father’s commands. I cannot wed the Saxon.”